Page 17 of The Brotherly Shove

BREAKER

Three MonthsLater

Energy Stadium

Knoxville, Tennessee

I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

Those three words have echoed in my skull for months.

94 days.

2256 hours.

135,360 seconds.

It's been three lonely, painful months since I ripped my own heart out of my chest and chucked it into an industrial strength garbage disposal.

Three months of listening to that one song Lennon mentioned to Harlow over and over just to feel the stab of pain in my stomach every time Taylor sings that one particular 'platonic' line.

Three months since I said horrible, awful, unforgivable things to the kindest, softest, sweetest man I've ever met in my life.

Three months since I made him cry by himself in a fucking janitor's closet.

I replay that moment in my head over and over, when Lennon walked away from, his eyes glistening in pain. Every time I picture it, I want to go back in time and punch myself for how long it took me to go after him. In reality, it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but standing there with my feet glued to the floor while he ran away for me felt like an eternity. By the time I caught up to him, he was already on the other side of the door, and his pained cries hit me like a knife to the heart.

No, it was worse than that. Standing outside of that closet, listening to the pain I inflicted on Lennon was death by a thousand cuts. And for what?

I hear his impossibly small voice in my head again and again, every time he looks at me.

"I don't know what I did wrong."

"Nothing, honey. You did nothing wrong. I'm just the dickhead who is in love with you even though I know I'll never get to have you, and I obviously cannot handle it. It's all my fault."

That's what I should have said. Anything would have been better than how I acted that day. I will never forgive myself for hurting Lennon.

I wouldn't blame him if he never forgives me either.

We're well into the season now, and as promised, I've gotten plenty of play time, usually if the Woodies are so far ahead that there's no risk of us losing, or when we're losing so bad there's no point in risking Kasper on a lost cause. We've had a healthy mix of both in the last few weeks.

Either way, I've only been on the field with the second and third string, making it that much easier for Lennon to keep his distance from me. It physically hurts me to watch him, whether at practice or during a game or on the team plane. That useless slab of muscle beating under the 13 of my jersey aches with every breath. Lennon is all easy going smiles and joyous laughs, thesame as he always has been. The only difference is not one of those beautiful smiles is ever directed at me.

Good. I don't fucking deserve them. I watch him now as the offense runs onto the field, ready for the tenth drive of the second half. We're in Knoxville, Tennessee today, playing our one and only Thursday night game of the season. We're seconds from the two minute warning, and the guys haven't scored since the second quarter. The Redwoods ended up great field position after the punt, so they're starting this drive from our 40 yard line. From what I can hear from the coaches on the sidelines, they're setting up for a passing play. They're gonna try to lob the ball down the field and seal this drive in one play, I can tell. If it were me, I'd focus on the run game. We're already so close to field goal territory, and three points would tie the game up. It's a much safer bet than hoping for a touchdown, but what do I know? I'm on the bench.

Lennon does a hip thrust/fist bump combo thing with Kasper after they break the huddle, and even from here, I can feel the warmth of his smile. It makes my heart ache painfully in my chest.

Here I am, my first season in the NFL, living the dream I've wanted since I was old enough to hold a football, and I'm fucking miserable. Miserable and alone, all because I lashed out like a caged animal at the one person I care about more than anything.

The offense lines up, and from their formation, I know I'm right about the play they're about to run. Lennon has the ball positioned, and the play clock winds down. He holds off on the snap, hoping to draw the other team offsides, I'm sure, but they hold steady. With one second left, he snaps the ball into Kasper's waiting hands. The quarterback backs up and scans down field. He spots a man down on the right side of the field around Knoxville's twenty-five yard line and sends the ball flying through the air and directly into the wide receiver's hands. Thereceiver is immediately pushed out of bounds, but not before securing the first down. I stand to cheer, but my eyes are drawn to the handful Redwoods medical team members jogging out to the field.

I look out, and sure enough, Kasper is down on the turf, his left leg twisted at an ungodly angle underneath him.

"What the fuck?!' I shout as I push my way over to one of the coaching assistants and watch the replay of the tackle on his tablet. Just as the football was flying out from Kasper's hand, a Knoxville defensive lineman came barreling into him, throwing him to the ground with all the force that a three hundred pound athlete can muster. Flags are flown everywhere, but no one on the sidelines is celebrating the fifteen yards we'll gain for the roughing the passer call. It might put us in field goal range, but who the fuck cares about that when one of our own is down?

A medical timeout is called, and I hold my breath as the med team tries to get Kasper to stand. A minute passes, then another, but he's still on the ground. Something is definitely broken. From the look of it, my money is on a one-two tibia fibula punch. My stomach bottoms out when the dreaded white cart is driven out onto the field and the quarterback is loaded on to it. I'm frozen in place when someone, somewhere shoves a helmet into my hands, and Coach Elliot is pushing me towards the field.

"Just run the ball, Lawson. And for fuck's sake, don't get hurt." He yells after me as I pull the helmet over my head in a daze.

---