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Flee.
My hands are numb from the snow. My stomach is in knots. Like I might actually puke in a second. I stare right at Mitchell.
My twenty-three-year-old brother hangs back. Behind both Hunter and Davis, and I think, can you please…
Help me.
Mitchell stuffs his hands in his jacket. And he drops his gaze to the snow.
Right.
I rub my nose that drips from the cold.
“We’ll be defense,” Hunter says, tossing the ball to Davis.
Not again. “Look, as fun as this was,” I say sarcastically, still trying to catch my breath, “I have work tomorrow—”
“Don’t be like that,” Davis says.
“Like what?” I snap, my pulse accelerating again.
He shakes his head, pissed.
Hunter cuts in, “You’re such a little bitch.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“Exactly!” Hunter yells. “Just be a fucking man, you cocksucker. Stop pitching these tantrums.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “I’m pitching a tantrum? Look in the mirror.”
Hunter fumes, his jaw locking. He breathes hard, literal smoke coming out of his nose thanks to the cold air.
I glare back, against better judgment.
Davis pats the football. “Let’s just play. Garrison sprint.”
I have no choice. Because Hunter charges for me—already planning on tackling and Davis hasn’t even thrown the ball for me to catch yet.
I run towards the neighboring house. Feeling the weight of my brother on my heels. Encroaching my space. Closer, and closer. Coming for me.
The ball soars through the crisp night air, and I don’t care about it. I don’t want it. Yet, I’m reaching up for the stupid fucking thing.
My fault.
Hunter tackles me from behind. My chest meets a blanket of hard snow, wind knocking right out of my lungs. I inhale but can’t exhale.
He laughs, happy that I finally gave in. “Barely better.” He messes my hair.
I’m about to stand, and he playfully pushes my head.
I shove his hand away as he tries again. “Stop, man.”
He shoves harder.
“Hunter—”
He forces my face into the ground. Making me eat snow. Cold burns my lips, and I shut my eyes.
Davis laughs.
I struggle out from Hunter’s hold, trying to rip his hand off my fucking head.
Mitchell just stays quiet. Just stands there.
I manage to turn over on my back, my face stinging raw. Hunter pins my shoulders and pulls my right arm in a lock. Like we’ve suddenly switched from football to wrestling. “Come on, get out of my hold.”
Davis stands over us. “You got this, Garrison. Just try.”
Just try. Why didn’t I think of that? What a genius. “He has a million pounds on me.”
“Don’t make excuses,” Davis says. “Or else you’ll always be flat on your ass.”
Hunter laughs, wrenching my arm harder. Motherfuc—I wince again, the brittle air drying my lungs.
I writhe under my brother. Trying to escape. He’s cement. I’m being crushed to death, breath comes shorter. “Get off,” I say, panicked.
He slaps my face. “Fight me, man.” He slaps harder. “Come on, grow some balls.”
My cheek sears. I push at his chest and scream between my teeth to force him off.
Unable to move him.
I can’t move him.
I picture myself easily sliding out from under Hunter. I picture myself straddling him. I picture two of my fists repeatedly slamming into his face. Until my brother is bloodied beneath me—but my fight or flight response is screaming fly the hell out of here.
“Take a breath,” Davis coaches. “Think about your next move. Stop flailing.”
Hunter looks over at Davis, and they laugh like this is all in good fun. Always at my expense.
“I’m done,” I choke out.
Hunter eases up some, enough that I gain control of my left arm.
“Swing,” Davis says.
I stupidly try to sit up and swing.
Hunter clasps my fist and shoves me down. The back of my head hits snow. His knuckles land in my stomach. In my ribs, over and over. I heave for breath and try to curl into a fetal position.
Fuck.
“Stop,” I gasp, clawing at the snow to get the fuck out.
Hunter drags me back, about to put me in another hold, and I kick his chest.
“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” I yell into the deadened air. Somewhere down the street, I think I hear Christmas music.
I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to hear it.
Please don’t let these bastards ruin Christmas music for me. Please let me keep something. I thrash and must connect with Hunter’s dick because he backs off a little, clutching his crotch. Davis kicks snow in my face before I can get up.
I cough and wipe it out of my eyes. My whole face scalds painfully. My throat feels raw, but I can’t tell if that’s from screaming or the cold.
Staggering to my feet, I rise without another blow. Mitchell picks up the football off the snow and throws the thing in a clean arch to Davis. He catches the ball like we’re still playing.
While they’re distracted, I do what I’ve done since I was a teenager.
