Defender (Seattle Sharks 9)

“You know we love each other, right, Mom?”

“Oh, I know it. You two are the halves of the same whole. Love has never been the issue. It’s liking each other that I worry about nowadays. I’ve already lost one of my boys, and I’m not fond of the other two struggling to fake it over Christmas.”

My heart clenched, just like it did every time Nicholas came to mind.

Before I could answer her, the familiar rhythm of Nixon’s footsteps on the back stairs had me turning toward the door. Sure enough, my brother barreled through, offering Mom a quick smile.

“Morning,” he said as he kissed her cheek.

“Hi, honey.” She handed him the coffee I thought she’d made for herself. “You two drive safely, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” we answered in tandem, and I left the second smoothie on the counter for when Harper would wake up in a few minutes.

Ten minutes later we headed out in a two-year-old GMC pickup, blaring the heat to combat the Minnesota cold.

“Damn, this thing has one hundred and twenty-five miles on it,” Nixon grumbled from behind the wheel. We hadn’t argued over who was driving. Being twenty-two minutes older, he’d always claimed that privilege, and I’d never cared enough to argue.

I laughed, earning me a hefty glare from my brother. “What? You peeved that you bought Dad a brand-new truck and he won’t drive it?”

“They sure as hell live in the house you bought them. Do you know how many times I tried to buy them a house those first years?” His jaw flexed. This was a sore subject and always would be.

“I didn’t ask. You were always better at that. I just bought the damn thing and told them it was already in their name, so it would be wasteful to let it sit there empty.” I looked out the window as the familiar landscape passed. There was something comforting about coming home. Something here that connected me to who I was behind the glitz of the jersey.

“I did that.” He motioned to the dashboard. “He still doesn’t drive the damn thing.”

“He figures his will die eventually, and the one you bought is brand-spanking new for that day. He’s saving it.”

“Saving things is a fucking waste,” Nixon muttered. “Life is too short for that shit.”

I looked at his profile, identical to mine except for our subtle differences. We were both fit, of course, but I was leaner where Nixon was packed with muscle he needed for the NFL. I liked to think I didn’t have the permanent asshole expression, either. But that came with being so jaded you might as well paint yourself green.

“You okay? Mom’s not here. No bullshitting.”

He glanced my way before concentrating on the snow-covered road.

“Same as always. But if Mom asks then I’m right as fucking rain, do you understand?”

So he was definitely not okay. Sometimes I hated that we were on opposite sides of the country. There was only so much you could do over phone calls. Sometimes you needed the physical facetime to break through with him. He’d always taken on too much, and that came with taking in too much, too.

Burden of the oldest, I guessed.

“Yeah, I got it,” I answered. “You happy in Carolina?”

“I’m happy anywhere I can play,” he answered as he turned onto Andrews Drive. “I kind of have to be, right?” he ended softly.

“No.” I shook my head. “You’re not obligated to be happy. You’re not obligated to play.” The truck pulled through the wrought-iron gates that haunted some of my nightmares, and Nixon took the turns we both knew blindfolded until we pulled up in front of the white marble that marked Nicholas’s grave. “You’re not obligated to live for him.”

He killed the engine and looked past me to where our little brother was buried. “We both know that’s easier said than done.”

We both climbed down from the truck and trekked through a newly fallen six inches of snow to get to Nicholas.

Then we stood there, six feet above where our brother lay, and stared at his tombstone.

“You remember the call?” Nixon asked, his voice gruff.

“Yeah. Not sure I’ll ever get it out of my head.” The sound of Mom screaming in the background was permanently etched in my memory.

“Every time Dad’s number shows up on my phone, I flinch,” he admitted. “I debate not answering it.”

“I keep thinking it will be you,” I answered with the kind of blunt honesty that only existed between us.

His gaze snapped to me. “What? Really? You know my gear is way better than his was.”

“Can’t help it. You play the exact same position, Nix. That hit he took…” I shook my head. “Fuck. It was his first week of practice. Those division one boys are big, we both know it. But still, he took a hit. That was it. The helmet wasn’t good enough, his brain bled, swelled, and now thirteen other people are walking around with pieces of our brother inside him. And you play the same sport, with bigger guys.”