Page 200 of Broken Saint
She blamed me. I was the one who did that to her. It was always me.
West was her golden child while I was the devil.
Fuck knows why. I never figured it out. But when she had one of her episodes, I was always the one at the end of it.
I took it. Every single bit of abuse she threw at me. Because I knew that if she were directing it at me, West was safe.
The single most important thing to me back then was protecting him.
He was such a happy kid. His eyes sparkled in a way mine never did, and when he smiled, it lit them up even more.
I loved him something fierce from the moment I first laid eyes on him, and my need to protect him only grew as the years went on.
I never wanted him to experience what I did. But there was only so much I could hide.
Ella should have chosen him. It would have hurt. Fuck, it would have hurt. But I’d have understood it.
He’s always been better than me. He excelled at school, both in the classroom and on the field. He had a solid set of friends instead of the selfish, fame-hungry ones I always found myself around—until I started at Maddison Kings, that is. And as much as I hate to admit it, he’s a better running back than I’ve ever been. His only issue is that he hasn’t found his team yet.
He was traded after his first year in the league. He was devastated when he was told he was being released from his contract—rightly so—but it wasn’t because of his performance. He kicked ass every single game. But he didn’t gel with the rest of the offense. Things are more settled with the Chiefs, but I stillthink he could do better. He does, too. It’s frustrating as fuck watching him not reach his potential. I know he gets shit from Dad for it, but it’s not always that fucking easy.
I lucked out when I got drafted with Luca, and then even more so when Kane joined us. Unbeknownst to us, the Saints scouts had been watching the three of us together for a long time before we knew they were interested. And it’s paid off.
Together, we are untouchable. A force to be fucking reckoned with.
Or at least, we were.
Pain slices through my chest at the thought of never getting to line up with my best friends again and perform like it’s the last game we’ll ever play.
Refusing to get lost in that thought, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and press my feet to the unforgiving hardwood floor.
It’s definitely one of the best features of this house. Or at least it will be once it’s had some serious TLC.
On unsteady legs, I descend the stairs and shuffle out toward the living area. There’s an old ratty couch in the middle of the room with a very out-of-place-looking wide-screen TV for the couple of times I’ve hidden myself here to watch tapes.
Honestly, the entire place is a fucking disaster, the kitchen half-finished. I don’t know why I ever thought buying a place in this poor of a state was a good idea. Even if I had a normal nine-to-five job, I wouldn’t have anywhere near the skills I’d need to bring it back to life in the way it deserves.
It was the pipe dream of a man who thought he had the world at his fingertips. A man I barely even recognize right now.
When I get to the kitchen, I should reach for a cold bottle of water. But I don’t. Something else lures me in.
The sound of the cap opening sends a dark surge of desire through me, and any hope I had of stopping myself vanishes.
Lifting the bottle to my lips. I let the first mouthful of vodka run down my throat.
It burns in an unfamiliar way. It’s been years since I touched a drop.
Exercise and sex were only so good at keeping my condition at bay. While I was drinking, it was always too easy to slip into episodes.
But without it and a solid routine, I could maintain a stable life without meds.
It’s what I needed. What the NFL required of me.
But now…Do I even have anything left worth trying for?
I drink almost half the bottle without noticing before I lower my ass to the couch.
I don’t bother reaching for the TV remote. I already know I’m not going to watch it. It’ll just end up being unwanted noise that irritates my overactive brain.