Chapter Five LIAM
Chapter Five
L IAM
“Let’s get a fucking move on, shall we?” I yelled. “The defensive line won’t fix itself, assholes.”
There were a few grumbles on the field, and our defensive line coach gave me a nod when the O-line started moving a bit quicker on the next play.
“Oy! Watch for the blitz,” I called to the center. “Don’t act like you can’t see him back there, McCaffrey.”
The player in question straightened, his hands going to his hips. “You our coach now, Davies? Because last I checked, you’re supposed to be lining up against us, old man.”
I fought a smile when the guys around him hooted and yelled. “I’ll line up when you prove you can block worth a shit. My mum can do a better job at stopping the run.”
He flipped me his middle finger. “Your mum didn’t have many complaints last night.”
If I’d thought he was being remotely serious, I would’ve tackled his ass right there, even if he outweighed me by fifty pounds, but I rolled my eyes and whistled for them to start the play from the top.
My defensive coordinator came over and stood shoulder to shoulder with me while we watched it unfold.
“Better,” he said. The defense managed to interrupt the run, keeping him to only a couple of yards before they brought him down. “But we still need someone stronger on the left side.”
Where Chris used to play.
I grunted.
He gave me a sideways look. “Not that I’m complaining about the extra coaching help, but out of curiosity, how come you’re not lining up with them?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Well, good thing you’re not, like, contractually obligated to play or anything.”
I glanced at him. “Did we start training camp a few months earlier than I was aware of?”
He sighed. “You’re touchier than usual.”
Yeah. Because I was in a pissy fucking mood. I felt like there was a churning black cloud hovering over my head at all times, trailing behind me no matter how fast I tried to outrun it.
I’d worked myself to the bone in the weight room the last three days, and nothing had ripped Zoe’s gutted facial expression out of my mind when I tore out of that parking lot.
I was afraid to line up against anyone on my team. The last thing I wanted was to injure someone because my temper got unleashed at the wrong time.
And the unleashing was why I played this sport.
Nothing heated my blood like a good tackle. The pounding of my cleats in the grass when I chased someone down. The sound made when I leveled the person trying to get past me with the ball. The rush of adrenaline that came after.
It was the cleanest, neatest way for me to give all that rage bubbling beneath the surface a safe outlet.
Just one of the reasons why football—the football back at home in Great Britain—didn’t hold much appeal for me. In that sport, knocking an opponent on his ass with as much force as humanly possible was generally frowned upon.
That, and the fact that every time I had played as a lad, I was constantly reminded of how much I looked like my dad. Ran like my dad. Kicked like my dad.
Every coach who asked me if I could defend like he did? Salt in an open fucking wound.
Didn’t take long to realize just how much I didn’t want to play any sport that would have me stepping over his shadow.
My friends thought I’d gone off my bloody rocker when I told them I wanted to play American football. My mum understood, but she was the only one.
Moving here, going to college here—it was the only thing that had made sense to me.
Until this week. The last month, really. I wondered all sorts of things in the middle of the night, when I sleeplessly stared up at my ceiling.
If I’d gone to another team, I never would’ve met Chris. If he hadn’t been such a persistent ass about befriending me, then I wouldn’t feel like I did right now.
Helpless.
Angry.
Like the biggest selfish prick in existence.
Yet none of those things made me feel like I was wrong. Mira—and Miss Zoe Valentine, with her big, expressive eyes—was much better off without me hanging around. The pretty, golden-haired friend with the pretty smile would raise Mira exactly the way Chris and Amie had wanted.
All I’d do was fuck it up. Or worse.
And reminding myself of this in the wake of that stupid, stupid meeting was what had me stomping around the facilities with a permanent frown on my face, and my teammates wondering what the hell had happened.
“What’s the new guy’s name again?” my coach asked.
“Richards.”
“Richards,” he yelled, “come over here a second.”
Richards hopped up from the field, spitting out his mouth guard as he did.
“Yeah, Coach?” He eyed me nervously as he approached. Couldn’t blame him, I guess. Everyone was eyeing me nervously this week. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. That was good. Just make sure you plant that back foot with more weight on it, okay?”
Richards’s brow furrowed underneath his helmet, and I sighed audibly. “Do you understand why he’s saying that?”
