Page 2 of Beyond Protection
Just my name. The Japanese way she shaped the syllables made it sound like a complete sentence.
"Mom."
"You're here."
"I'm here."
Ma shoved a plate into my hands before I could sit. It contained roast beef, thickly sliced, potatoes drowned in horseradish butter, rolls Marcus hadn't claimed yet, green beans with almonds, and cranberry sauce still holding the shape of the can.
"Ma, I can't—"
"Eat what you can and stop arguing."
I wedged myself between Matthew and Miles. Someone's elbow hit my ribs. The table groaned under too many plates, too much noise, and too much family crammed into a space that should've felt crowded but somehow felt right.
For about thirty seconds, I almost relaxed.
Then Marcus asked, "So how's our MVP doing?" and the weight settled back on my shoulders.
I opened my mouth. The smile was already forming—bright, practiced, the one I gave interviewers. "It's been—"
The words died.
Everyone was watching and waiting for the performance. The charming deflection. The humble-but-confident sound bite about hard work and great teammates. My throat closed around it.
"Tired," I said finally. The words were flat. Honest. Wrong. "Really fucking tired."
The table went quiet.
"Language," Ma called from the kitchen, automatically.
Everyone continued to look at me.
I tried to recover. Searched for the joke, the pivot, the way to make this moment not so goddamn heavy—
"I just mean—" My voice cracked. "The off-season. I need the off-season."
Marcus's expression softened. "Hell of a year," he said gently.
"Yeah." I picked up my fork. My hand shook slightly. "Yeah."
I'd meant to charm them. To be fine. To be the success story they could tell their friends about.
Instead, I'd just bled out on Ma's Thanksgiving table.
Michael caught my eye. Mouthed: "You okay?"
I nodded. Smiled. There—that was better. The performance clicked back into place, but the mask had slipped. Everyone had seen.
Miles's voice cut through the awkward pause. "So, we're all going to pretend that didn't happen? Cool. I'll add it to my notes under McCabe family patterns of avoidance."
Matthew kicked him under the table.
"What? I'm only saying—if we're doing therapeutic silence, I charge for that."
The tension broke. Marcus snorted. Even I managed a real laugh.
"That diving stop in game four—" Matthew started, shooting Miles a look.
