Page 47 of The Brotherly Shove

"You're kissing me, Lennon. You're kissing me right here," I say, my voice slurring with love and admiration for this man. My man.

"Yeah," he laughs, taking a quick look around at the crowd in the stadium. "I'm kissing you out loud, baby. I'm loving you out loud."

I smile, and Lennon's bright blue eyes and gorgeous, sweat slicked face is the last thing I see before my body goes limp and my eyes drift shut.

CHAPTER 28

LENNON

Now

Santa Clara, California

"Get off me. Get the FUCK off of me!" I scream, throwing elbows at anyone who dares try to keep me away from the white cart that the medical team is currently lifting Breaker's unconscious body onto. Some guys try to hold me back, but thank god for my ridiculous body mass and the amount of time I spend working my biceps in the weight room, because I can practically flick them off me like annoying little bugs trying to suckle my blood on a summer evening.

"Griffith," I hear a thousand different voices calling my name from everywhere, but it's Coach's voice—and the shove to my stomach that practically knocks the wind out of me—that distracts me long enough to let the med team situate themselves and drive the cart off the field.

"Fuck you," I hiss, pushing past him and navigating my way through the athletes from both teams taking a respectful knee as Breaker is wheeled through the tunnel. I break into a jog to catch up with him, but I'm held up by the coaching staff, blockading me with their bodies as though we're kids at recess playing Red Rover.

"Lennon Griffith, get your ass over here right goddamn now!" Coach Elliot grabs at my shoulder, and I swear to god if Buckner hadn't showed up out of nowhere and grabbed my cocked back arm, I would have clocked the son of a bitch trying to keep me away from Breaker right in his fucking face.

"Griff, calm down, okay? I got you, man. Calm down," Buckner says quietly as he pulls me a step back, and though my skin is hot and my lungs feel like I'll never take in a full breath again, I listen to him. I let him place my arm back at my side, and though he's still holding on to me, I know that if I asked him to let go he would, and I wouldn't lunge at Coach again.

"I need to be with him," I say, as calmly as I can muster. "He's hurt, and I need to be with him."

"The fuck you do," Coach spits, and even though I was just about ready to knock his lights out, I'm still surprised by his harsh tone. "What do you need to do is sit your ass on that bench and wait for this game to be over. Then you're going into the press room and explaining away whatever the fuck that display was."

I can feel the ire coming off of him and waves, and weirdly, it's the exact catalyst I need to be able to take my first full breath in who knows how long.

“Coach, I'm sorry, I really am. But Breaker is hurt. The man I love is hurt and I need to be with him, and if you can't understand that?—”

"It's not your fucking job to be with him! Your job is to do as I say. Your job is to play football. Your job is to tell the press why you felt the fucking end zone was the perfect place to play tonsil hockey with your boyfriend! Goddammit, Griffith. You think you two could just fuck behind my back like that? You're lucky I don't bench your ass pending a formal review for keeping this whole sham a secret in the first place."

His spit hits me in the face as he yells. Tears are welling in my eyes again, and when I look up, every camera and cell phone in the general vicinity is pointed right at us. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I didn't want it all to come out like this. I didn't want to take the focus off of Breaker and his incredible athleticism. I didn't want any of this.

My chest constricts, and my breathing grows labored once again. I feel like I could pass out, like I'm one wrong step from joining Breaker in the medical tent in a separate bed instead of at his side where I belong.

Out of nowhere, a pair of soft, feminine arms snake around my body from the side, my pads making it impossible for the woman to pull me close, but she tries anyway. Coach is suddenly being hauled to his tiptoes by the collar of his hoodie by James Adler, who appeared in front of me like a mirage in a desert. I look down, and the woman holding me close is Georgie. Her fingers brush up against the sweaty patch of my stomach that is showing below my lifted jersey in a soothing, maternal way that has my heart beat slowing, if only just slightly.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are talking to my players like that Elliot, but I'm not going to stand for it. You don't threaten them, you don't bully them. You coach them, and that's it. That's all I fucking pay you to do. And for the record, Lawson and Griffith kept no secrets. They came to me. I've known that they were together, and I dealt with the situation as I saw fit. If you have a goddamn problem with that, I suggest you start perusing the want ads, because I don't tolerate shit like this inmyorganization, got it?"

Coach nods quickly, the kind of fast, terrified nod the scream queen gives to the killer right before he slashes her throat in the movies.

James lets Coach go, but not before giving him a slight shove that knocks him slightly unsteady on his feet. He turns towardshis wife and I, reaching out and running a caress over her cheek before taking my hand in his and nodding towards the tunnel.

"C'mon, Griff. Let's go check on your man, okay?"

The walk through the stadium to the medical suite feels like an eternity, and I'm certain I would never have gotten here by myself if it hadn't been for James walking two steps in front of me while Georgie linked an arm with mine.

We reach a white door, and James nods towards it.

"He's in there. I don't have any information other than they haven't moved him yet."

I thank him, I think. I don't actually know if the words ever make it out of my mouth, but James pats me on the back anyway, taking his wife and leaving me alone to enter the room by myself. I take a deep breath before I turn the nob, and I bite my cheek to keep myself from crying—again—as I walk through the threshold.

Breaker is still in his football pants and lower pads, though he's been stripped of his jersey and other protective gear. His mom sits at his side, holding his good hand in hers. Even hovering over her son's unconscious form, Maryann Lawson is a force to be reckoned with. Her face is stoic, not a tear or a red splotch in site.

"Stop hovering and get in here, Lennon," she says sternly without taking her eyes off Breaker. I swallow a shallow breath, then take a few shaky steps forward. I don't go all the way to the bed. I can't. I stay two feet away. Any closer, and I risk throwing myself onto Breaker's body and sobbing, probably hurting him even further.

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