Richards shook his head.
I jerked my chin up. “Stand like you’re lining up.”
He did, spreading his legs one in front of the other and bracing his body to push forward.
Coach motioned for the imaginary play to start, and in one surge, I had Richards flat on his back.
I stood over him, gripping his jersey before I hauled him up to a standing position. Then I got right in his face.
“You’re thinking about going forward, yeah? You’ve got all your weight on your front foot, and when you go up against someone bigger and meaner and angrier than you, it doesn’t take much for me to knock you on your ass.”
He was breathing hard, hands on his hips as he listened.
“You plant that back foot. Like this.” I stopped and showed him, digging my toe into the turf. Then I grabbed the bottom of his helmet and tugged him even closer. “You be immovable, do you hear me? There is no one out there who can push you around, or take you down, or put you on the ground unless you let them. How often do you see me down after we line up?”
He swallowed. “Not very often.”
“That’s right. Because in my head”—I tapped my temple—“I am a stone fucking wall, and no one is strong enough to push through it. You remember that.”
I shoved him backward, and he nodded resolutely before heading back with the rest of the team.
When I turned around, our head coach—a grizzled, no-nonsense guy by the name of Freedman—had joined, and he was watching me curiously.
“What?” I asked.
“Walk with me, Davies.”
“I was just about to line up for the next play.”
The defensive coach cleared his throat.
Coach Freedman held my gaze. “Now, Liam. Let’s go.” It wasn’t a request.
When we were about twenty yards away from the team, he stopped and turned, his playbook tucked underneath his arm and a wad of chewing tobacco bulging inside his cheek. “You’ve been a giant prick all week.”
All right, then. No fucking around today. I blew out a slow breath. “Yes, sir.”
“What was that meeting with the lawyer about?”
“Am I obligated to tell you?” I asked.
His interest sharpened even further. “Of course not. But there’s been a marked difference in you since that afternoon. Normally, every guy on the field views you as an extension of the coaching staff. You could step into my shoes tomorrow and no one would blink, because you’ve always been one of the most natural leaders on this team. Since day one, it’s been that way.”
I held my breath, waiting for the but .
“But,” he continued, “it’s been different the last few days. You’re unapproachable. Snapping at everyone. And I have to worry just a bit about how hard you’ve been working yourself in the weight room. What I don’t need is one of my captains injuring himself in the offseason because he’s not willing to talk about what’s going on.”
I slicked my tongue over my teeth, dropping my gaze to the field for a moment.
“Chris did something stupid,” I said, voice raw and low. “And I can’t make peace with it.”
Coach took a deep breath. “What’d he do?”
I clenched my jaw so tight that I felt the ominous creak of my molars grinding together. The words didn’t even want to pass my lips because they were so ridiculous. “He ... he made me guardian of his kid. The daughter.” I blinked a few times, studying Coach’s reaction so hard that my eyes started to burn. “Me and Amie’s best friend.”
Coach rocked back slightly on his heels, eyes widening. “So you’re moving into their house or something? Or you’ll do shared custody?”
I scoffed. “I’m not father material, Coach. I have never wanted a family, and Chris knew that.” My voice got louder. Angrier. “He’s the only person who’s ever known that, and he did something stupid like this. I can’t fucking figure out why, and I can’t ask him, because he’s fucking dead!”
My chest heaved, and I could hardly suck in oxygen fast enough. Like I’d just run a bloody marathon.
How ridiculous.
Coach narrowed his gaze and watched me. He didn’t say a word while I caught my breath, reined my temper back in. The roar in my ears dulled, and my pulse slowed to a manageable rhythm.
Still, he didn’t speak.
He just watched me. Studied me. I felt as if he’d pinned me to a corkboard like an insect specimen, trying to figure out what made me tick.
“I’m not doing it,” I said. “Told the friend I’d send her a check every month. She can use it for whatever Mira needs, but I’m not playing daddy to some little girl who deserves someone a helluva lot better than me for the job.”
His eyes sharpened. And still, he stayed silent.
I pointed a finger at him. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose slowly.
“Stop it right now,” I barked. “Quit fucking looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked. So fucking patient.
