Chapter 21
Matt
The game high was still buzzing through my system when I pulled into my driveway. Two goals. Three assists. A win that put us at the top of the division. The kind of night that reminded me why I loved this game. Why I'd sacrificed everything for it. Why nothing else mattered when I was on the ice.
The local sports radio station was replaying highlights as I parked. I heard my name, heard the announcers praising the plays, heard the excitement in their voices. It felt good. Felt right. Felt like redemption after the summer's mess.
Bob would be excited to see me. Probably already at the door, tail wagging, ready for his post-game routine. We'd go for a walk around the block. I'd decompress from the adrenaline. Maybe watch film for tomorrow's practice. Maybe call Carrie and see if she was still awake.
I grabbed my bag from the trunk, my body pleasantly sore from two and a half hours of giving everything I had. My shoulders ached. My legs were tired. But it was the good kind of exhausted. The kind that came from doing what you were built to do.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open, already smiling in anticipation of Bob's greeting.
"Hey, buddy—"
I stopped mid-sentence.
Carrie was standing in my living room.
Just standing there like she belonged. Like it was completely normal for her to be in my house when I hadn't invited her over. When I hadn't given her a key. When I'd just left her a few hours ago with plans to see her tomorrow.
She wore jeans and a dark sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail like she'd done it in a hurry. No makeup. Her face was drawn, exhausted, worried. And even like this—stressed and scared-looking—she was beautiful.
A smile spread across my face before I could stop it. "Hey. What are you—"
Then I saw her expression. Not happy. Not excited to see me. Stressed. Scared, even.
"Matt," she said.
That's when I noticed the figure on my couch.
Frank.
My brother was sprawled across the cushions, completely motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His skin was pale. Too pale. His clothes were rumpled. One shoe on, one off. He looked like death.
The smile died on my face. "What the hell?"
I crossed the room in three strides, dropping to my knees beside the couch. Put my hand on Frank's shoulder, shaking him. "Frank. Frank!"
He didn't respond. Just lay there, breathing but completely out of it.
"He's okay," Carrie said quickly. "I mean, he's alive. He's just—he's really high, Matt."
I looked up at her. "What happened?"
"He called me. About two hours ago. Said he needed help. I found him at some bar across town. He could barely stand. Could barely talk. But he was lucid enough to know he couldn't drive. Lucid enough to call for help."
My stomach twisted. "How did he even get your number?"
Carrie pulled out her phone, showed me the screen. Frank's name. My contact info. "He must have taken it from your phone."
Of course he did. Of course. Because that's what Frank did. He invaded. He took. He crossed boundaries without asking because the rules that applied to everyone else didn't apply to him.
I looked back at my brother. At the man I'd grown up with. The man I'd idolized as a kid. The man who'd taught me to skate. Who'd defended me from bullies. Who'd been my best friend before he became my biggest mistake.
Frank hadn't changed after all.
He was still an addict. Still chasing whatever high would make him forget. Still destroying himself one bad decision at a time.
It broke my heart to see him like this. Actually broke something in my chest that I thought I'd sealed off years ago. I'd told myself I was done. That I'd given up on him. That he'd burned his last bridge when he'd nearly destroyed my career with that PED stunt.
But seeing him here, barely conscious, potentially having overdosed in my living room—it all came flooding back. The worry. The fear. The desperate hope that maybe this time would be different.
"I'm sorry," I said to Carrie, my voice rough. "I'm so sorry he dragged you into this. You shouldn't have had to—"
"Matt." She crossed to me, put her hand on my shoulder. "Stop."
"But he called you. Made you drive across town to pick up his mess. Made you—"
"Shh." She knelt down beside me, her hand moving from my shoulder to my face, turning me to look at her. "I was more than happy to help."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"He's your brother. And you're—" She paused, searching for words. "You matter to me. Which means he matters to me. So when he called asking for help, of course I went. There was never a question."
Something in my chest loosened. I wanted to kiss her. Wanted to pull her close and never let go. Wanted to tell her that she was too good for this mess. Too good for me.
But before I could, Bob bounded over. He'd been in the kitchen, probably wondering why I wasn't greeting him like usual. Now he pushed his head under my hand, tail wagging, happy to see me even though everything else was falling apart.
I petted him absently, my mind still on Frank. Still on my brother lying unconscious on my couch. Still on the promise I'd made years ago that I'd broken and now couldn't escape.
