Page 108 of Whatever It Takes
I glare back, against better judgment.
Davis pats the football. “Let’s just play. Garrison sprint.”
I have no choice. Because Hunter charges for me—already planning on tackling and Davis hasn’t even thrown the ball for me to catch yet.
I run towards the neighboring house. Feeling the weight of my brother on my heels. Encroaching my space. Closer, and closer. Coming for me.
The ball soars through the crisp night air, and I don’t care about it. I don’t want it. Yet, I’m reaching up for the stupid fucking thing.
My fault.
Hunter tackles me from behind. My chest meets a blanket of hard snow, wind knocking right out of my lungs. I inhale but can’t exhale.
He laughs, happy that I finally gave in. “Barely better.” He messes my hair.
I’m about to stand, and he playfully pushes my head.
I shove his hand away as he tries again. “Stop, man.”
He shoves harder.
“Hunter—”
He forces my face into the ground. Making me eat snow. Cold burns my lips, and I shut my eyes.
Davis laughs.
I struggle out from Hunter’s hold, trying to rip his hand off my fucking head.
Mitchell just stays quiet. Just stands there.
I manage to turn over on my back, my face stinging raw. Hunter pins my shoulders and pulls my right arm in a lock. Like we’ve suddenly switched from football to wrestling. “Come on, get out of my hold.”
Davis stands over us. “You got this, Garrison. Just try.”
Just try.Why didn’t I think of that? What a genius. “He has a million pounds on me.”
“Don’t make excuses,” Davis says. “Or else you’ll always be flat on your ass.”
Hunter laughs, wrenching my arm harder.Motherfuc—I wince again, the brittle air drying my lungs.
I writhe under my brother. Trying to escape. He’s cement. I’m being crushed to death, breath comes shorter. “Get off,” I say, panicked.
He slaps my face. “Fight me, man.” He slaps harder. “Come on, grow some balls.”
My cheek sears. I push at his chest and scream between my teeth to force him off.
Unable to move him.
I can’t move him.
I picture myself easily sliding out from under Hunter. I picture myself straddling him. I picture two of my fists repeatedly slamming into his face. Until my brother is bloodied beneath me—but my fight or flight response is screamingfly the hell out of here.
“Take a breath,” Davis coaches. “Think about your next move. Stop flailing.”
Hunter looks over at Davis, and they laugh like this is all in good fun. Always at my expense.
“I’m done,” I choke out.
