Page 2 of Protect

I kick over his bottle of cheap moonshine and sprint to my room. I slam the door and grit my teeth. My shirt feels like it’s burning across my back, digging in to each mark now dotting my skin. I bite my bottom lip to keep the screams in as I peel the shirt from my destroyed skin.

I never scream, I never cry out. He doesn’t deserve to hear what he does to me.

Maybe I am defiant. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I deserve to be punished.

I look at the burns in the mirror as tears sting my eyes.

I shake my head, snapping me back to the present. Those memories aren’t for now. They’re for never. They happened to someone else, a different version of me. A version of me that’s dead.

I’m what’s left. And part of that is thanks to Coach.

“Knox!” Coach yells.

My shoulders hike in the shower. I stayed late to avoid anyone seeing me. I don’t want their pity. I don’t want their questions. A football star doesn’t wear scars like these—he gives them. I shouldn’t have them. Period. And anyone who tries to undercut who I am because of scars… I’ll deal with them. No one gets to know.

I pant, refusing to turn around. The water is cold on my skin, calming me, but not enough.

“What is all over you!” Coach demands.

I slowly turn around. Jaxon is still there. He’s staring at me. No pity in his gaze. Anger. A lot of anger—normal for him. Buthe walks away. He leaves me to it while Coach storms forward and inspects my body.

“Who did this to you, son?” he asks softly. “One name and it’s done. One name is all I need,” he says, not touching my shoulder, but staring at me like a real father should. With the need to protect me, take care of me, and get retribution on my behalf. I shove him out of the way and grab a towel.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Knox, I’m the coach, you answer when I ask a question,” he barks.

I flinch as I wrap a towel around my waist and tighten it. I reach for my shirt and tug it on, knowing it’s going to be soaked. I don’t care. No one was supposed to see me. I’ve hidden well for so long…

“Tell me. I can end whatever is going on. I won’t ask for more than a name. I’m not going to tell anyone else,” Coach says, his voice softening. “It’s not my business what goes on in your home unless you’re wearing it like this.”

I tremble. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to be parented by someone else. “Forget about it. You didn’t see anything.”

“Knox,” Coach growls.

“They’re birth marks!” I yell. “Don’t walk in on me in the shower again.”

I don’t want these memories. I don’t want any of them. I don’t want to remember Coach inviting me over for dinner alone until he switched it up and invited Jaxon and Dimitri too so I’d accept. Then he made sure that twice a week, we came to his house. Once a week, we’d go out after games. And he took care of my home problem in a way that ensured I never had to worry again.

Coach was the only one who knew. Coach was the only one who helped instead of trusting me to take care of it. He never took ownership of it. He never asked for anything in return. Ihad no reason to question him. I had no reason to doubt him. I trusted him, saw him as the father every man should want to have, and Hope… god, the way he talked about her said plenty.

She never argued. She never spoke up about it in a way that mattered. Was it because I was clouded or was it because I didn’t want to believe it? If Coach hadn’t helped me, would I have listened? Would I have heard her out? Would I have believed her?

I’ll never know. And I can’t take it back. I can’t go back in time with all the knowledge I have now. Just like Hope can’t see past what she went through and what me and the guys added to. We’re fucking stuck.

Even while I’m going almost ninety down the highway, I still feel stuck. In time, in this problem, and in my own fury. The only way to get out of it is to get to Hope. To fix this somehow. To reveal more than my scars to her.

DIMITRI

My hands wring together as I hurry over to the training field. Worry creeps higher as every second Hope slips further away. The grunts and yells from the field draw my attention and I find number 18 quickly. Jaxon slams into another player and sprints off.

Perhaps if I let him train a bit more, he’ll be spent and won’t lose it when I tell him.

I sigh. Who am I kidding? He’s going to lose his shit either way. Even if I told him in his sleep, he’d get up, punch me for waiting to tell him, and want to charge forward. He’d fight anyone in his way.

There’s no way to soften the news. I don’t even want to. A part of me wants his fury aimed at Coach just so he has a focal point for all his rage—past and present, rational and irrational.

Waiting is going to cause more problems, so I wave to him after he barrels through two guys. Jaxon pauses. He’s in the zone, doesn’t want to stop, that’s obvious. I wave him over again and he jogs to my side. He takes off his helmet, pulls out his mouthguard and pants.

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