Page 201 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
The entire scene does something dangerous to my chest. Because suddenly I can picture this too easily.
Peyton here. With me. Permanently.
The thought hits hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
Before I can spiral further, movement near one of the folding tables catches my attention.
A little boy stands alone, clutching a juice box against his chest. He looks to be around seven years old. His eyes flick over the scene, panic lining his face. And when he shifts, his sleeve slides up.
My jaw clenches as I see the bruises. Fingerprints line one small wrist.
Ice floods through my bloodstream.
Every sound around me dulls. The smile disappears from my face.
I know those bruises.
I know what fingers pressed too hard look like.
I automatically move toward him.
The kid startles slightly when I crouch in front of him.
“Hey.”
His eyes dart downward, fear on his face.
Something old and ugly shifts violently inside my chest. “What happened to your wrist?”
The boy freezes. “Nothing.” The lie comes automatically.
And suddenly I’m not standing at a charity event anymore.
I’m ten years old again.
Watching my father slam a beer bottle against the kitchen wall while my mother flinches.
Rough hands grab a hold of me, leaving marks on my skin.
Hearing the words, “Don’t tell anybody.”
Not just a threat, but a promise of more pain if I do.
My jaw tightens hard enough to hurt. “Did somebody grab you?”
The kid’s breathing changes slightly, becoming faster. His round eyes are panicked.
Before he can answer, a man appears behind him suddenly. He’s large, with broad shoulders and dark hair.
“Ethan.” He puts his hand on his shoulder.
The boy jerks at the contact.
Fear flashes across his face before it disappears so fast that most people probably wouldn’t notice.
But I notice.
Oh, I fucking notice.
