the occasional snicker from someone trying damn hard to keep their mouth shut. Coach Newsome is a nice guy, but he doesn’t do drama during practice. He calls stuff like this “playtime” and I’ve seen him kick guys out of the gym—and once, off the team—for letting girl trouble interfere with the business on the court.
I turn to face Hayden and nod for him to go first for our hamstring stretches. He lies in front of me and lifts his right leg, holding it straight for me to push toward his body. I try not to look down because I know he’s staring right at me.
“Hey, thanks for running lines with Abby the other day. She said you were actually pretty good at it,” Hayden says.
I blink slowly, tempted to leave my eyes shut. He’s talking. Why is he talking?
I glance down and nod my chin.
“Yeah, no prob.” His focus hangs on to my eyes, a hint of suspicion in the way they dim. I raise my brows and shake my head a little in question, calling him on his silent question. I know he’s got one.
“You do hate it, don’t you?”
Fuck.
I sigh and roll my neck and lean forward, stretching him a little more, probably to punish him. He takes it.
“Hayden, I don’t anything. I’m just trying to get through practice then to this therapy shit that’s not going to work so I can go home and go to sleep. That’s literally all I have going on in my head right now.” I let go of his leg and purse my lips when our eyes meet. His head tilts just a hair, trying to read me better. I snap my fingers, calling for his other leg.
I assume he’s letting things go when he gives me his left leg and I look away, repeating the stretch in blessed silence. Once he’s done, I squat to lay as he stands to work on me. I give him my leg while my head rests on my threaded fingers and I look off to the side. But before he pushes my leg forward, he grasps my foot in both hands, his fingers squeezing into the top of my foot hard enough that I feel it through my thick-ass shoe.
“Hey,” I protest, jerking my foot but unable to break free.
Hayden’s jaw is set and his eyes are searing into me, and I wonder if he has a hidden camera near dad’s albums.
“You need to take it easy on Mom.” This is so out of left field that the only reaction I can possibly have is laughter.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” I shake my head, amused. Hayden clearly isn’t joking, though. I’m so struck by it because no matter how many ways I bend the truth, I’m still on Dad’s side.
“You don’t hear her cry at night? Your cold shoulder is killing her,” my brother says, finally pushing my leg forward to stretch.
I stare at him with my mouth agape.
“I’m killing her.” I repeat this as if it might suddenly make sense. It doesn’t.
I switch legs.
“Just . . .” My brother pauses, grimacing as he pushes forward on my leg. Hayden doesn’t like conflict. He never has. And he’s partly right—though, no fucking way I’ll admit that. My parents have never been picture perfect, and they fought all the time. They also made up a lot, too. Dad went out of his way to make sure my mom had whatever she wanted. She just didn’t want him.
“I won’t pick sides in therapy. Is that what you’re asking?” I chew at the inside of my mouth and wait for him to admit it. He finally agrees, nodding once and letting go of my leg. I hold my hand up, partly for a lift but also for a gentleman’s agreement of sorts. I pat my brother’s back a few times with a heavy hand and Chaz can’t help the commentary.
“Aww, you guys work it out?” he says.
“Yeah, we took care of things while you were over there on the bench,” I reply, not bothering to look his direction. My brother snorts out a laugh.
We muddle through practice, as good as practice can be in a gym that feels too small for our bodies and with rims that can be lowered to my height. We work on plays mostly, which is boring for the guys like Chaz who barely have a role, so at least I get to watch him stand around and whine with the irked look