Page 3 of The Brotherly Shove

I close my mouth again, and though he looks like his eyelids are drooping, he's still looking up at me through his thick, dark lashes. He looks like he's about to drift off, having forgotten that he said my name in the first place. To my surprise, Lennon speaks up, his voice sounding harsh and breathless.

"I love you, Breaker," he says softly, blinking up at me with a smile that makes my heart skip a thousand beats.

"I…umm. Huh. You love me?" If I thought the butterflies were going crazy before, it's a goddamn mosh pit in my stomach right now. It takes him a minute or two to respond, and I'm on edge the entire time.

"Yeah," he smiles, sleepily, cuddling further into the pillow and therefore, closer to me. I see his pupils go wide, just for a moment, but he blinks quickly and casts his gaze down to the pillow where his head rests.

"Of course, I do. You're like the brother I never had," he whispers, and my heart sinks.

A moment later, his eyes are shut and he's snoring softly, and my lips tremble. Reality slams into me like a folding chair at a wrestling match, and it's worse than I could have ever imagined. Five minutes ago, the delusional part of my brain thought that maybe, just maybe, there was some part of Lennon that could see that he and I were meant to be. That sexuality, or whatever is in our pants doesn't matter, because he's mine. His heart, his body, his soul; it all feels like it belongs to me.

I close my eyes and picture myself crawling into my brain, finding that delusional piece and crushing it under my foot, because it has no business taking up space in my mind anymore. Not when Lennon just told me he doesn't see me as a friend.

He sees me as a goddamn brother, and that is a line that I could never, ever cross.

I fight to be brave. To take the words in stride, to remind myself that even if Lennon hadn't just said what he said, there was never a chance of him reciprocating my feelings so there's no point in being upset.

Try as I might to muster all the courage I can manage, hot tears win the fight and begin to spill over my eyelids and slide down my cheeks.

CHAPTER 2

BREAKER

Now

NFL Draft Weekend, Day 3

Northeast Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

My palms are sweaty. My shaking knees are making my teeth rattle. The cuticles on my left thumb are bleeding from where I picked them to shreds. I can't stop thinking about…

Spaghetti?

Why on earth am I thinking about spaghetti right now?

Oh fucking Christ. I had to think about my sweaty palms, didn't I? Great. I'm about to have the 8 Mile soundtrack stuck in my head during the draft, AKA the most important day of my freaking life.

It's gonna suck associating Eminem with the day Ididn'tget drafted.

"I just don't see why they'd have you working out with the team if they were going to snub you like that, Booger!" Ma says,again.As a born and bred Delaware County—or DelCo, as it tends to be referred to—girl, my mother's hatred for any professional sports team that is not based in Philadelphia is already pretty high. It was hard enough on her when the DallasLonghorns—the Philadelphia Bullies longtime arch rivals—started sniffing around me, waving the promise of an NFL career in my face. Now that they passed me over?

I'd be surprised if Ma isn't burning Dallas jerseys in the fireplace tonight.

I shouldn't complain. Even the honor ofthinkingI might get drafted to the NFL right out of college should be enough. Granted, I had an incredible college career. My team at Pennbrook University went to the College Football Playoffs three times during my four years, and won the championship this last season with me as starting quarterback and captain leading the pack. I had a few franchises calling, inviting me to facility tours and training sessions. The goddamned Longhorns seemed the most interested, so that's where I focused my attention. Their head coach came to see me play more than once in the regular season. I ran plays with the team.

I bought a blue and silver Longhorns coffee mug, for fuck's sake.

And they passed me over. That early round draft pick should have been mine, but instead, that fucking twatwaffle Josh Abrams from Alabama is going to be suiting up in Texas. I know it's just the nature of the league, but I can't help but feel super dicked over.

Whatever. I never wanted to put Ma through the turmoil of seeing me in Dallas colors anyway.

So here I am, sitting in my childhood home, my mother's living room in Philadelphia, having wasted the early spring with a team who doesn't want me, praying for a chance to be Mr. Irrelevant, last round draft pick to a team whose head coach has no idea who I am.

Fat. Fucking. Chance.

The last announcer takes the stand, a young woman holding a red and gold jersey with number 262 on the back. This is it. Mylast chance. I don't bother holding my breath. There's no way it's going to be me.

The blonde woman on the TV reads off the name.