Page 11 of My Family

"THROW IT! THROW THE GODDAMN BALL!" Jack is on his knees, arms extended like he's directing the quarterback. The Batman tattoo on his neck stretches as he cranes forward. A kid behind us tells him to sit down, and Jack flips him off without looking, which gets a laugh from half the room. I don't think he's supporting any particular team; he just likes to scream.

I'm no better. When the receiver catches a forty-yard pass and gets tackled at the five, I'm on my feet, hands in my hair, making a lot of noise together with the others. We're all jumping up and down, screaming, and now the resemblance to a bunch of untamed gorillas is really uncanny.

The guards are stationed at the corners, two by the door, one near the windows, one by the hallway entrance. They're doing their best impression of not enjoying themselves, but I catch one of them, a younger guy whose name I haven't learned, pumping his fist when the play goes well. He smooths his expression immediately when his partner glances over. They warned us that any fights or problems would get us all locked down and cost us a month of privileges. If this happens, I will be so fucking pissed. We never get football privileges, so this is a big thing.

A boy named Johnathan is behind me, narrating every play like a sportscaster. He has a big nose, and he's one of the oldest residents at twenty-eight. They said he has until thirty to finish his degree and get released for good behavior; otherwise he'll be transferred. I'd be worried as fuck if I were him. But he seems too entertained by his possible imaginary football narrator career to care. A couple of newer kids I don't know well are arguing about whether the ref made the right call, and the argument is getting loud enough that a guard shifts his weight, preparing to intervene. But then the play clock starts, and everyone's attention snaps back to the screen like magnets.

I love this. The collective energy, the way everyone forgets for a few hours that we're locked up.

Then the commercial break hits.

The noise level drops. People start getting up to stretch, some making a run to the bathroom before the guards decide to enforce the one-at-a-time rule. Jack starts debating defensive strategy with Cedric, a boy from MMA, using his hands so aggressively he nearly takes out the kid sitting next to him.

That's when I notice Ethan.

He's on the couch at the back of the room, slightly removed from the main crowd. Not unusual; he does that, positions himself where he can see everyone without being in the middle of anything. But tonight his posture is different. He looks… sad? His shoulders are forward, not back. His hands are clasped between his knees, thumbs pressing against each other. And his eyes aren't on the screen or on the room, or, more importantly, on me. They're on his feet. God, he looks miserable.

I get up and drift toward him. At this point, everybody in the facility knows we're together. Dating isn't forbidden, but it's not exactly encouraged either. The staff looks the other way as long as we keep it cool.

"Hey you," I say, dropping onto the couch beside him. Our shoulders touch, and I feel the warmth of him through both our hoodies. I wish I could hug him or straddle his lap. "You okay? You look like the game just murdered your family."

He almost smiles. Almost. The corner of his mouth lifts, then falls.

"Four years, baby," he says. Quiet enough that I have to lean in to catch it over the noise. "Four years ago today. That's when they brought me in."

Four years. He was eighteen. I try to imagine Ethan at eighteen, probably already too serious, being walked through those gates. Being processed. Being stripped of his clothes and everything that made him a person and given a bunk and told this was home now, and that he didn't know when he'd leave. And he never did anything to deserve being here.

"And my birthday's next week," he adds, like it's an afterthought. "February fifteenth. Twenty-three." His jaw tightens, but he's still looking me in the eyes, trying so fucking hard to be brave. "Nobody's ever... it's not a thing people celebrate here."

He tries to say it like it doesn't matter, but by now I can see how much it actually hurts. Ethan doesn't do self-pity. He barely does emotion. But right now, he looks like he's reached a breaking point, at least for a little while. And I want to hug him so fucking bad. My Daddy, my baby, my darling, my everything. Yikes, I don't know when I became so romantic. All I know is that I want to take his pain away.

I don't say anything profound. I don't have anything profound to say. What I do is scoot closer, press my thigh against his, and turn my body so I'm half-facing him and half-facing the screen. The commercial ends and the game roars back to life.

"Watch this," I say, pointing at the TV. "They're going to run it. Watch."

They pass instead, and I groan loudly enough to make Ethan flinch, then he laughs.

"NOOOO, I told them to run! They'll ruin this!"

"You don't know anything about football," he says.

"Excuse me, Daddy? I'm a specialist. Maybe I watch it to see hot men grabbing each other too, but I know a thing or two."

Another laugh. I keep talking. I see that he's barely listening to my rant about the last fumble; he just looks glad that I'm close. His eyes soften; he leans back into the couch, his arm stretching along the top of it, behind me but not quite touching, and he keeps paying attention to me with that smile. It's so cute I could die.

The game enters the fourth quarter, and I'm yelling again, jumping at a fumble recovery, grabbing Ethan's knee without thinking, and when I look back at him, he's not watching the screen at all.

He's watching me.

That look. His eyes are soft, his lips are slightly parted, and there's something in his expression that's bigger than fondness, bigger than desire. Oh God. He can't look at me like that for too long, or I'll cry. I don't know when we became so disgustingly in love, but it happened.

I squeeze his knee.

"Happy anniversary," I whisper. "I'm glad you're here. Even if this is kind of fucked up. I'm fucked up and selfish. I like that you're here because now you're mine."

He laughs, softly. His hand finds the back of my neck, and he squeezes it. He doesn't say anything, but he looks way more content than before.

The Buccaneers win; we're all screaming, some in anger, others celebrating, and the guards are all telling us to line up to go to our rooms.