I rub my frozen hands. “No tackling.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, he asked.” I point at Davis. “I’m telling you no fucking tackling.”

Davis gestures to me with the football. “How about light tackling?”

Really. “How about none?”

“Learn to compromise, man,” Davis tells me like he’s the wise older brother here. “It’ll solve a lot of problems for you in life.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Light tackling is fair game.”

Hunter jumps up and down and cracks his knuckles.

Bile rises in my esophagus. Being here. Outside. Alone with them. Why did I put myself in this situation?

It’s on me.

They’re my family.

It’s still on me.

I don’t want to see them again… But they’re my family.

It’s still on me.

I war with my thoughts, unable to decide where to place blame other than myself. It’s all I can think, even as Davis tosses me the football.

Run, I think. Move your fucking feet or drop the ball—something. Anything. But I’m frozen, and Hunter sprints towards me. He goes in for the tackle.

His full weight rams into my chest, his elbow driving in my ribcage, and I land with a violent thump on my ass. God, motherfucker!

I wince through my teeth, my tailbone searing, the snow not bracing impact with the hard ground. Tears sting my eyes—but I refuse to fucking cry in front of them.

Hunter pushes his knee in my stomach on his way to a stance. I cough hoarsely, and he grabs the ball from my loosened clutch. Far too easily for his liking.

Anger surges in his eyes. “Why do you have to give up? It sucks playing with you, man. You’re worse than a fucking girl.”

Say hello to my misogynistic brother. I try to catch my breath and glare up at him. “Then don’t play with me.” I cough again. “I’m fine with that.”

He growls in frustration and swings his head to Davis.

Davis gives me a look. “You’re too sensitive. Stop being weak shit. Get up.” He gestures for me to rise.

I am weak shit. I feel it.

Sucking in a pained breath, I rise off my shrieking body that screams for me to run away. Flee. Flee.

Flee.

My hands are numb from the snow. My stomach is in knots. Like I might actually puke in a second. I stare right at Mitchell.

My twenty-three-year-old brother hangs back. Behind both Hunter and Davis, and I think, can you please…

Help me.

Mitchell stuffs his hands in his jacket. And he drops his gaze to the snow.

Right.

I rub my nose that drips from the cold.

“We’ll be defense,” Hunter says, tossing the ball to Davis.

Not again. “Look, as fun as this was,” I say sarcastically, still trying to catch my breath, “I have work tomorrow—”

“Don’t be like that,” Davis says.

“Like what?” I snap, my pulse accelerating again.

He shakes his head, pissed.

Hunter cuts in, “You’re such a little bitch.”