Whatever It Takes (Bad Reputation Duet #1)(73)

Hunter pushes out of his chair and treks over to mine. “Come on, Garrison.”

Relax, I tell myself, and I stand up. Hunter slings an arm around my shoulder and pats my chest. Once he starts pulling me to the door, he tightens his arm into a fucking headlock.

“Stop, man,” I choke. I’m stumbling to catch up with my own goddamn head, and I try to pry off his stupid arm.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Hunter goads.

I attempt to elbow his ribs—he slams a fist in my kidney. I cough.

Davis laughs. “Still can’t get out of it?”

Acid drips down my throat. I didn’t realize I was supposed to become a fucking wrestler.

Hunter laughs with our older brother, then he looks over at Mitchell, who’s busy grabbing his Columbia coat from the hook. Acting like he sees nothing.

Hunter messes my hair with his knuckles, digging hard. Burning my scalp.

Davis snatches his coat while I’m still struggling to remove Hunter’s bicep from my windpipe.

I don’t have time to reach for mine. Because Hunter forgoes his own winter jacket. Front door open, he exits into the cold night in a preppy sweater and collared shirt—forcing me outside with him.

I almost slip on the fucking icy steps, and he’s still crushing my windpipe. So by the time Hunter lets go and pushes me into the two-inches of snow with only my thin hoodie—I’m livid.

I land on my knees and hand. Body shaking, anger barely warming me in the chill. Picking myself up, my chest rises and falls heavily and my breath smokes the air.

“Come on,” Hunter says like I’m a three-year-old kid crying over spilled milk.

I’m not crying.

“Fuck you,” I sneer.

Davis tosses a football in the air. “He’s just playing around, Garrison. Lighten up. It’s the holiday.”

I swallow hard. Cool. “I’m grabbing my coat—”

Hunter blocks me, his chest puffed out against mine. “What do you call this?” He fists my hoodie.

I slap his hand off me. “Don’t touch me.” My heartbeat hammers my ribcage.

He laughs. “Come on.” When he sees I’m serious, he shakes his head. “Don’t be such a pussy. You don’t need a fucking coat.” He spreads his arms out to illustrate that it’s not cold, and how he’s also without a winter jacket.

My speeding pulse is now in my throat. I tear my eyes off him, and I lift my gaze to Mitchell, who zips up his teal Columbia jacket—he looks away from me.

Not doing a fucking thing, per usual. It’s hard to blame him, but it’s easy to hate him.

Davis pats my back.

I tense more. We’re adults, and I still can’t figure out a good exit strategy from “bro time” with my brothers.

“Boundaries are the edge of the property.” Davis points the football between all of us, his younger brothers. “Two-on-two. Mitch and Hunter versus Garrison and me. Tackling is fair game. You okay with that Garrison?”

Hunter smirks. “Or are you going to pussy out like you always do?”

I stare at my brothers. Davis. Hunter. Mitchell. All in their mid-to-late twenties now. And I’m not seventeen anymore.

I’m not a kid.

But they’re still bigger and taller than me. Still treating me like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. Something to pull to achieve whatever the fuck they’re after.

I rub my frozen hands. “No tackling.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, he asked.” I point at Davis. “I’m telling you no fucking tackling.”

Davis gestures to me with the football. “How about light tackling?”

Really. “How about none?”

“Learn to compromise, man,” Davis tells me like he’s the wise older brother here. “It’ll solve a lot of problems for you in life.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Light tackling is fair game.”

Hunter jumps up and down and cracks his knuckles.

Bile rises in my esophagus. Being here. Outside. Alone with them. Why did I put myself in this situation?

It’s on me.

They’re my family.

It’s still on me.

I don’t want to see them again… But they’re my family.

It’s still on me.

I war with my thoughts, unable to decide where to place blame other than myself. It’s all I can think, even as Davis tosses me the football.

Run, I think. Move your fucking feet or drop the ball—something. Anything. But I’m frozen, and Hunter sprints towards me. He goes in for the tackle.

His full weight rams into my chest, his elbow driving in my ribcage, and I land with a violent thump on my ass. God, motherfucker!

I wince through my teeth, my tailbone searing, the snow not bracing impact with the hard ground. Tears sting my eyes—but I refuse to fucking cry in front of them.

Hunter pushes his knee in my stomach on his way to a stance. I cough hoarsely, and he grabs the ball from my loosened clutch. Far too easily for his liking.

Anger surges in his eyes. “Why do you have to give up? It sucks playing with you, man. You’re worse than a fucking girl.”

Say hello to my misogynistic brother. I try to catch my breath and glare up at him. “Then don’t play with me.” I cough again. “I’m fine with that.”