Page 16 of The Brotherly Shove

"Hungry?" Breaker asks as he watches me chew my mouthful of deliciousness. I wink at him and nod.

"Always. Crazy shit going on with the Cannon drama, huh?" I ask, prodding him for information.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through that sunkissed brown hair that I love so much. "It's a trip. I've known since the first day of camp, but they've had me keeping everything on the down low until Coach broke the news to the team. Had to sign an NDA and everything."

"Wow. So that's why you've been so isolated during practice. They're trying to get you ready?" Of course I already put two and two together on that one, but I want to keep him talking. This is already more words spoken to me than I think I've heard coming from him since I graduated college.

"Yup. Fattening me up like a pig for slaughter." He tosses a napkin onto his half eaten plate and goes to stand. Oh no, he is not getting away from me that easily. Not today. I shovel a few more forkfuls of food into my face and chew quickly, trying to focus on not choking as I grab my bag and chase after him.

"B, wait," I call out, and I'm actually happy that he doesn't turn around, because when I opened my mouth, a bit of food went flying out of my mouth. Embarrassing as hell, but I'm desperate here. There is no time for swallowing.

The happiness is quickly snuffed out when Breaker ignores my calling after him and goes straight for the door after dumping his plate in the trash. I groan inwardly. I can't understand why he's making this so difficult for me. I'm a patient man, but damn if that patience isn't wearing thin right now. I follow him out the door and into the empty hallway of the training facility. It only takes me a few steps to catch up with him and plant a hand on his shoulder.

I swear I can feel his entire body tense up at my touch.

"I've got something for you," I say in a sing-song tone as I unzip my bag with my free hand. It's a little hard to maneuver through my crap with one hand while my bag is still hung on my shoulder, but my other hand is still on Breaker's shoulder and I'm certain that if I let him go, he's going to bolt. I find the crinkly plastic package and whip it out.

"Tada! Double Stuf, your favorite. After practice we can drive over to the bay and break into these. We haven't had any time to catch up since practice started." I wave the cookies in his face, waiting for his eyes to light up the way they always do when there's chocolate sandwich cookies near.

"You know I can't eat that shit during the season, Lennon." he says without looking at me.

"Ahh, c'mon B. I always used to sneak you Oreos. I'll even stuff as many as I can into my mouth so that you can't be tempted to eat the whole package like I used to," I bump his hip with mine in an attempt to be playful, but he shrugs me off of his shoulder and takes a pointed step back.

"There's a lot of shit we used to do that we don't anymore. Jesus, Lennon. It's like you're obsessed with me. I'm not here to play catch up and skip down memory lane with you. I'm here to play football. That's it. Stop trying to set up fucking playdates with me. We're not kids anymore." His cheeks turn a brightshade of red as he spits at me. My breath hitches and I swallow hard.

"I know we're not kids anymore, B, but we're friends. I just wanna hang out."

"WE'RE NOT FUCKING FRIENDS!" He explodes, pounding a fist into the wall behind him. "Jesus, Lennon. Your inability to take a hint is pathetic. We haven't been friends for a long time. Ending up on the same team is just a sick twist of fate. We're teammates because the Redwoods decided we have to be, but we are most definitely not friends."

My lips tremble and I feel my eyes start to burn. I'm not going to say I never cry, but usually my tears are reserved for funerals and anytime I rewatch Encanto. I blink up at the ceiling, willing myself not to let a single tear fall in front of him.

"I don't know what I did wrong," I whisper, not looking at him. I hear him sigh, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Look, Lennon—” he starts, his voice sounding much softer than it was just a moment ago. I'm just mustering up the courage to look at him when we're interrupted by the clacking of heels and a high pitched feminine voice.

"Oh good! Griffith and the rookie quarterback! We need some content for Instagram and I know your coach told you you have to answer all my questions, so no running away from me!" Harlow Ray, one of the team's social media coordinators chirps at us. I like Harlow, she always has the best ideas for content that us players actually want to partake in, and she's usually ahead of the curve when it comes to trends and what will go viral.

Right now, though? I hate her and her ill-timed lively chatter.

“Harlow, it's not a great time—” I try to say, she cuts me off with a finger pressed to my lips.

"You're not allowed to say no to me. Besides, it's a quick question. Humor me, Lennon."

I blow out a breath as she whips out a phone and a tiny microphone. She points it at Breaker first.

"Breaker Lawson, what's your favorite Taylor Swift song?" She asks but Breaker keeps looking at me. I realize he hasn't stopped since Harlow showed up. After a moment, she clears her throat, catching his attention. He shakes his head like he's clearing his mind and answers her.

"Uhh, I don't know. Shake It Off maybe?"

He's lying, and I don't know why that rattles me so much. I happen to know that his favorite Swift song is All Too Well, the ten minute version of course. We watched that short film about a million times together in college, and he'd always pause at different times to point out the nuances and implications of different scenes. I'm not sure if it's the question, his answer, or the way he was just verbally berating me a short minute ago, but the dam inside me breaks. It all hits me at once. Breaker doesn't want to be my friend. He doesn't like me anymore. He doesn't know me anymore, and he doesn't want to.

And I don't fucking know him either.

The tiny microphone is thrust into my face as Harlow asks me the same question. I pull my bottom teeth between my lips and glance at Breaker for only a split second before I answer.

"Now That We Don't Talk," I tell her, and then I stalk away before she can even finish thanking us. I turn a corner and find an empty supply closet, where I allow myself exactly four minutes of crying over the loss of Breaker before I put my big boy pants on and return to practice.

CHAPTER 11

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