Chapter Fifteen Barrett
Chapter Fifteen
Barrett
“Goodness, how long have you two been up?”
Mom found Dad and me sitting on the couch watching film, her robe wrapped tight around her body. My second cup of coffee was in my hand, and at his wife’s entrance, Dad stood to give her a sound kiss on the mouth. It was the way he’d greeted her every morning for my entire life.
“Best part of waking up,” he said, then smacked her on the bottom.
He’d also done that every morning.
Their easy affection wasn’t necessarily something I took for granted; I was fully aware it wasn’t normal. Especially after a decade with someone who, as it turned out, had a healthy amount of loathing for me.
“You didn’t hear me come in and wake Dad?” I asked.
“No.” She yawned, patting Dad on the stomach before going in search of her own coffee. “I assumed that you working from home today would mean that you’d be able to sleep in a little bit.”
I exhaled a quiet laugh. “Unfortunately not. My body wakes at four thirty whether I want it to or not.”
“You woke your father up at four thirty?” she asked, eyes darting between us.
“No, I was generous and gave him until five thirty.” I rolled my neck. “I did my run on the treadmill and some weights first.”
The basement of our home wasn’t anything fancy, but it was partially finished, at least enough that I’d built a serviceable home gym so that I could get my workouts in when I was home.
Bryce liked using the treadmill in the winter, keeping his conditioning up before soccer started again in the spring.
“Now, that is something he should be joining you for.” Even though Mom said it pointedly, Dad ignored her, waiting until she’d finished filling her mug before holding his out for a refill.
She paused, eyeing him carefully. “How many have you had? You know your doctor wants to limit your caffeine intake.”
“Two small cups, and he only said that because he didn’t know my son would be waking my ass up at five thirty in the morning.” When she hesitated, he motioned for the carafe and filled his own mug. “My ticker is fine. It can handle a little extra oomph.”
I smiled faintly.
Mom took a seat with her coffee, tugging a blanket over her legs while I cued up the next section of film. My eyes lingered on that blanket—it was the same one Lily had wrapped around her shoulders when I’d found her snooping in my office.
“What are we watching?” Mom asked, a life preserver from my own thoughts, something I desperately needed. My tablet was casting to the screen, and I tapped a few buttons, pulling up a new game since we’d already finished reviewing a different one.
“Denver versus San Diego a couple weeks ago. We play San Diego next. Denver runs a similar offense; it’s good to see how they handled this game,” I said carefully, glancing over at Mom’s expression.
Mom’s eyebrow lifted slowly. “Did you watch the game when it was on? It was a nail-biter.”
“I didn’t.” I took the last sip of my coffee, grimacing since it was lukewarm. “Saw some highlights later, though.” When I didn’t say anything else, Mom and Dad traded a quick look. “Griffin played well. He always does,” I added gruffly.
It couldn’t be easy for them, watching their only sons, identical twins who’d been joined at the hip growing up, being slowly pulled apart by our own competitive natures, even though Griffin’s looked a lot different from mine.
Not just how competitive we were, but contradictory.
My brother might look exactly like me, but the ease and carelessness about life that he carried around like a trophy chafed every single part of who I was.
If not for me, he would’ve been kicked out of college, but I’d begged Coach to give him a second chance.
For years, Griffin held that against me, that I’d fought a battle for him that he didn’t ask me to fight.
Time passed, and we both took shots at each other that inflicted pain.
By the time we were both drafted, we hardly spoke.
My injuries, career-ending and devastating in a manner that I hadn’t anticipated, pitted my brother and me against each other in a different way once I retired and shifted to coaching.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just the King brother who played quarterback—I was the youngest offensive coordinator in the league.
A couple years later, I was the youngest head coach in the NFL.
The Brain, they called me. Griffin was the Brawn.
He was the life of the party. Constantly getting tabloid attention while I was home with a wife and two young kids, trying my best to stay out of the spotlight.
In the only meeting we had on the field—me on the sideline with a headset and a giant play card, him playing the game—I came out the victor.
My divorce came shortly after that, which was ugly and public and a second type of devastating because it felt like another place I’d failed. Couldn’t keep a relationship with my brother. Couldn’t keep my wife. At least, that’s how it looked from the outside.
