Page 41 of Redemption
“Depends on what you want to know,” he says, some of the lightness from before leaving his voice because he knows exactly what I want to know.
Sliding off his back, I stand up and put out my hand to help him up. He takes it and nearly pulls me down with him in the process of him standing.
“Jerk,” I mumble, slapping him on the chest. “Come on. Let’s go talk outside.”
“Yeah, I’m the jerk when you’re the one who surprise-tackled me.”
With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he follows me until we sit beside each other in lounge chairs at the pool.
When we are both settled, I school my features and ask, “What was that back there? Why was Dad talking about you going to community college?”
The muscle in Langston’s jaw twitches as he stares off past the pool. His eyes are blank. My parents are slowly killing his drive with each demand they make. I hate it. I’m losing my big brother, and I don’t know how to fight that.
“It’s nothing. It was just an idea—a stupid one.”
“Don’t do that, L.”
He rolls his head toward me. “Do what?”
“You know what. Don’t let Dad make you feel like everything outside his idea is not worth your time. That’s not true. It’s your life to live, not dad’s. Do you not want to play football anymore?”
Langston looks at me, shock crossing his features before he hides it behind his indifferent mask.
“No one’s asked me that before.”
Reaching out, I squeeze his hand. “Maybe you should ask yourself that. Because your answer is the only one that matters.”
“I went to the doctor today and had my MRI done. Dad pulled some strings so we could have the results sooner.”
“And?” I prod.
“My ACL is sprained, which means one wrong move this season, and my college career is over, which means I have no NFL career to follow. I thought I would be sad hearing that, but—I was relieved. I’m tired of putting my body through grueling practices and runs. I’m eighteen years old, and I hurt every day. What’s it going to be like when I’m thirty? So I thought maybe this would give me the excuse I needed to get out. I told Dad I could go to a community college and then medical school just like he did, but he’s living out his football dreams through me—so that was never really an option.”
“You’re right, Langston. You are eighteen, and that means it’s not his choice anymore. So if you don’t want to play, don’t play.”
He pulls his hand out of mine as if I’ve offended him by merely showing him there’s a choice, and there’s a gruff growl of annoyance in his throat when he says, “It’s not that easy. You wouldn’t understand.”
My laugh is dark and sarcastic as I sit up in my lounger and glare at him. “Yeah, because I’m already the screw-up. I couldn’t possibly understand what it means to let your parents down, right Langston?”
“That’s not what I meant, Mallorie Ja—”
“No,” I say, lifting my hand to stop him from continuing. “Don’t you dare use my real name to try and scold me becauseyou think I’m acting like a child. You forget that I’ve known you my whole life. I know your tells. Yeah, Langston, I’m the screw-up, but at least I’ll be the one living the life I want to—not miserable living the life Mom and Dad forced me into.”
Jumping to my feet, I start to walk away. I only stop long enough to look over my shoulder and say, “One day, you’re going to have to be big enough to stand up to them.”
Then I leave, hoping he truly heard what I said.
______________________
Two days after my talk with Langston, I get my answer.
He is back on the football field with a knee brace and general disregard for his safety.
I’m in the bleachers, watching for any sign that he’s hurting. Maybe if his coaches notice, they won’t let him play. Surely someone, anyone besides me, has his best interest at heart, or is everything here about winning a state title?
I know the answer to that question as soon as I ask it. It’s no secret how badly the whole town is gunning to make it to state, and with Langston and Hayes, the power duo, they finally feel like we have a chance. Our football team always makes it to playoffs, but we fall short every year. But the word around school is that this is our year.
Letting my eyes fall from Langston to the second half of that power duo, I study Hayes in his football pants and practice jersey. My heart skitters in my chest like the flaps of a hummingbird’s wings, and suddenly, I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses when I lift my gaze from how well those pants mold to the muscles in his legs. He’s staring at me.
