Page 3 of Their Greatest Strength

His voice has me turning from where the bowl spins in the microwave. Sweat drips down along his temples as he leans against the wall. It’s been the year for the flu, and we’ve both had it one too many times at this point.

“And you’re not supposed to be walking around. Go lie back down, and I’ll be there in a second.”

“I’m sick, not dead. I can microwave my own soup.”

“Practice starts next week, Nate. You’re not missing your first day of school either, so you need to get better quickly. That starts with resting and letting me feed you.”

I pull open the cupboard above the microwave and stare at the empty shelves once stocked with medication. The bottle I finished this morning sits on the countertop as a reminder that I forgot to pick some more up on my way home.

“How are you feeling now? Have you thrown up since this morning? Once I get you into bed with some food, I’ll make atrip to the store to pick up some more medicine,” I ramble, pulling the microwave door open.

The bowl is blistering hot when I grab it, and I curse while setting it on the counter, the soup nearly sloshing over the rim. Steam swirls into the air, and I’m quick to take the sleeve of crackers I left out earlier and pull a few free to crunch into the soup. I dig a spoon into his dinner and swirl it around.

“I can live without more meds, Blake. Stay home and watch TV with me tonight. I made sure not to get ahead in our show while you were gone today,” he says, discreetly trying to bribe me.

I smile at that and use my shirt sleeves to protect my fingers while carrying the bowl to him. “We can watch an episode when I get home.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

We walk together to the only bedroom in the apartment, and I let him enter first.

While we’ve been here since before Mom left, it’s only been the last few years that Nate’s had a room to himself. He’s fifteen and needs his own space. Some privacy. Before the shift, we shared the pull-out couch in the living room. While we might not be financially thriving right now, this is the best option I can give him. It works for now.

Nate flips the light on and tosses himself onto the messy bed. Once upon a time, the comforter was covered in little footballs, but those have long since faded, leaving brown splotches amongst the blue.

I focus on the trophies on his dresser and find reassurance in my choice to keep him in football regardless of the cost.

“Come on, get under the blankets,” I order, placing the soup on the nightstand.

His textbooks and pencils clutter the small desk on the other side of his room, but otherwise, he’s kept the space clean and tidy. Laundry is in the bin, and dirty dishes are in the sink.

He groans while yanking the blanket over his long legs and propping himself against his pillow. His stomach growls when I move the bowl of hot soup to his waiting hands.

I exhale, brushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead. It’s too long, but I know he likes it this way. With his deep brown eyes, strong nose and jaw, and a love for the world that doesn’t seem well-deserved, he reminds me of our dad in too many ways to count.

Yet, I swear that every day he becomes a little bit more like him than the last.

Watching him grow into a good man is all I want. If I can help him get there, I’ll know that it was all worth it. That’s why I push myself the way that I do.

Always for my little brother and the life I yearn for him to have.

2

JAMIE

I don’t knowwhere I got my charm from.

My father’s idea of flirting comes in the form of caveman grunts and threatening glares, and my brother . . . well, let’s just say that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

It could be a natural-born gift, and I was the only one in three Bateman men who was blessed with it. Yeah, that sounds about right.

“With the season over the halfway mark now, can you tell me what your main focus is when it comes to improving your game for the last half?”

The blonde bombshell of a reporter along today’s sidelines extends her small microphone in my direction, waiting for a reply. I flash a lopsided grin and use the microphone as an excuse to lean closer. With my mouth hovering over it, I brush the back of her hand with my knuckles.

“Are you hinting at my game needing to be improved, Jas? Because I can assure you that it’s still as good as it’s always been,” I tease.

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