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He shakes his head and drags his stubbly face against my skin. “I’m sorry.”
His words are so quiet I almost think I imagined them.
“Sorry? For what?”
“I’m not easy to deal with. I know that. I’m sorry.”
My hand tightens in his hair, and I pull his head back until I can see him.
“No.” My tone is harsh, but I don’t care. “You are not hard to deal with. Whatever the fuck that means.”
A tear slides down his face, and I hate whoever made him feel like he’s too much.
“You’re my favorite person. You’remyperson. There’s nothing about you I would change. You hear me?” I don’t let him dip his head back down until he nods. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing,” he whispers against my chest.
“Bullshit.” I run my fingers through his hair again. “If you don’t want to talk about it, say that, but don’t lie to me.”
He doesn’t respond for a long time, and I don’t try to force him to talk. My boy has a busy mind, and sometimes it takes him a while to work through all the thoughts.
“Whatever it is, you know I won’t judge you, right?”
He nods against my chest, his rough cheek scratching my bare skin.
“I was bullied on the team before I met you.”
My heart hurts for him. Kids are assholes. They always have been and probably always will be. Brendon is such a soft-hearted guy that I’m sure it hurt. People assume that because he’s a hockey player, he doesn’t have feelings or whatever, but it’s not true.
“They were assholes,” I say against his forehead.
“Coach Williams is Chad Fenwick’s stepdad, so he got away with everything. At the time, I would make this weird sound sometimes, so Chad started calling me birdy.” His voice is thick like he’s trying not to cry again, and it makes me want to find Chad so I can introduce him to my fist. “The rest of the team followed suit. Then they started mocking me and fucking with me.”
“I’m sorry.” I curl onto my side so I can hold him better. “That never should have happened.”
Brendon rolls over and pulls my arm around him so his back is to my chest, like he doesn’t want to look at me while he talks.
“It got worse as time went on.” His voice is so quiet I almost have to strain to hear him. “When calling me names and mocking me didn’t get a reaction anymore, they started shoving me or tripping me. I would leave practice with scrapes and bruises that I would tell my mom were just hockey injuries.”
Fear settles into my gut like ice. I’m afraid of where this is going.
“I told the coach about it, but he told me to suck it up, boys will be boys, stop being a pussy.” Brendon’s chest tenses under my hand, and I rub big circles on his skin.
Anger burns my veins that he wasn’t helped. He reached out to the person who was supposed to help him, and they did nothing. Coaches are there to help shape the players, protect them, aid them. This guy failed on all accounts.
“I started dreading going to practices and games. He and his friends would corner me once everyone was gone and fuck with me. It got worse and worse until they finally went too far. They shoved a bar of soap into my mouth and held it so I couldn’t spit it out. I choked on it, almost threw up a few times.”
His voice is almost devoid of emotion now, like he’s telling me about the weather. There’s no attachment to the words. My throat aches with the sorrow I feel for him. He was a victim, and no one cared.
“Someone punched me, but I’m not sure who. I fell and Chad told me if I was going to act like a bitch, I would be used like one.”
My gut clenches, and I rest my forehead against the back of his head as tears flow from my eyes.
“They laughed as I choked and begged him to stop. But it just made them worse.”
“Brendon,” I choke out his name. Cupping the side of his face, I turn him toward me, needing to see him. “None of that was your fault. That coach was a piece of shit and should not be allowed to be around kids.”
My boy, the love of my fucking life, looks at me like he’s a child. Hurt and uncertainty and humiliation clear in his sad brown eyes.
