Page 3 of Fragile

“Jesus, Hudson, could you be any more of a man child? You all drive me crazy sometimes,” Indie mutters as she shakes her head.

“You’re not mad at me, though. I’m your favorite, right, baby?” he asks, running his nose up the side of her neck.

“No, Quinn is.” She deadpans, and I stifle a giggle at my brother’s dejected face. “But I guess you’re okay too.” As she bops his nose, Seb’s frown deepens. Indie glances over at me, a rare smile tugging at her lips. That’s my best friend.Saweetie & Doja Cat’s “Best Friend” blares in my head.

Reaching for my phone on the coffee table, I check my messages in case I’ve missed one from Miles, but there’s nothing. I drop him a ‘come to the Hangout’ text, watching it flicker fromdeliveredtoreadinstantly, and then the three little dots dance around for a minute.

Miles

Can’t. Dad’s riding my ass about practice.

My shoulders slump slightly, just as another message comes through.

Miles

Next time.

Recently, ‘next time’ doesn’t happen. A heaviness settles in my stomach as I stare at his reply, my fingers hovering over the screen. I know his dad and coach are focused on his career and that he’s entering the draft next year. And while that’s amazing, Seb’s doing the same thing, and he’s here. Football is the end goal for both Miles and my brother, but it doesn’t stop me from missing him and wanting him with us.

Graduation is only two years away for them, sooner if they take part in the draft…and everything will change. I’m feeling nostalgic for something that isn’t happening yet, and I know it’s pointless, but I already feel the changes. The way Seb and Indie spend more time alone. The way Jay and Hudson are getting busier with their schedules. The fact Miles can’t always be here.

I can’t imagine not seeing everyone at our scrapbook club. But most of all, I can’t imagine not seeing Miles almost every day. That thought makes my blood run a little too cold. And I know I’m never going to be ready for that change.

Chapter two

Miles

My phone buzzes againstmy ear, and I glance at it quickly, before flicking the call to loudspeaker and quickly replying to Quinn. I’m hardly aware of what I say, the rampage of insults my dad throws down the line demanding my focus.

Right now, my friends are all gathered around, having fun, and I’m stuck listening—barely—to this.

“Yeah, Dad,” I sigh, running a hand down my face. I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing the cues of when to say what he needs to hear to get this over with as painlessly as possible. “I get it.”

“Do you, though?” he barks. I can almost imagine how red and pulsing that vein on his forehead is right now. It’s rare that I see my dad as anything but pissed off at me these last few years, but he’s kicked it up a notch this season. “You cannot put a toe out of line for the next two years.”

Here we go, this speech again.

“The draft is next year, Miles. We need scouts to see you this year, ready for that. We need brands interested in you. Endorsements. One wrong move...one fuckup, and you’ll bedropped before you even make it. Do you hear me, boy?” Exasperation laces his words.

“I get it,” I repeat, harsher this time.

“Don’t you get pissy with me, Son. I’m trying to get you to the pros. I’m using my connections for you, putting my neck on the line foryou, so don’t act like an ungrateful little shit,” he snarls.

Ungrateful little shit.That’s what I am to him. For living the dream he never got to fulfill. For getting the life he worked so hard for but was snatched away before he finished his contract playing for the Carolina Panthers.

And that’s the thing that fuels him—his anger. At the world, at his lack of recovery, at me. It’s always there between us like an additional person, lurking in the background. It’s the epitome of our relationship, despite me being four when it happened. It isn’t my fault he broke his leg in six places and it never healed quite right. It isn’t my fault he couldn’t play again, and it isn’t my fucking fault I inherited his talent.

But it doesn’t matter, because there’s always something thatismy fault. He wants that second-chance at the pros, the picture-perfect son, a mini-Mark Cooper, and I have to be that for him, no matter what.

I don’t remember when playing football changed from being my passion to a chore. From when I used to love making my dad proud out on the field to having him lecture me after every game. Even the ones where we brought home the W. For whatever reason, I never meet his expectations. He calls my coach weekly to check on me and my performance, discussing game plays and ways I can improve. At some point, he decided my career was more important than him being a dad. I hate it, but he’s also all I’ve got.

“Sorry, you’re right. I’ll do better,” I reply emptily, resigning myself to him once again.

Giving in is easier for now, but it’s not what I want to do. Sometimes, I wonder if Mom ever had this version of him, or if she stood up to him when he was being miserable. Or maybe he was happier back then. The memories I have of us are only in the form of pictures around my childhood home, ones where he looks happy—or happier than he has been in years, at least. I wish I could remember more of her. Remember the family dynamics. But all my memories are fragmented, mismatched by the six-year-old who lost his mom.

I didn’t just lose her that day, I lost whoever my dad used to be too.

“Damn straight you will.” His voice echoes through the phone, forcing me back to the present. “I’m calling more scouts today. I’ll email you the details with dates when I know more.” And then he hangs up.

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