Long Way Home (Thunder Road #3)(77)

“Tell me how to help you,” Mom whispers. “I don’t know how to help you.”

She can’t. Nobody can.

“I miss Dad.” My voice trembles and it should be impossible to feel so much pain.

Mom releases my hand and the coldness left behind crushes me. But then she wraps her arms around me. “So do I. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. I miss him so much, and when I see you hurt, I miss him more. I wish he were here. I wish he were the one holding you.”

Me, too. There’s so much wrong with my life, so many things I can’t control, so much grief, so much sadness, and the more I try to push it all away, the faster and harder it descends upon my chest. I breathe in and then out, short breaths, tough breaths, the sound like that of a woman in labor. The pain rolling through me like waves, but I don’t want to let it out because once it’s released, it’ll consume me, devour me until I’m nothing.

“Breathe, Violet,” Mom whispers. “Please, breathe.”

“I can’t.” My voice cracks and I choke again.

Mom hugs me, arms around my body, her hand guiding my head to her shoulder, and the moment my forehead connects with her, the dam spills open and I sob. Tears streaming down my face, shoulders shaking, all the ugliness festering inside me pouring out.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s all going to be okay.”





CHEVY

TEMPERATURE CONTINUES TO drop and the night is black against the stadium light glaring down on the football field. I’m dressed in my uniform, cleats on my feet, pads heavy on my shoulders, jersey on with my number, helmet dangling from my hand.

Both teams line up at our twenty. We have the ball, third down and we have to move on this play. The clock is counting down in the fourth quarter and we’re losing by six. We need this win in order to be a shoo-in for play-off games. We lose, and we’ll have to pray for a wild-card spot. It’s my senior year and I’ve worked too damn hard to watch our winning season go down in flames.

But I watch because I’m benched. May be benched, but I’m standing, walking the sideline with my team on the field.

Better man.

Not sure what that means anymore. Allowing Violet and me to be kidnapped because we love Stone? Defying the club to tell Violet things because I think their decisions are wrong? Hurting Violet because I’m torn between promises I made to her and the club? Starting to wonder if my goal of being like my father is trashed. Not sure if he was the better man I was raised to believe in.

This week, being the better man means killing what’s left of my pride.

I did what Coach asked. Spent time training Ray so he can take over my position. He improved, but it’s not enough. The kid doesn’t have a fast connection between his head, hands and feet. But he does have the right connections with the right people. Has a bigger mouth to push the powers that be to give him what he wants. He and his dad are the type who if they yell loud enough for long enough everyone caves to their demands. He’s shiny and looks a hell of a lot better on paper than me. Guess the old sayings are wrong. In the end, talent doesn’t win.

“Put McKinley in!” someone from the stands shouts, and there are agreements and a few boos. It’s been this way the entire game. Our own fans can’t decide if they should be more frightened of the Terror or of losing.

The entire game, I can feel Cyrus and my mom burning a hole into my back and into Coach’s. I refuse to look. I can’t stand to see the disappointment and anger in their expressions. Can’t stomach to not see Violet watching me in the stands.

She’s avoided me since our fight last night and I don’t blame her. I reached out to her last night when I got home from the bar. One text: I’m sorry. I was wrong. I choose you. Please give me another chance.

Nothing in response. Just maddening silence.

Our quarterback, Brad, scans the defense, trying to read the other team’s play. Out of habit, he glances to where I should be. He’s searching for a signal on whether he needs to call an audible and why. I can read subtle ways guys move. Feet and bodies angled a certain way tips off where they’re going and why. Ray can’t get his own shit straight, much less have the ability to read the guys on the other side of the line.

Brad bends and two defensive guys in the back lean down and their feet are angled forward. “They’re blitzing!”

Coach glances at me, then yells, “They’re blitzing.”

Brad can’t hear me, he’s in his zone and Ray looks over at us. He needs to tell Brad, Brad needs to call an audible and he needs to call it now.

Ray’s paying attention to the sideline, he’s not understanding us, he’s not watching the line, he’s not telling Brad to call an audible. The ball snaps. Ray’s still not paying attention. The entire line, including the two in the back run forward. Brad’s searching for Ray, but Ray has yet to run his route. Too many guys racing through our line and Brad’s sacked.

I close my eyes, the horn blows, and time’s up.

Cheers from the visitors’ side, and our fans are stunned into silence as the rest of our team hang their heads. This is my fault. Don’t know how I could have done anything differently, but I let down a group of guys who needed me. I seem to be letting down lots of people.

The other team celebrates their path to state, our team heads out. The silence doesn’t last long as someone from our side calls my coach an asshole. Others join in, others yell at the people in the crowd. Soon people are booing, throwing garbage at us, and the anger pumps into my veins.