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Because of me.
Stumbling outside, I sit on the deck, my head falling into my hands, my body trembling like it’s thirty degrees out instead of seventy-five. I don’t know how long I sit there, but the sun is setting when I hear doors slamming, and then I look up, and Hunter and Brooks are there, pushing through my door and shouting my name.
“Dickhead, we’ve been calling your phone for over an hour.”
I look at them, confused that they’re here. And then I look around, unsure where my phone even is.
“I must have left it somewhere.”
“Or broke it with the rest of your house,” Jacks says, eyebrows raised. “You do all this by yourself, slugger?”
I nod, my body beginning to feel a little detached from everything, my head filled with cotton that mutes sound and slows down my thinking. All I can focus on is the way I dropped to my knees in front of Nala, and she said it wasn’t enough. Begging, apologizing, pleading, it’s not enough.
“Not yet, anyway.”
I look up to find Brooklyn studying me, eyes focused, brows drawn. His tree-trunk arms are crossed over his chest, colorful half sleeve in full view. His hair is pulled back, and he looks a little like a pirate. I laugh when that thought hits me, and then I keep laughing until both Jacks and Brooks are looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Nope, just my heart. And it hurts like a motherfucker.
“First you’re talking to yourself, now you’re laughing like an idiot. Have you finally cracked, Mal?”
I nod. Yep, right down the middle. Cracked good, so I’m a broken man whose pieces aren’t ever going to fit just right. Not without her.
Without Nala.
That pain is back, twofold, and my laughter dies out, replaced with something closely resembling hysteria.
“What the fuck am I going to do? She kicked me out.” I look up at my friends, my brothers who walked away from me not even a week ago because I was too arrogant, too sure I could handle it all on my own, to trust them enough to ask for their support. Or at least argue with them as to why what I had to do what was necessary.
“You know why, don’t you, Mal?”
“Because I hurt her.”
Jacks laughs, picking up a chair and setting it across from mine. Taking off his hat, he tosses it on the deck and leans forward so we’re close enough we could share secrets. “Hurting her is only part of the reason.”
“You gonna tell me the other part, or do I have to keep playing this fucking game of Guess Who?”
Jacks leans in closer, and my fists clench. “Same reason Brooks and I walked the other night. You’re so fucking scared of people leaving you, of not thinking enough of you, that you end up pushing them out of your life.”
I hate that his words resonate. “Then why the fuck have you been here all these years?”
Leaning back, he laughs, shaking his head. “Because you’re my brother, Mal, and I’m too strong to let you push me out. Same for the big guy.” He motions to Brooks with a thumb. Then he sobers. “And you’re a goddamn loyal friend. You’ve fought for both of us, helped us through our own shit, made sure we weren’t alone. Nala knows that.”
I hiss out a breath, shoving my hands through my hair and yanking, enjoying that sting of pain more than the pounding one in my chest. “I don’t think she cares to think of my values right now.”
“But she will—eventually.” Brooks sits, too, and mirrors the same position as Hunter and me; forearms on his knees, feet spread, eyes intense. “And when she does, you need to be ready.”
“I am ready,” I say, but he shakes his head.
“No, Mal, you’re not. You need to get your shit together, and stop thinking everyone’s going to leave you. You need to realize that you can count on people, not just expect us to count on you. And you need to fucking remember that you can’t solve everything your way. She has to be your partner,” he finishes. “And trust me, that sucks balls when all you want to do is protect her.”
“How long?” I ask. “How long do I wait?” I think of the months Brooks disappeared after Ashton, the months that Hunter and Isa were apart, and my heart literally stops. Months. What if it takes months for her to see me again?
“As long as it takes. You’ll know,” Jacks says. “Because it’s not just about her figuring her shit out, it’s about you. You’re not setting up a training schedule, you’re not talking to your agent about getting back on the circuit—you’re building a brand, working on business. Are you done skating, Mal?”
Brooklyn orders pizza, and then forces me to pull out cleaning supplies and sweep up the glass. Then he pulls out a bottle of whiskey, my preferred to vodka, and lets me get drunk. In the morning, he and Jacks are still there, coffee made, faces expectant. It’s intimidating—I’ve never been the one to need help. Even when my dad died, it was all lawyers, though Jacks didn’t leave my side. I made my career myself, dealt with my life myself. Until this. Until Nala.
Now, I stand in front of the two people who refused to give up on me no matter how far and fast I ran, and I realize that life isn’t about the family we’re given, it’s about the family we make. And how hard we work to keep it.
