I couldn’t disagree because, typically, under any other circumstances, I would already be getting Tony to file for a restraining order. But firstly I was actively dodging Tony and secondly there was just… something about her that made me want to give her the benefit of the doubt. That and she was the only person I hadn’t told to go fuck themselves in the last 2 months.
‘It’s alright. I doubt I’ll be seeing her again.’ The idea of never seeing Fallon again caused my chest to deflate slightly.What the fuck was that about?‘She wanted to write some tell-all book, and I said no. That’s it.’
George said nothing as he continued to drive, but his thumb tapped incessantly on the steering wheel.
‘Oh, spit it out.’
He scratched his beard. ‘Look, you’ve been through a lot. I know this better than anyone. You got screwed over, man. But have you thought about how you’ll get back to the game?’
I tensed—the same way I did whenever football was mentioned.
‘Leave it,’ I said in a low voice. But my brother was an expert at sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
‘You’re the best goddamn player out there, and nothing that happened was your fault. If I’d been there, I’d have levelled that guy too, probably worse.’
My hand flexed in my lap, the memory of that night echoing around my skull like an unwanted melody you sing over and over again.
‘Don’t.’
George ignored the warning. ‘But you’re doing something you’ve never done before. You’re giving up. You’ve never given up on anything in your life, and you’re laying down and taking this shit like it’s something you deserve.’
My frustration popped like a balloon, and my hand shot out to the window, slapping the glass hard. I could see George recoiling out of the corner of my eye. ‘I know I didn’t fucking deserve it, but what do you want me to do? The entire world has decided they hate me. You can’t do anything with that. You get bad press once or twice; you can get over that, but the shit they keep printing about me…’ I took a deep breath, my voice hoarse from shouting. ‘I can’t shake that bullshit.’
I ran a hand down my face.Fuck, I needed a drink.
‘You’re not even trying,’ George said in a soft voice.
I opened my mouth to retort when I looked out of the windscreen, having not paid any attention to where he was taking us for food.
‘You piece of shit.’ I turned to my brother as he pulled into the familiar driveway.
‘You need to start dealing with things, and this is the place to start.’ George put the car in park but made no move to get out.
I glared at him. ‘So you’re a therapist now?’
’No, but I’ve done enough therapy to last a lifetime. And you, my little bro, have a textbook case of repression.’ George shrugged.
‘I’m not doing it. You can’t make me.’ I clenched my fists, avoiding looking at the walkway decorated with roses, trimmed and pruned to perfection. No doubt Georges doing.
He chuckled darkly.
‘You might be a thirty-year-old man, but I have no problem hauling your pathetic arse out of this car and dragging you up that drive like a naughty toddler.’
The threat wasn’t empty. I was fit and had the stamina for most things, but George’s sheer size gave him an advantage.
‘I hate you,’ I snapped, unbuckling my belt and getting out of the car with all the attitude of a disgruntled teenager.
‘I’ll pick you up in an hour,’ George called before I slammed the door so violently the glass shook. I flipped him off as he pulled out of the drive.
George obviously trusted me enough not to bail out entirely and walk off somewhere else, although, for one brief second, that thought did cross my mind. The front yard was cleaner than the last time I’d seen it. Which was…a year ago… or was it longer? Back then, the garden had been overrun with weeds, the flower bed nothing more than a dead pile of leaves. Now everything was crisp and blooming. My heart thudded heavily against my chest. I brought a hand up and absentmindedly rubbed where the organ battered me daily.
Come on. You can do this. It’s gonna be fine.
I repeated that over and over again in my head as I walked up the drive and brought my hand up to knock. It hadn’t even been a second when the front door unlocked, and it peeled slowly open.
‘That looked painful.’ A croaky, aged voice said. A man in his mid-seventies stood in a pair of joggers and polo shirt, one hand holding the door open.
I took a deep breath, lowering my hand.
