Prologue #5
Before Tom had ever showed up, he’d been the one watching out for her.
Maybe that was Tom’s responsibility now—Lane had tried to let go of his begrudging resentment over that part of the situation—but Lane could do this one last thing for her.
Keep his distance until he could be a fucking normal part of this family.
Delia sighed. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I know you were hesitant about the whole situation, but I don’t want to chase you off, Lane. You’re part of this family, too.”
“I know I am,” Lane said. He knew it so fucking well he couldn’t escape it.
“As long as it’s really about this workout opportunity, and not that you don’t feel like you belong.”
“I . . . I just really want to go do this. I think it’ll help me get a leg up, for next season. And this last season was already so good.”
She nodded, and at least the disappointment was warring with pride in her eyes, now.
Wrapping her arms around him, she gave him a tight hug.
Then didn’t let him go. Murmured into his ear, “I know football’s got a chokehold on you now, sweetheart, but I want you to remember you’re more than just a football player, okay? ”
Lane swallowed hard, against the rush of emotion. “I’ll remember.”
She let him go. “So proud of you,” she said.
And that was maybe worse than anything else.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said and turned away, before he did something embarrassing, like cry at nineteen because his mom had said she was proud of him.
Ten months ago
It shouldn’t have surprised Lane that his mom would expect that Lane would be here, and be part of this.
It made sense, Lane supposed. It was a family thing, and though he’d hardly acted like he was part of this family—not in a real way, not in a way that mattered—over the last few years, she still fiercely clung to the idea that she could fold him in.
And then add on top of that that he was also a professional football player, it was totally justified that Delia had assumed he’d show at Trevor’s draft day party.
“I’m so excited you’re here,” she said, tucking into his side. “You’re so far away now.”
He was, because yes, Toronto was pretty far away from Arizona.
Not as far as he could be, but pretty fucking close to it.
Still, he could come home more often. He chose not to, always had a good excuse so she didn’t think it was about them.
About her. But he still had to wonder if she, deep down, thought otherwise.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s good to be back.” Even though it wasn’t, really.
He’d kept waiting, over time, for the attraction to Trevor to fade. To come back home and see him and be like, okay, yeah, no, I’m over it now.
But it had never happened.
“I’m so excited for Trevor.” Delia beamed. “This is such an unbelievable night. I can’t believe you’re both going to be players in the NFL.”
The moment he stepped through the doorway of his mom and Tom’s house, it was like the clock turned back and no matter what he’d done, who he’d fucked or had fuck him, how much time and space he’d taken, Trevor still appealed the same way he had in high school.
“Yeah,” Lane said. Did not make a joke about how Trevor could’ve done it last year, but instead he’d chosen to get his degree like the perfect, good son that he was.
He’d made the mistake of arguing with Trevor about it over text, once, and he’d alternatively wanted to fly out to Oregon, where Trevor had gone to school, and wring his neck and kiss him until he came back to reality.
Spoiler alert: Lane hadn’t done either thing. Smartly.
“Do you have any idea what team is going to take him?” she asked him.
Despite him playing in the NFL for three years, she still didn’t quite seem to get that he didn’t know every single thing each team was doing or planning.
“No idea,” Lane said, shrugging. He only knew who he didn’t want to draft him. The Thunder and the Buffalo Bills. But he was pretty sure with him on the roster, there was no way the Thunder would draft Trevor.
Maybe Trevor would still end up close-ish, in Buffalo. But Lane really hoped not.
“God, I hope if he goes far away, at least you’ll be close. Can watch out for him, some,” she said, giving him one last hug before moving away to greet more people at the door.
Lane resumed his litany of internal prayers that the Cardinals or one of the California teams or even the Seahawks took Trevor. Let him be close to home. He’d like that.
Did Lane resent that? How much time he’d ended up missing with his family, with his mom, because he couldn’t get a handle on this shit? Absolutely.
No question, it was unfair but Lane had tried to make his peace with it. To acknowledge that yes, it sucked hard, but this was just the way it was, now.
He’d built a new life, all the way out in Toronto, on the East Coast. He had friends, teammates, guys he hooked up with regularly.
But again, it all fucking evaporated the moment he showed back up at home.
The moment he walked in the door and Trevor was there—he’d grown one more inch, filled out a little, face gotten impossibly prettier, eyes kinder and sweeter—and it was like every other time.
Didn’t matter what Lane did. Who he fucked. It was always that same flare of recognition and heat at the base of his stomach. The beat in his blood that cried more, more, more, even if he told himself that more was never coming.
And Trevor turned to him like every single time, expression open and affectionate, looking for something—hoping for something—that Lane was never going to be able to give.
The walls started to close in on him again, the guilt and shame choking him. Why couldn’t he let go of this? Why did he let it control him? Control his relationship with his family?
Lane breathed in and out and skirted around the people in the house, making a beeline for the back door and the patio. It was going to be hot out there—even May in Arizona wasn’t a joke—but he needed some air. Some space.
He’d only been outside for less than a minute, when he heard a rustling behind him.
“Lane, there you are,” Tom said as he stepped out onto the patio, shutting the door behind him.
“Hey,” he said. He liked Tom, genuinely. He’d been a good partner for his mom, and loved her a whole lot. He’d raised Trevor well—maybe a little too well, but it wasn’t like Lane could complain to him about that.
And even more, whenever Lane came home, he seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Not like Lane was an interloper who he wished would show up even less frequently than he already did.
“Delia and I are so glad you could make it. I also know how much this means for Trevor,” Tom said. “Ever since you were drafted three years ago, he couldn’t wait to follow in your footsteps.”
Lane swallowed hard. “Right.”
“He told me you tried to convince him not to finish his degree,” Tom said.
Lane braced, waiting for the inevitable lecture. But to his shock, it didn’t come. Instead, Tom said, wryly, “And you were right, he should have declared for the draft after his junior season.”
It wasn’t like Trevor’s senior season had been bad, exactly, but it hadn’t had that mystical, everything-slots-into-place quality of his junior season. He’d broken all kinds of records. Led all Division 1 tight ends in yards and receptions and touchdowns.
Had scored the winning touchdown that had given Oregon their first ever national championship.
“He’s going to be just fine,” Lane said. Trevor was universally considered a first-round pick. It was just a matter of what teams had what need, and how valuable a GM considered him.
Would someone have potentially taken him in the top five or the top ten after his junior season? Probably. But first round was still first round.
“I know, but still. You’ve been good to him.” Not a good brother. Just good to him.
Tom slanted a look at him, brown eyes several shades darker than his son’s, and not for the first time Lane wondered if he suspected.
Tom, of everyone in the family, never referred to Lane as Trevor’s brother. Went out of his way, Lane was pretty sure, to not do it.
“I’ve tried,” Lane admitted. It was hard to admit, because if you asked his mother or Trevor himself, they probably wouldn’t be that generous, but he had tried. The problem was the gap between what he was capable of and what everyone else thought he was capable of.
“You have,” Tom said, patting him on the shoulder, hand lingering. “I know it hasn’t always been easy.”
He didn’t say what hadn’t been easy, but it was the closest Tom had ever come to acknowledging the thing Lane didn’t talk about.