“Stop, man,” I choke. I’m stumbling to catch up with my own goddamn head, and I try to pry off his stupid arm.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Hunter goads.

I attempt to elbow his ribs—he slams a fist in my kidney. I cough.

Davis laughs. “Still can’t get out of it?”

Acid drips down my throat. I didn’t realize I was supposed to become a fucking wrestler.

Hunter laughs with our older brother, then he looks over at Mitchell, who’s busy grabbing his Columbia coat from the hook. Acting like he sees nothing.

Hunter messes my hair with his knuckles, digging hard. Burning my scalp.

Davis snatches his coat while I’m still struggling to remove Hunter’s bicep from my windpipe.

I don’t have time to reach for mine. Because Hunter forgoes his own winter jacket. Front door open, he exits into the cold night in a preppy sweater and collared shirt—forcing me outside with him.

I almost slip on the fucking icy steps, and he’s still crushing my windpipe. So by the time Hunter lets go and pushes me into the two-inches of snow with only my thin hoodie—I’m livid.

I land on my knees and hand. Body shaking, anger barely warming me in the chill. Picking myself up, my chest rises and falls heavily and my breath smokes the air.

“Come on,” Hunter says like I’m a three-year-old kid crying over spilled milk.

I’m not crying.

“Fuck you,” I sneer.

Davis tosses a football in the air. “He’s just playing around, Garrison. Lighten up. It’s the holiday.”

I swallow hard. Cool. “I’m grabbing my coat—”

Hunter blocks me, his chest puffed out against mine. “What do you call this?” He fists my hoodie.

I slap his hand off me. “Don’t touch me.” My heartbeat hammers my ribcage.

He laughs. “Come on.” When he sees I’m serious, he shakes his head. “Don’t be such a pussy. You don’t need a fucking coat.” He spreads his arms out to illustrate that it’s not cold, and how he’s also without a winter jacket.

My speeding pulse is now in my throat. I tear my eyes off him, and I lift my gaze to Mitchell, who zips up his teal Columbia jacket—he looks away from me.

Not doing a fucking thing, per usual. It’s hard to blame him, but it’s easy to hate him.

Davis pats my back.

I tense more. We’re adults, and I still can’t figure out a good exit strategy from “bro time” with my brothers.

“Boundaries are the edge of the property.” Davis points the football between all of us, his younger brothers. “Two-on-two. Mitch and Hunter versus Garrison and me. Tackling is fair game. You okay with that Garrison?”

Hunter smirks. “Or are you going to pussy out like you always do?”

I stare at my brothers. Davis. Hunter. Mitchell. All in their mid-to-late twenties now. And I’m not seventeen anymore.

I’m not a kid.

But they’re still bigger and taller than me. Still treating me like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. Something to pull to achieve whatever the fuck they’re after.