Page 108 of Fearlessly Us

The gravely tone that for years I’ve been hearing in my dreams.

I careen to a halt, my feet stopping so fast the rest of my body keeps moving, and it takes every ounce of strength I possess to keep myself upright. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and my heart slams against my ribs, my head shaking slightly as if trying to dislodge the voice. To convince myself I didn’t actually hear what I’m sure I heard.

“I’m just here to talk.”

Just here to talk.

Every muscle in my body locks up tight, my stomach roiling. I almost laugh without a single ounce of humor because sometimes I think it’s the words, rather than the fists, that hurt the most. The bruises faded with time. But the words. The words stuck with me. Embedded themselves straight into my soul and defined me for decades.

The fists bruised. But it’s the words that broke me to pieces.

Slowly—so, so slowly—I turn in the direction of the voice, opening my eyes and, for the first time in almost twenty years, seeing the man who did the breaking back in front of me. I study him with an almost dispassionate gaze, taking him in, and I know it’s him but it’s also not.

The years have not been kind to Henry Ellicott.

He’s swollen, deep bags living under brown eyes that have gone dull with time and age. His face is ruddy, broken capillaries fanning out under his dull, flaky skin, and wrinkles framing a mouth that looks like it’s spent a lifetime turned down in a frown. The jeans he’s wearing bag at the hips, dirty Renegades T-shirt hanging off his bony frame. The look in his eyes is a regret I’ve never seen before and definitely don’t trust.

He lifts his hands and my entire body flinches, that single small move yanking me out of my thoughts and throwing me back years, back to a time when those hands meant pain. I shrink away from him as if I’m no longer a full-grown man, but the boy whose childhood he stole. Whose life those hands irreparably changed.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, my lungs trying desperately to pull in air as I clench my trembling hands into fists. “What do you want?” I force out, my voice sounding weaker than I wish. So much more boy than man.

“To talk, Drew. Just to talk. You haven’t responded to any of my texts, even though I could see you read them all, which makes me think maybe you want to talk too.”

“Why?” I force the word out of my throat, nails biting into my palms so hard the sting spirals up my arm.

My dad takes a step forward, and I step back so quickly I nearly stumble, the idea of being any closer to this man than I already am abhorrent as all the things that happened when he got within arm’s length play in my head like a fucked-up movie reel. The crash of his fist against the wall by my head. Spittle spraying my face as he screamed unintelligible words. A hand slammed to my shoulder, slapped hard against the side of my face. A kick in the shins. A fist to the stomach. A push. A shove. The click of a lock from outside the room as I’m enveloped in darkness.

Regret evaporates in an instant, his eyes flashing at my movement, and dread curls into my stomach because I know that flash. I’ve seen it before.

Nothing good ever comes from that look in his eyes.

My breath comes in ragged gasps, my vision blurring around the edges as an oily panic winds its way through me and starts to take hold, a tight fist around my spine. I resist the urge to lean down and put my hands on my knees to stop the dizziness, staying upright through the sheer force of will and the knowledge that this man has seen enough of my weakness. He doesn’t get any more.

“Because I’m your father,” he bites out, his own hands curling into fists, all signs of contrition gone. “And I came all the way here to talk to my son. Bought a ticket and everything. You’ve kept me at arm’s length for years, and it’s time for me to get what’s mine. You’re a big, famous athlete now, but you never would have gotten here without me. I made you, son, and you owe me. You’re going to give me what I’m due.”

Move.

My brain writes a check my body can’t cash, my feet glued directly to the floor. I know somewhere deep inside me there’s no actual danger here from this broken and worn-out man, but no part of me gets the message, terror snaking its way through my veins. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I’m eight years old all over again. I can only stand here, my body on the highest alert, eyes darting up and down the empty hallway, willing someone to appear.

But no one does.

No one will.

It’s me. Alone. The way it’s always been.

The way it’s always destined to be.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CAITLIN

“Literally I have never seen anything hotter in my life than when Drew jumped up onto the wall. Why can’t real men do shit like that?”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure my boyfriend is one hundred percent real,” I say to Maya, sticking a spoonful of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream into my mouth. When I walked into the family room after the game, one of the team’s PR people approached with a pint in hand, telling me Drew requested it be here specifically for me. Another person appeared with a glass filled with Sprite and pebble ice and a note that said With me, you’ll always have all your favorite things, and the whole thing was wild considering he didn’t even know I would be at this game until he saw me in the stands when he was already in uniform.

Professional athletes are a different breed.

God bless them.