Page 2 of Only for Love

I move toward my room. Practice is in twenty minutes. My teeth grind together. If I can just—

Pops grabs my shoulder, steadying himself, and then leans in. “I said—”

“Think I should be going.” The woman gives a smoker’s cough.

Even though bench-pressing his weight would be easy, I let Pops whirl me to the counter. It takes everything I have to detach. The counter edge digs into my back, and I know the beating is coming. The confirmation is in his eyes, and one long onceover tells me he’s not nearly drunk enough to make this session quick.

I’ve had fifteen years walking this earth, and I should’ve known better than trying to sneak in to grab my gear. I’m never going to make practice tonight. Coach Snyder might wonder, but he never asks.

“You knew I had company, you little shit.” His voice is cigarette stained. More spittle hits my skin. “Honey,” Pops calls to the lady without taking his eyes off me. “I’ll call you. Get your ass goin’ home now.”

“’Kay, honey.” She fumbles toward the door, swinging a purse off the couch.

The honey-talk makes me sick. Maybe she doesn’t think he’ll fight, and I’ll just take it. I have a couple inches on him, plus muscle where he has none. I play sports. He smokes anything he can find. I survive on protein bars. Pops trades our food stamps for dime bags and fifths of whatever burns the hardest. Instinct should have my adrenaline going, readying to fight or flight. But it doesn’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Pops snaps.

Everything.

But I shake my head slowly and wait, daring him to strike. I’m not afraid of pain. Maybe I even embrace it.

My heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. This is what I deserve but can’t wait to escape. As the trailer door slaps shut, he drives home a gut shot.

The hit explodes. I torture myself by staying under his roof, knowing he’s the most pathetic, ruined man I’ve ever met. But I made him that way, and as fucked up as it sounds, it’s the only way I think he’ll survive. I owe him that much. Long ago, Pops was normal… I was normal… Mom was alive.

Another blow lands, and my breath is gone. I brace for his wheezy left hook. It connects, but I’ve already started to numb out, thinking the only thoughts that save me from my nightmare.

The sweaty stench of liquor registers as he lands a slap. “Fuck you, boy.”

Another slap to my temple, and he grabs my ear, ripping it down. A burn of pain explodes, and I silence my reaction, dropping to my knees. His drunken attack hits more than it misses. The scalp shots hurt, blistering fresh pain into a familiar headache. Blood touches my tongue. Bruises are a part of life. No one looks too hard. This is what I’ve accepted.

Harder punches rain down, but I’m gone. Numb. I hear the swings more than I feel the impact. I wonder if this is how soldiers detach when they’re prisoners of war. I close my eyes and think about the only thing that makes life worth the trials: Emma Kingsley, her sweet smile, and the laugh that make me believe in a future.

Warmth bleeds through me, and I’m aware of her innocence. Sophomore year isn’t for finding answers in a girl’s face. It’s for working my way off first-string JV and figuring out how to pass chemistry.

Another hit strikes my temple. Pops nails that perfect spot, and my balance is off. Pain I will not admit to explodes behind my eyes. Another strike lands. Then a push. I’m down on my back. Violent agony ricochets as Pops’s bare foot strikes my ribs. That bastard.

Emma.

I fight to think of her. The only girl I want. The only one I could ever tell about this. But I won’t.

I open my eyes. It’s the wrong time to say I’m sorry. Our gazes clash, then one sloppy kick flies to my head. A hair of a second before his foot hits, I know I’m going to be out.

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