Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
DANNY
It was hard to decide which was more challenging: helping Connor coach basketball to a bunch of uncoordinated teens who’d never played the game before, keeping awake when he’d barely slept, or faking feeling happy and supportive of Connor’s volunteering efforts, when in truth he’d rather crawl back to bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels and nurse his sore hip.
‘No running with the ball!’ he yelled at a lanky kid stomping about in heavy work boots. ‘You need to dribble.’ The kid looked confused, so Danny picked up a spare ball and demonstrated. ‘See? Bounce the ball when you move.’
The kid slammed the ball down, causing it to ricochet off his chunky boot and hit another kid in the face. The second kid retaliated by throwing a punch and the pair started brawling. It was the third skirmish so far and they were only thirty minutes into the session.
‘Break it up!’ Danny shouted, sprinting over and pulling them apart. ‘Basketball is a non-contact sport.’ Who was he trying to fool?
Why he’d agreed to help coach such an unruly bunch of youths he had no idea. This couldn’t be good for his blood pressure. Connor wasn’t faring much better, he wore the same expression he’d had when their cat had died.
‘Let’s try drills instead,’ he said, stopping the game before it descended into a bar fight. ‘Line up either side of the court. Take it in turns dribbling up to the basket and shooting.’ He threw the ball at the kid with the work boots. ‘You first. And next time, bring sneakers.’
The kid pulled a face. ‘You what?’
He’d been in the UK for nearly two decades and yet some habits were hard to break. ‘Trainers. You can’t play ball in steel-capped boots.’
The kid wiped his nose on the sleeve of his already dirty hoodie. ‘These are all I ‘ave.’
Danny felt momentarily bad for the lad—his threadbare combat trousers and scruffy haircut indicated money was tight.
‘Then use mine,’ he said, kicking off his Nike Air Jordans, ‘but keep those on,’ he added, stopping the kid from removing his holey socks.
‘You can return them at the end of the session.’
Having handed out the rest of the basketballs to the group, Connor jogged over to Danny. ‘It’s not going well, is it?’
‘It’s fine.’ Danny forced a smile as he gripped Connor’s shoulder. ‘It’s the first session. They’ve never played before, it’s bound to be challenging. Give it a few weeks and they’ll be spinning the ball around like LeBron James.’
Connor raised an eyebrow. Okay, maybe that was a stretch too far.
‘Have faith,’ he said, his smile convincing as he handed Connor the last ball. ‘Shoot a few hoops and show them how it’s done.’
‘It’s not like I can play, either,’ Connor said, sounding dejected.
‘You’re still better than any of them, and you underestimate your skills, you have good technique.’
‘But I have no height,’ he said, jogging off to join the line of kids waiting to score baskets.
Danny suppressed a sigh. It was true that his brother wasn’t the tallest player on the court, but he still ran rings around the other lads.
Despite shouting instructions from the side-lines, what followed wasn’t a pretty sight.
Balls hit the hoop rim, smacked into the lights above, and threatened to smash the surrounding windows.
They’d be lucky to make it out of there with the place still intact.
The community centre was falling apart as it was, this session might finish it off for good.
When Connor glanced over, his face filled with panic, Danny gave him a thumbs up, urging him on and being the encouraging supportive role model he’d never had in his own life.
As far as Danny was concerned, hiding the true extent of his feelings from Connor was a necessity—even if it was a contentious point between him and Hugh.
It was something they regularly disagreed on.
Hugh was an advocate for transparency, he encouraged honesty and promoted ‘sharing’ as a way of maintaining mental stability.
Danny knew it made sense. A mentally healthy person talked about their feelings, asked for help, and admitted when they were struggling.
Mental health issues were no longer a taboo subject—as evidenced by the posters lining the walls of the community centre, promoting various support groups from dementia coffee mornings to Active Mind classes.
There was nothing to be embarrassed about.
And he wasn’t, not really. He’d just never been forced to assess his own mental health before. Now he had, he’d been found wanting.