Mom.
I could see her face so clearly. Even though she'd been gone for five years. Even though the cancer had taken her too fast, stealing her away in six brutal months from diagnosis to death. I could still hear her voice in those final days at the hospital. Weak. Raspy. But determined.
The hospice room had smelled like antiseptic and flowers. Too many flowers. People kept sending them like they could somehow make death less awful. Like roses and lilies could fix what was broken.
I'd been sitting beside her bed, holding her hand. She was so thin by then. So fragile. A shadow of the strong woman who'd raised us alone after Dad left. Who'd worked two jobs to keep us fed. Who'd never missed a single one of my games even when she was exhausted.
"Promise me you'll watch over your brother," she'd said, her hand squeezing mine with what little strength she had left. The IV in her arm. The monitors beeping. The oxygen helping her breathe. "He needs you, Matty. He's not as strong as you. He never has been. Promise me you won't give up on him."
I'd promised. Of course I'd promised. What else could I do? She was dying and asking me to take care of the only family I had left. Asking me to be the responsible one. The strong one. The one who didn't fall apart.
"I promise, Mom. I'll watch over him."
She'd smiled. Relaxed back into her pillows. Like my promise had given her permission to let go.
She died three days later.
But I'd broken that promise.
After the PED incident. After Frank had nearly destroyed everything, I'd worked for. After he'd shown up at my apartment begging for forgiveness and I'd told him to leave and never come back. After I'd watched him walk away and felt nothing but relief.
I'd cut him out of my life completely. Changed my number. Moved to a new address. Told mutual friends not to share my information. I'd given up on him because it was easier than constantly being disappointed. Easier than watching him destroy himself. Easier than being dragged down with him.
And now here he was, back in my life, back in my house, barely breathing on my couch.
Mom would be disappointed in me. Would tell me that family doesn't give up on family. That love means showing up even when it's hard. Even when it hurts.
But Mom had never had to bail Frank out of jail. Had never watched him steal from her to buy drugs. Had never been betrayed in a way that could have ended her career.
And now here he was, back in my life, back in my house, barely breathing on my couch.
"I should go," Carrie said softly.
I looked at her. Wanted to say no. Wanted to ask her to stay. Wanted her here because somehow her presence made everything feel slightly less impossible.
"You don't have to—"
"You need to deal with this." She gestured at Frank. "And I need to let you. But I'm just a phone call away if you need anything. Okay?"
I stood up. She stood with me. We were close now. Close enough that I could see the worry in her eyes. The concern. The care.
I kissed her. Couldn't help it. Just leaned in and pressed my lips to hers, trying to communicate everything I couldn't say out loud. Thank you. I'm sorry. I don't deserve you. Please don't leave.
When we pulled apart, she smiled. Small. Sad. Understanding.
"I want you to stay," I admitted.
"I know."
"But—"
"But you need to deal with your brother's situation. I get it." She touched my face. "Take care of him. And yourself. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow."
She grabbed her coat and bag from the chair. Gave Bob one last pet. Looked at Frank with an expression I couldn't quite read. Then she headed for the door.
I watched her leave. Heard her car start. Heard her drive away.
Then I turned back to Frank.
My brother. My responsibility. My broken promise.
I pulled a blanket over him. Got him a pillow. Made sure he was positioned so he wouldn't choke if he got sick. Then I sat down on the floor beside the couch, my back against it, Bob settling in next to me.
We sat there in the quiet. Just breathing. Just existing.
Frank mumbled something in his sleep. I couldn't make out the words at first. Just nonsense syllables.
Then he said it clearly.
"Sorry."
His voice cracked on the word. I looked up at him. His eyes were still closed but tears were streaming down his face, cutting paths through the dirt and sweat on his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "So sorry."
I didn't know if he was talking to me. To Mom. To himself. To the universe in general for being the way he was.
But I reached up and grabbed his hand anyway.
Held it while he cried in his sleep.
Held it while Bob pressed against my side.
Held it while I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now.
Because Frank was back.
And despite everything—despite the lies and the betrayals and the years of pain—he was still my brother.
And I'd promised Mom I wouldn't give up on him.
Even if I already had once.
So I sat there on the floor of my living room, holding my brother's hand while he cried, and wondered if this time would be any different.
Wondered if he'd actually changed.