Page 24 of Full Tilt
“Do I even want to know why you sound like you’re hiding?” My brother’s gruff voice acts like a warm blanket around me.
I wouldn’t exactly describe my childhood as lonely, but I would argue there were better parents out there, ones who didn’t favor one sibling over another. Ones who didn’t sacrifice their kid’s needs in pursuit of their own. Ones who didn’t operate like they were still living in the 1920s.
Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t my parents’ favorite. That honor was bestowed on my thirty-something-year-old brother. Aside from my girls, he’s the greatest friend I’ve ever had, and he’s also my hero.
When I was twelve and Dad left my mom, disappearing into the sunset with a younger woman, Holt stepped up to help care for me since Mom lost her shit entirely, finding daily solace in local casinos.
Holt had only just turned eighteen and got himself a job at a local restaurant, waiting tables in between rugby practices and games. He declined a dream scholarship at a prestigious English university, and instead, entered the draft system at a local college no more than an hour’s drive from home. All because he couldn’t leave his baby sister.
He drove me to soccer practice and helped Mom pay for my kit. He beat up the bullies I had in high school because I wasn’t one of the cool kids with the latest Nike sneakers or iPhone.
He protected me.
He advocated for me.
He knows everything about me—past, present, and future.
I only wish he still lived close to me. As soon as I was old enough to attend college, Holt moved to Europe to pursue the dreams he’d put off for my benefit, and he’s been there for the past nine years.
I won’t lie and say it’s been easy. Being without him has been the hardest time, and these past nine months since he was last inthe US have somehow felt almost as long as the whole time we’ve been separated across different continents.
Money has always been an issue for us since neither sport pays super-high wages, meaning expensive international flights are hard to afford. Holt makes way more than I do, but trying to find the time in a ten-month-long rugby season to travel halfway across the world brings a whole new set of challenges.
I’m down the steps of my hookup’s brownstone and heading for one of my favorite bakeries, Rise Up, when I finally answer my brother, chewing over what version of the truth to give him this time.
“I wasn’t … at home.”
I can visualize his eye roll right now. When it comes to the opposite sex, Holt and I couldn’t be more different. I can count on one hand the number of women he’s slept with—two of them long-term girlfriends.
“You scare the shit out of me, Jenna. Please tell me you knew this one before you went home with him?”
Now only a block away from Rise Up, I round the corner just as my stomach rumbles, hungry for raisin toast and caffeine.
All a part of my nutritional plan.
“I mean, partially,” I reply, crossing the road opposite Rise Up. “But my question to you is this, would you be so concerned about where I was last night if I were a dude?”
Holt releases a sigh. “I’m putting you on speaker so I can continue cooking, but fair warning, Ryan is sitting right behind me, and he can hear all you’re saying.”
Like a freaking schoolgirl, I release a small giggle.
Ryan is Holt’s hot British teammate and also roommate, who I’ve met on a couple of occasions when I visited my brother in France. Unfortunately for most of Europe, he also isn’t single.
Lucky bitch.
“For the record,” Holt continues while he loudly chops food and I pull the phone away from my ear as I push into Rise Up and wave to the owner, Ed, “yes, I would be saying the same thing to you if your name were Jeremy and not Jenna.”
“Jeremy?!” I squawk. “That would not be my name if I were a male.”
When the chopping stops, sizzling begins, and my stomach protests again. Holt’s the best cook I know.
“I hate to burst your bubble, sis, but Jeremy is the exact name you’d have been given. Mom told me once.”
“I agree with Jenna,” Ryan yells in his posh accent. “Jeremy would not suit her at all.”
I nod along with Ryan and tap the glass in front of me, ordering two slices of raisin toast and a cappuccino to go.
“Did Mom tell you what you would’ve been named if you were a girl?” I ask, a small knot forming in my stomach.
