I tried to show my stepdad respect through his conflicting directives, but I can’t listen to one more word coming out of his mouth.
Fuck him. He doesn’t get to decide who I choose to share my life with, especially when what he really means by “achieving my full potential” is landing all the best endorsement deals and having the status of being one of the “faces” of whatever team I end up playing for.
There is zero chance of me telling him about what I’ve been considering or the threats made by one Christina Hale.
“That person”—I bare my teeth, doing my best to speak with them clenched tight enough to probably need the mouth guard I use when I play as protection—“you keep calling some girl is so much more than that. Kay isn’t just my girlfriend, she’s my everything.”
The urge to fight, to defend, to protect courses through my body. Fuck! I need to get out of here before I do or say something I can’t take back.
*clip of press conference where Coach Daniels confirms that Liam Parker will be suspended from playing for Penn State in their bowl game*
@Christyheartsbooks: Karma’s a bitch #DontMessWithTheFlock
@Cmd427: I’m still waiting for @TightestEndParker85 to get the beatdown he deserves #BuyingMyTicket
@Cr8zysockbookblock: We’re still waiting for this ^^ @CasaNova87 #DefendYourGirl
#Chapter28
Everyone thinks the life of a professional athlete is so glamorous. The money, the cars, the houses, the velvet rope treatment, and endless perks all are supposed to add up to the life dreams are made of…but not everything is all sunshine and unicorns.
Don’t get me wrong, E has it good—really good—and as his sister, I receive a lot of perks. My point is there’s also the flip side. The time and dedication put in for workouts, during both the season and the offseason, maintaining a healthy diet, promotional commitments with the team, and any personal endorsements a player is fortunate enough to have.
All these things are part of the deal if one wants to play a sport professionally. In the grand scheme of things, they are small potatoes compared to, in my opinion, what is the biggest sacrifice—the time away from one’s family for travel.
To be fair, the NFL probably has it the easiest compared to other sports, having only one game a week for the sixteen-game, seventeen-week regular season. The MLB plays one hundred and sixty-two games, and even though the NBA and NHL only play eighty-two, all three can have road trips last for up to two weeks.
In the end, it all adds up to not always being around for certain events or holidays. If we’re lucky, Christmas will fall on a non-game day—like this year it’s a Friday—so E won’t have practice. Unfortunately, I am the reason I won’t get to deck the halls on the Big Man in Red’s day is because I’ll be in Texas cheering on my man playing in the Cotton Bowl.
Thankfully Coach Kris closes The Barracks for the weeks of Christmas and New Year’s, and I was able to head directly to Baltimore after my final on Monday, allowing a few days with my family before flying south on Christmas Eve.
That said, squaring off with my brother in his kitchen as I’m currently doing is not my definition of a good time. Not even the fact that JT is here and I get to spend almost five full days with him is enough to brighten up my mood.
E stands on the other side of the island, arms crossed, nostrils flaring, jaw ticking as he glares at me across the quartz countertop. If I had to guess, I would say he’s trying to come up with a way to strangle me from eight feet away.
“You can’t be serious, Kay,” he says in his hard-ass football voice.
“Of course I am, E.” Twitch, twitch, twitch goes his cheek. “I’m not saying I like it—because I don’t—but it’s the plan.”
I need to make my brother see reason, make him find the merit in my plan. Lord knows Mase is going to blow a gasket when I tell him.
That’s why we won’t be telling him until after the fact, my inner cheerleader singsongs in agreement.
“Liam needs to be held accountable for what he did to you.” E point-stabs the counter with his finger. “He”—stab—“broke”—stab—“your fucking”—stab, stab—“cheekbone.” He opens his palm, now slapping the counter with an echoing smack. “You had