Page 23 of The Brotherly Shove

"You've been looking great out there so far this season. Your pass block game is insane, you're seriously vigilant on the field."

"Thank you sir, I appreciate you noticing my…vigilante shit," I sputter like a moron.

Vigilante shit? Really? Who the fuck do I think I am, Taylor Swift? James—or should I call him Mr. Adler? Maybe I should just stick withsir.

Whatever I'm supposed to call him, he thankfully blows right past my idiocy.

"Ew, nope. Not sir, anything but sir. Chasing after my four year olds around makes me feel old enough as it is, just callme James. You've met the gremlins?" He asks, looking down to where his daughter appears to be whispering into Breaker's ear. And that answers that question. James it is.

"Not officially, they've been glued to Breaker since they noticed him."

"SECRETS SECRETS ARE NO FUN UNLESS THEY'RE SHARED WITH EVERYONE!" The little boy shrieks, and his sister huffs.

"Inside voices, please," James says sternly. "Taylor, Ethan, say hello to Mr. Lennon. He's the Redwood's center. He's the one that snaps the football."

"Hi Mr. Lennon," the kids say with roughly seventeen percent of the energy with which they greeted Breaker, not that I'm jealous or anything.

"Tell me the secret!" Ethan sulks, stomping his foot. Taylor opens her mouth and Breaker stands, muttering something likeplease don't. His cheeks are flushed bright red.

"It's not a secret, Efan. It's a question. Mr. Lennon, are you and Mr. Breaker daddies?" Taylor singsongs up to me. I choke on the beer I was in the middle of sipping.

"Uhhh…" I stammer like an idiot. "Why would you think that?" Wrong thing to say. I have no idea what this little kid is talking about, but I get the feeling that I shouldn't feed into it.

"Because you kiss his head when you win. Only mommies and daddies kiss, but you're both boys. So that means you're daddy and daddy, right?" The tot shrugs, and I open my mouth, then close it again. Damn. This would be the perfect opportunity to tell Breaker what I've been feeling, how I think of him all the time. Except for, you know.

The party.

The fact that Breaker looks like he wants to crawl in on himself and die.

The two snot-nosed kids staring up at me, waiting for me to tell them if Breaker and I arefucking daddiesand their own Dad standing nearby, holding my professional career in the palm of his hands.

I realize I've been silent for a beat too long, so I force a chuckle and wrap an arm around Breaker's shoulders.

"Nah, not dads. Just best friends. Buddies. Bros. Homeboys. Amigos." Jesus, dude, think of a few more ways to say it, why don't you?

I feel Breaker tense under my arm and when I look at him, I see the tight smile plastered on his face. Bless James for being the one to break the tension.

"C'mon kids, let's go find your mom. Maybe she has a friend we can make uncomfortable next," he says as he leans down and scoops a twin into each arm.

"BYE MR. BREAKER!" The kids wave over their dad's shoulder as they retreat. I guess they've got no lost love for me. As soon as they turn their heads, Breaker forcefully shrugs out from under my arm.

"I'm gonna go get some food," he mutters, trudging away from me on heavy feet. Great. First I'm rejected by a couple of ankle biters, and now Breaker is right back to being pissed at me. This is going to be a fun party.

Spoiler alert—it has not been a fun party, save for the incredible food. Seriously, I would bathe in Georgie Adler's buffalo chicken dip if the thought of hot sauce in my nooks and crannies didn't sound so unappealing.

Lucky me, just when I thought tonight might be an opportunity to further smooth things over with Breaker, he's being a broody asshole. I wanted us to hang out. I thought we could finally make progress in our strained friendship off the field, but he's back to keeping me at arm's length. Every time I try to talk to him, he finds someone else to get lost in conversation with. He's purposefully putting himself at the farthest points of any room for me, if not avoiding the room I'm in all together. I follow him like a lost kitten from group to group, conversation to conversation. I'm sure our teammates have noticed the way I trail behind Breaker, and the way he keeps leaving me on my own.

I try to join a lively chat he was having with the wide receiver, Tanner Gunning, and a woman I recognize as the younger sister of Dean McKenna, my old quarterback back in Knoxville. I was going to ask her how her brother is enjoying his retirement—last year was his last season—but as soon as I saddle up next to them, Breaker walks away.

Seriously. He just got up and walked away, mid sentence.

"That was weird," the blonde in front of me says. Thankfully, Tanner has moved on to recapping game stats with some dude from the admin office and is no longer paying us any attention. I don't have it in me to hide that fact that I'm staring after Breaker like a lovesick puppy.

"Ah," she sighs. "Man problems. I remember them all too well. I'm Kira, by the way. I think we met at my brother's retirement blowout at few months ago. Hard to remember. My dad's killer Cosmopolitans had me lost in the sauce that night. Here." She shoves something in to my hand, not caring that I haven't bothered to tear my eyes away from the direction that Breaker left in while she talks.

"To all the boys who have broken our hearts. May they rot in piss," she clinks a glass against the one she handed to mea moment ago, and I look down to see her shooting back the brown liquid without so much as a wince. I'm not sure her toast totally applies here, but I gotta say, I like this woman. She's got some serious big dick energy. I have a feeling she and I are going to be very good friends.

I take the shot, and it goes down smooth as butter. It also ignites a fire in my chest. I don't know if it was the ill-advised bourbon or Breaker's shit attitude, but I'm done with all of it. We're hashing this out, now.

---