Page 160 of Burn the Wild

“Like he said,” I say, crossing the room to swat the back of Wyatt’s head. “Idiots.”

“Damn, man,” Wyatt complains. “I’m already in the hospital.”

Davis levels a dry look at me. “You didn’t help, Ford.”

I shrug, keeping it casual, even though I’m all kinds of shaken up inside. “Couldn’t let them have all the fun.”

There was no way to keep a cool head when both of my little brothers were in that ring. A stampede couldn’t keep me away from them.

Davis sighs and shakes his head. “This is not how I wanted the summer to go. Both of you hurt within two weeks.” His gaze drifts to me, then to Wyatt. “It was close, Wy. Too close.”

Charlie’s smile fades, and he says in a low voice, “If you were paying attention, if your head was in it, you would have known that riggin’ was looser than normal.”

Wyatt swallows. “Charlie, man—”

“You know I’m right.”

Guilt and shame engulf Wyatt’s face.

I sigh, recognizing the come-to-Jesus chat we need to have with our little brother—the one we’ve tiptoed around all summer.

“End it,” Davis orders. “Take the contract for the training job, Wyatt.”

“It’s time,” Charlie agrees.

“Ford,” Wyatt croaks, looking at me helplessly.

Because he knows I know when he’s done. It’s the same feeling I had when I was over baseball. You’re so blocked you can’t see anything else, not even a way out. I had to quit. And Wyatt has to do the same.

Because if he doesn’t, he won’t hurt someone else—he’ll hurt himself.

I swear under my breath, hating to say it. But I have to.

“You’ll kill yourself if you keep going this way,” I say bluntly.

Charlie winces.

Davis settles a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “We won’t let you do that.”

A muscle jerks in Wyatt’s jaw as he stares down at the thin blanket draped over his legs.

I study my little brother, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, then I tell Charlie and Davis, “You two go ahead. I want to talk to Wy.”

Charlie nods. Davis hesitates, like the thought of being left out of one conversation in his entire bossy ass existence will kill him, but after a second, he follows Charlie out.

“I don’t need an intervention,” Wyatt complains, his face stony.

“Tough. I’m your big brother. You sit in that bed and you fuckin’ listen to me.”

Wyatt grumbles, and I sigh. The limits of patience have never been tested until Wyatt was born.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, I say, “Did I ever tell you why I really left baseball?”

“Because Sav left?”

“Partly. But it was also that kid.”

He blinks. “That bad pitch?”

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