“No, he wouldn’t hurt me, but…” I drag my hand through my hair. “I’ve never defied orders before, so I’m not sure how he’ll react. It’s for a good reason though, and he’ll listen.”
I hope he will.
After spending another thirty to forty minutes reading through every detail Boone has collected, I look up to see Bouche whispering heatedly to his brother.
“Dude, it’s a short walk,” Boone says. “If someone knew I was here, we’d know that already.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“He wants to step outside to clear his head,” Bouche says. “Do you think it’s okay?”
“He’s right. If someone knew he was here, we’d have a problem on our hands already. Just don’t go far, huh?”
“Literally gonna walk around this shithole motel. I need to think.” He grabs his coat and puts his hand on Bouche’s shoulder. “I know you worry, but I’ve made it this far. I’ll be alright.”
“Fine, just hurry back.”
“You bet.” Boone throws his arms around his brother’s shoulders. “You’re an awesome brother, Pax. Knowing you care means a lot to me.”
“Of course I care.”
Boone smiles, patting Bouche’s cheek before shifting his gaze to me. His smile fades as he tosses on his jacket. “Be right back,” he says before slipping from the room.
Bouche immediately drops onto the bed with a huff. “Every gray hair I have is from him.”
I’d point out that he doesn’t have any gray hair yet, but that’s not the point. “He’s a fighter, Bouche.”
“I know, and so damn independent.”
“You have different fathers, right?”
“Yeah. When I was signed to the league, we decided it would be best for all parties if I kept my personal life and my family on lockdown. Boone had already been in a lot of trouble, and our mom thought it was wise to put some separation between us. They both had Gemelli as a last name, which helped, but then Boone told us he wanted to go by that name. It was his paternal grandfather’s last name. We let Patrick Gemelli fade away, and it worked. No one knew I even had a brother until a couple of years ago.” His eyes cloud over and he suddenly looks sad.
“What happened?”
“He overdosed. Accidentally, but it was bad. The hospital called me just as I was finishing a game and the guys were there for me. They rallied around me and kept my secret. Just four of them and the coach know.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine now. He’s sober, and I believe him. He’s so different, and I really thought he’d got his life on track, and then this happened.” His voice cracks. “Fuck. I’m so tired of worrying, you know? I just want him to be happy and healthy, but every time I turn around, it’s something else.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know he’s older than me?” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “By three years, but I’ve always been the one keeping everything together. When our mother died, I thought that was it. He went on such a bender and I didn’t see him for months. But he showed up again, strung out but alive. I paid for rehabs and group homes and doctors, therapists, treatment programs. Anything to help him. I love him.” His voice cracks and I start to go to him, but he tenses. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I sit in the armchair instead of holding him the way I want to.
“Then I practically presented him to a man who wants to kill him on a silver platter.”
“Bouche, please. We’ve discussed this. I didn’twantto kill him.”
“Fucking semantics, dude. You would’ve, and that’s all that matters. I was fucking the guy who would’ve killed my brother. Do you see how fucked up that is?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
We sit in tense silence for a few beats until he continues. “It can’t happen again.”