Padding over to the bench seat in his socked feet, Danny held the steel work boots at arm’s length. They smelled rancid. Probably how his sneakers would smell at the end of the evening.
A ball rolled towards him and he threw it back to the group, encouraging the lads to keep going, even though Connor was the only one to have scored a basket so far.
Slumping onto the bench seat, he folded his arms, consumed by tiredness and the ache in his hip.
He’d always been too busy to assess his mental state before.
His life revolved around work, caring for Connor, and running a home.
Focusing on his own needs had been a luxury he’d never had time for.
It was only when his life had imploded last year that he’d discovered he wasn’t as mentally robust as he’d imagined.
Something he’d been forced to admit when he’d had a meltdown at work the other day and embarrassed himself in front of the woman he shared office space with. The memory made him cringe.
The image of Elena Romero’s disgusted expression staring at him like he had two heads distracted him so much that he barely ducked in time when a ball flew past and smacked against the wall behind him.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Great work, guys! Keep it going!’ He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, but the American in him refused to be negative. ‘Good team work!’
Therapy was all the rage in the States. It was commonplace, even considered essential.
It was something healthy, sane, and rational people did to maintain balance and sense in their lives.
He understood the theory. If you broke your leg, you got it plastered.
If you had a migraine, you took pain killers.
And if you had the urge to scream, cry hysterically, and battle against a daily urge to wrap your brother in a blanket and never let him out of your sight, you sought psychiatric help.
Only a fool would allow their suffering to continue to the point of insomnia and acute claustrophobia, and still deny they had a problem.
He was that fool, it seemed.
‘Let’s add in some passing!’ he shouted to the group, trying to mitigate against their low boredom threshold. ‘Make your run-up in pairs. Throw two short chest passes across the court before making a lay-up.’
Two kids smacked into each other. Several lost control of their balls. One pass was so vicious it nearly broke his partner’s nose. Danny grimaced. Well, this was a fun way to spend the evening. The things he did for love.
Connor caught a wayward pass and made an almost impossible shot, skimming the ball off the backboard before it swished into the net. Danny resisted the urge to fist-pump his boy. He was the coach—showing favouritism wouldn’t be appropriate.
The fact that Connor wasn’t his kid only made things more conflicted.
He’d brought him up, fed him, clothed him, overseen his education and ensured he was safe, healthy, and sociable.
Biologically, he was Connor’s brother. Emotionally, he was Connor’s parent.
He felt pride, love, and an attachment so strong he’d sacrifice his own life to ensure Connor was okay. And he almost had.
When Connor was young, his needs were obvious.
As a twenty-two year old adult, things were becoming more complex.
Each time Danny felt he should step away from being parental and start being brotherly, he was consumed with guilt and panic.
What was his role now? He had no idea. All he knew was that he felt like he was failing.
‘Okay, let’s switch it up. Vary the throws between bounce passes, chest passes and overhead lobs.’ A ball crashed into a skylight above and Danny flinched, waiting to see if the glass shattered. ‘Keep it at head height, guys!’
Danny checked his watch. Another fifteen minutes to go. He could barely keep awake as it was, he hadn’t slept at all last night.
Hugh attributed Danny’s insomnia issues to ‘unresolved emotional trauma’. Not exactly shocking news. He didn’t need a psychology degree to understand how his parents had messed him up.
He was the only child of strict, religious parents, and the Jacksons hadn’t approved of physical affection or praise.
Instead, they had governed the home with rules, punishments, and constant disapproval.
Nothing met their exacting standards, and whatever Danny did, it was wrong, no matter how hard he’d tried.
So he’d stopped trying. He developed a thick skin, ignored their criticisms, threats and punishments, and withdrew from family life and focused on school instead, counting down the days until he could escape.
‘Nice job, guys!’ Danny clapped his hands, determined never to be as negative as his parents had been.
To say he’d felt alone during his early life was like saying the pope was mildly religious. His parents weren’t deliberately cruel people. They’d never hit him, starved him, or withheld medical treatment. He just wasn’t loved, not in the conventional way a parent usually loves their kid, anyway.