The words could hardly come up my throat. They were dragged kicking and screaming the whole way, because it was the last thing I wanted to admit out loud.
But no matter how hard I tried to suppress them, they came up all the same.
“Like you’re disappointed in me,” I managed. The words tumbled out like I’d ground them to a bloody pulp.
There. I’d nailed it in one. Understanding filled his eyes, and I wanted to punch something. Not him, though, because he’d probably punch me right back, and I’d end up with a broken nose.
“You’re better than this, Liam,” he said. “You’re a better man than ignoring your friends’ wishes.”
I took a step forward. “I’m a better man by knowing what I’m not capable of, and filling some mythical father role is not in the cards for me.” My skin was crawling at the thought of it. Shrinking too tight around my frame, like the slightest jolt of energy would have me exploding in a messy burst.
The thought of trying to be Chris, of trying to do the things he did so effortlessly—playing dolls with her, drinking her imaginary tea, and showing her how to swing that big plastic bat in their backyard, even when she couldn’t aim for shit.
Damn it all to hell. My eyes were burning, and I couldn’t fucking make it go away.
“He was the best dad I’ve ever seen,” I told Coach. “He was patient and sweet and kind. He made her laugh all the fucking time, and I cannot be like that.” I hit my chest with a fist. “I do not have that inside me.”
“Don’t you?” he asked. “I’d argue differently.”
“Don’t turn this around and try to coach me through this. It has nothing to do with the team or me as a football player.”
Now it was his turn to lean in, and I fought the urge to back away from the intensity in his face. “Everything you do is a reflection of this team and the family we’ve built. You preach that more than anyone I know. It’s why they respect you so damn much in that locker room, Davies. Why Chris respected you so much.”
I swallowed, unable to hold his stare any longer.
“You’re better than this,” he repeated.
I took a deep breath and let it go. “No, Coach, I’m not.”
And I walked away before he could say another word.
No matter who was staring at me, I didn’t stop until I shoved open the doors of the locker room. My heart rammed against my ribs at the sight of the nearly empty space. A few of the guys were lounging on the benches near their lockers, and they glanced up when I strode over to Chris’s locker.
I set my hands on my hips and stared at the contents.
Rashad and Micah walked over, concern heavy in the air.
“You okay, Davies?” Rashad asked.
My jaw clenched before I answered. “No. I want this shit gone. We’ve been staring at it for too long.”
They traded a look, though neither of them dared push me.
My voice was raw as I spoke again. “I need a fucking box.”
But neither of them moved. Rashad simply settled his massive hand on my shoulder. “I know, man. We got you.”
Something rattled deep in my chest, and I fought a snarl at the moment of kindness he was showing me. It wasn’t just kindness, though.
The grace of his reaction.
I didn’t want it.
I didn’t want any of this.
A box appeared next to me, and it was attached to Coach Freedman’s hand.
Looking him in the eye felt like a herculean task, something I wasn’t nearly strong enough to do. But I took the box with a slow nod and set it on the bench.
I tossed Chris’s bag in there without a single glance at what was inside.
Then I picked up the box and swept in all the loose shit from the top shelf. Deodorant and mouth guards. Eye black and a spare shirt with the sleeves ripped off. A few receipts and some ChapStick.
“Messy fucker,” I muttered.
Rashad exhaled a laugh. “Yeah, he was. Amie’s the only reason that house was clean. He was always leaving his shit around, wasn’t he?”
It should’ve taken longer to clean all his things out. An amount of time that represented exactly how important he was. To me and to everyone else.
But less than two minutes later, everything was gone.
Everything except the picture taped to the back.
My throat burned. My eyes filled with sand that I couldn’t blink back. And like a coward, I refused to look at their faces while I carefully pulled up the edges.
Once the photo was tucked inside the safe confines of the box, I let out a slow breath and closed the top, folding the edges so that it wouldn’t open up. “It’s done,” I managed.
Coach clapped a hand on my back. “We’ll leave it empty for now, okay?”
It was tempting to let my teammates offer comfort. To allow our shared grief to lessen the ache gnawing at my insides.
But I didn’t. Because I wasn’t entirely sure I deserved their support right now.
“Do whatever you want with it,” I told him.
I gave the locker one last long look, then picked up the box and left.