Archer’s words from the office replayed in my head, the truth of them getting uglier and uglier with each pass.
You wouldn’t risk your job—or your reputation—to prove that point. You want everyone to think you’re perfect.
That was what Archer didn’t understand. I knew I wasn’t perfect. But holding myself to high standards wasn’t bad, either, because it meant the people around me could trust that I’d lead by example.
When we were younger, Griffin hated that side of me as well because it made him feel like the bad twin. He wasn’t, he just . . . he couldn’t control his impulses, and I’d smothered mine so deeply that I forgot they existed. Neither was healthy.
Because of two meddling children who were too smart for their own good and a new girlfriend who had flipped Griffin’s life upside down, our relationship was better.
Not what it used to be, and not where my parents probably wanted it, but it was still progress.
A handful of texts and that was it. But to my parents, moments like this—where I’d sit and watch his game, acknowledge his talent—were a relief after years of absolutely nothing.
They never pushed either of us too far, just quietly supporting us in the way we needed most.
The three of us watched the first drive, and I had to pause only a couple of times to write down notes while I studied San Diego’s offensive movements.
Griffin lined up on the right side, which wasn’t typical for him, but I saw the shift in San Diego’s offensive setup and knew why.
Their right side was weak, a rookie tackle lining up opposite Griffin, and my brother was taller, bigger, and faster.
The center snapped the ball, and I leaned forward, watching Griffin execute a spin move that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size.
He was on the quarterback before he could even attempt to evade the sack, and as he wrapped his arms around the guy, Griffin knocked the ball clean from his hands long before the quarterback’s knee ever touched the ground.
One of his teammates scooped it up and ran it back forty-five yards for a touchdown, Griffin providing a crucial block when a tight end chased after the defender.
I watched my brother sprint down the field to celebrate with his teammates, and found myself swallowing an unusually potent pang of nostalgia.
Years ago, we used to celebrate like that too.
“Do you usually watch his replays?” Dad asked casually.
I blinked, shifting my focus back down to my notebook, and I scrawled out a few notes. “When I think about it, yeah. Caught his first game back after his arm healed.”
Mom snorted. “It wasn’t healed. I swear, three doctors told him he should’ve rested it another two weeks, but you know your brother.
He hates being kept off that field. Ruby tried too,” she said, referencing my brother’s fiancée—a whip-smart librarian who we’d known growing up.
“She gave up, though. Said he was driving her crazy being stuck at home.”
“I bet.”
“Speak of the devil,” Mom muttered, lifting up her phone to answer an incoming call. “Hello, youngest son of mine.”
“Mother. Just calling to make sure Maggie hasn’t run you out of the house yet,” my brother said.
“You’ve got it on speaker, honey,” Dad whispered.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re up early, Griffin. Just like your brother. I’m sitting here with him now. He and your father were watching your game footage when I came down for coffee.”
I sat back on the couch and closed my eyes, allowing the smallest shake of my head. So maybe she pushed a little.
“Oh yeah?” Griffin asked. “Which game?”
“San Diego,” Dad answered. “Hey, Griff.”
“Pops,” Griffin said. “Barrett make you get up at the crack of dawn with him?”
I opened my eyes, barely stifling an eye roll. “Isn’t it, like, five a.m. there?” I asked.
At the sound of my voice, Griffin made a small little humming noise.
“Touché. Ruby loves it when I force her to get up with me too—don’t you, birdy?
” he called out. There was a muffled noise in the background, and Griffin laughed.
“She just threw something at my head, so I’m going to take that as a no. ”
Mom and Dad smiled, and I tried to imagine my playboy brother settled down but couldn’t quite do it. Yet he was. He was happy. Happier than he’d ever been, according to Mom and Dad.
“Tell Ruby we said hi,” Dad said.
“Will do. Anything new and exciting happening out that way?”
Mom cleared her throat. “I met your brother’s neighbor yesterday,” she said. “Beautiful. He didn’t tell me how beautiful she was when he was complaining about her for hours the other day.”
“Mom,” I said in a warning tone.
Griffin whistled. “No shit. Tell me more. What’s she like?”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “There’s nothing to tell,” I said loudly. “She’s my neighbor. She helped with the kids for a little bit. That’s all.”
The lie was so easy to say, a lot less easy to believe.