From the photograph, an innocent seventeen-year-old girl looks back at me.
It is me. Who I once was.
The photo had been captured during my last performance. But there is no time for reminiscing. I rub my eyes and stow everything back in the closet. Hurrying as I rearrange the furniture, uneasiness wells inside.
“Things sure have changed,” I mutter. For some reason, I don’t think that’s all the change on the calendar this week.
2
CONNOR
For all the millions of dollars spent on the Boston Bruisers’ training facility, I’d expect cell phone reception to be better. I drop the call with my manager. Moments later, it rings again, likely him calling back to discuss how the wolf sanctuary I sponsor is opening its fifteenth branch in the fall and I’m slated to make an appearance.
Answering, I say, “Yeah, just put it on my schedule.”
I expect him to remind me to prepare a speech—I’m better at winging those kinds of things.
Instead, a slick voice with an Appalachian accent, similar to but much thicker than mine, comes through the phone.
“Well, aren’t we frilly and fancy? ‘Just put it on my schedule.’ I figured you’d already have it in ink since Lizabeth sent out the invitations a few weeks ago.”
“Hello, Cain.” The greeting to my brother comes out like steel on gravel as I await whatever fresh trash is going to come out of his mouth.
We rarely speak, twice a year at best. See each other once a year at the annual Enduro Survival Challenge back home.
“No congratulations? I figured you’d be pleased to hear about your big brother’s upcoming nuptials.”
“I’m pleased as punch.”
“Nah, I bet you’re jealous. Envy is eating you alive. As usual, I beat you to the punch.” He chortles.
The way he says that particular word reminds me of how many punches I’ve taken from him, though the last time, I hit back. As a result, he lost a tooth. Hasn’t come at me since, but he still talks a big game, more than happy to remind me of my place in the pack.
But I’m not envious or jealous. More like concerned for Lizabeth’s well-being, but I have to trust she knows what she’s doing. I take a deep breath, reminding myself to at least attempt to be gracious to my brute of a brother. So far, he’s behaved himself, and that’s saying something.
“Congratulations, Cain. Please pass on my well wishes to your bride-to-be.”
At the mention of his future missus, he launches into a detailed account of what he’ll do to me if I so much as look at her and provides supporting evidence of what happened to Hayden Kennedy, who asked her if she wanted a drink when they were last at the pool hall.
I interrupt his account of the brawl. “Cain, I have to go. Nice talking to you.”
“Wait. I was just getting to the good part. But I understand. You’re busy up there in the big city with your fancy life and all. Just remember that you’re my best man and have to give a toast at the wedding.” He laughs darkly like that has a double meaning.
I’ve been to a few weddings. I’m pretty sure the best man toast is a bit of a roast, but I will try to keep things clean, simple, and short so Cain doesn’t drag me outside and try to use me as a punching bag, emphasis ontry.
Before I get off the phone, he launches into a few instances of our childhood when he was bigger, better, and more brutal than me.
I doubt he’ll even notice when I’ve hung up. But now I’m strung up with aggravation. I don’t want to go to his wedding. It’s sure to be a who’s who of bullies and brutes.
I stomp into the lounge at the training facility here in Boston.
“Uh, oh. Looks like Wolf is looking to bite,” says Declan Printz Charming, our wide receiver.
I grunt. “My brother just called and reminded me about his wedding. I have to give the toast.”
“Didn’t know you had a brother.” Chase Collins frowns—yes, of the legendary football family.
“I don’t. You’re my brothers. Cain was less of a brother and more of a bully.”
