Page 61 of The Late Hit
“Brynn,” he says, pulling me back into his warm embrace. The two of us sit on the kitchen floor. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I’m fine,” I answer, allowing my body to relax into his hold. “I’m good at being alone.”
“But you don’t have to be, B,” he says, running his hands up and down my back. “Let us in. Let us be there for you.”
I give in. I give in to his touch. I give in to his words. He pushes himself up from the floor, reaching his hand out to me. Taking his hand, I allow him to lead me upstairs to my room.
It’s then that I notice that he has a bag in his other hand.
“What’s in the bag?”
He sets the bag down on my bed, pulling out a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a baggie with two joints.
“Cody,” I gasp.
“You told me one time you always watchTedon this day. I thought I’d join this year,” he says with a shrug. He slips off his shoes, pulling the white comforter back. “Now get your ass in bed and tell me whyTed.”
Smiling, I do what he says. Cody hands me a joint and a bottle of beer before setting the same thing next to his side of the bed. His tall, trim body crawls in next to mine as he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in closer. His long arms allow him to open the window that’s next to my bed before he pulls out a lighter. Once we are settled in, I tell him the story ofTed.
We stay like that for the duration of the movie. Smoking, drinking, laughing our asses off, and munching on the snacks he brought. At some point, I drift off in his arms.
Maybe he is right.
Maybe it is okay to let them in.
Gazingupatmyparents' house, I can’t help but wonder, when did everything change? When did my parents go from fun-loving parents to parents who only care about my NFL prospects?
I get it. My dad was an NFL badass. Kids grew up wanting to be my dad. They wanted to ball like Howard Boyd. And I’m the lucky son of a bitch who was born a Boyd.
But I miss everything that was before. Before the pressure. Before the constant nagging. Back when my mom cared about me, not who my agent was. Back when my dad threw the ball for fun. Before, he only cared about my stats.
At one point, this white colonial home with the burnt-orange front door felt like home. The front flower beds were full of life and welcomed you inside. It housed my greatest memories. My favorite people lived under this roof. But somewhere along the way, everything changed. Somewhere along the way, fame and success shadowed love and admiration. Jealousy and envy seeped into our bones—especially mine and my brothers’. There was a time when my brothers and I were best friends, but that changed just like everything else.
Now I envy my older brother and the life he created. I don’t want to give up football, but I’m envious that my brother chose to further his education and become a doctor instead of focusing on football. My younger brother is jealous of my success on and off the field. He acts out constantly in hopes the scouts will notice him. We went from brothers who joked around with each other and who laughed at the dumb shit we came up with to brothers who barely speak to each other. We’ve let our parents control the narrative.
Taking a deep breath, I pull my hand from my pocket and ring the video doorbell. Yeah, I have to ring the doorbell in my own damn house. Isn’t that fucked up? My childhood bedroom is still inside, decorated in navy and gray with posters of my favorite athletes and musicians, trophies line my shelves, and I still have most of my clothes here. But it’s not my home—it’s a house I visit.
“Quinton, baby, you made it,” my mother says as she opens the door.
“Hi, Mom,” I greet, stepping in through the open door she’s holding open for me.
Glancing around, I notice that the decor is changing. Mom has always had good taste, but every time I come home, it’s becoming more high-end. The bronze chandelier has been replaced with a crystal one, the entryway table is new with a large floral arrangement in the center, and the family photo is no longer the focal point, replaced with a piece of art. I don’t know who she’s trying to impress, but it feels like a showroom.
“You’ve changed things.”
“Do you like it?” she asks, gesturing to the new pieces. “We hired a designer to come and give the decor a more luxurious taste.”
“I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it before,” I mumble, slipping off my Air Force 1s.
Mom chuckles as she leads the way into the dining room, which is to the left of the entryway and opening to the kitchen.
“Oh sweetie, that’s why you need to find yourself a woman with good taste.”
I take in the dining room and notice that that, too, has changed.
“You’re sayin’ I need a woman who’s gonna spend my money?” I ask her, following her into the kitchen.
This is a total contradiction of everything my parents have taught me. Knowing that we come from money and that there was a good chance each of us boys would end up with a large amount of money, it was ingrained in us to look out for the women that were only after our bank accounts. Those were the women we were taught to avoid. Now it sounds like that’s what she wants. I swear these two fell and hit their heads.
