Taste of Commitment (Whisky and Risky #2)

2. Knox

Knox

The first rays of morning sunlight cut through the shutters in my living room, casting strips of hazy light across the hard oak floors of my house. A house that I haven’t been home to in years. The sounds of birds chirping and calling to one another fill the home. I pause in the space between the living room and kitchen, listening for a moment, and when I spend the time really focusing, I can hone in on the heavy willow leaves swaying against the breeze.

Day six of listening to the sounds of Stoney Meadows countryside coincidentally falls on day six of avoiding listening to my own thoughts.

“Knock knock. Rise and shine.” My dad’s flat voice sounds from just outside my front door, pulling me back to reality.

“Put some clothes on, and let’s have a talk,” are his only words when I open the door. I snag my jumper from the couch, gritting my teeth at both the pain and the humility that comes from how my body now moves with this injury. I robotically slip my casted arm from the sling, awkwardly working the jumper onto my body and pulling the sling back over my head. Every time I’m forced to do the simplest of tasks, I’m reminded of where I’m at.

And where I’ll never be again.

I meet my dad out on my wrap-around porch, where he sits on one of the wooden chairs, drinking his coffee and looking up the hill towards the main house. I saw him for the first time in over a year the day I got home, but I haven’t seen him since. Nothing has changed, though. He looks the same to me this morning as he did before I left eighteen years ago. A few more fine lines sprinkle his face, and his hair is more grey, but other than that, he’s exactly the same.

“So, what’s up?”

“It’s time to get back to work.”

I pause, halfway down onto my chair, and my eyebrows bunch together when I whip my head towards him. “With a broken arm and shoulder?”

“I’m not asking you to bail the hay,” he grumbles. “Patrick’s wife had a baby. He’ll be taking the week off to be home with her.”

The last time I was home, Patrick was working as a tour guide with the sole purpose of meeting and wooing women. “Okay.” I rub the back of my neck. “And what exactly does Patrick do around here again?”

“The night shift.” Since when the fuck do we have a night shift? I guess add it to the list of things that have changed around here. “Don’t look so sour son, all you have to do is man the front desk from ten p.m. to six a.m. for the next week.”

“I’m not sour, I’m confused.”

“Well, you look constipated.” I sigh, dropping my head back, and stare up at the porch roof. “Besides, I think it will give you a chance to figure out what it is you actually want to do. ”

“Meaning?” I ask, with a clenched jaw.

“Meaning you’ve been home for almost two weeks now and you’ve left this house twice.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.” His brows raise and alright, I deserve that look. I was never the one with a bad attitude. That was always Ryder’s claim to fame.

“Look, son.” He heaves a sigh as he leans forward, pushing himself from the chair. “You got dealt a shit hand and you’re allowed to be pissed off. But you can’t hole up in this house for the rest of your life. This ‘mad at the world’ act isn’t you.” He holds his coffee in one hand and slides the other into the pocket of his worn jeans. “You’re gonna heal, Knox. But you can’t throw everything away while you’re waiting.”

I love my dad. James Browning is a devoted husband, an incredible worker, and a wonderful dad. But as I stare up at him from my chair, I realize—he doesn’t get it.

I don’t blame him for not understanding. I haven’t talked about any of it. But if this were just about an injury and spending a few weeks healing— that I could live with. That wouldn’t ruin my life.

I zone out watching the blades of grass sway in the wind while my father takes the steps down my porch. “Liam came by,” he says over his shoulder. “He dropped some supplies off this morning, and had no idea you were back in town.” Piss. He’s got me there, I should have reached out to my best mate by now. “Your mom is over the moon that you’re back, and Knox, you know you’ll always have a place here.”

“Are you not?” I interrupt him. He turns back around to face me and at his raised brow, I clarify. “You said Mom was glad I was back. Are you not?”

His weathered hand scratches his jaw carefully before he responds. “If I thought you were happy to be back, then yeah, I would be. But you need to figure out if you can be happy here first.” He raises his mug and dips his head to me before turning back towards the main house.

I run my fingers through my overly-grown hair a few times before gripping the bathroom sink and staring at my reflection in the mirror. Unlike my dad, I’m starting to recognize myself less and less. It’s hard to say how he would handle or react in this situation because he’s never been in a position of losing everything. He’s never lost his purpose, the thing that makes him, him.

Until your entire identity is ripped away from you in a single moment—I don’t think he or anyone could ever understand what that feels like.

I turn the shower on with more force than necessary, and for the first time since I’ve been home, I really allow myself to question why I’m here. When I left my London flat, it felt like the most logical decision at the time. I didn’t have a life outside of my team, and the longer I sat in my empty living room, the more my thoughts spiraled. But what was the point of coming back here? To be the bellboy? Knox Browning, World Rugby Men’s 15s Player of the Year and Two Time World Rugby Cup Champion at your service.

The scalding water beats over me, and I close my eyes, dropping my head. As if I’m right back in that dry blue hospital bed I see the moment my life was ripped away from me, clear as day.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” The voice of a man I’ve heard every day for the last ten years sounds alarmingly different. It’s the same heavy British accent, but I’ve never heard it laced with so much concern. I move to sit up, but his large hand presses to my left shoulder. “Easy, KB. Relax.”

“What happened?” My throat is dryer than sandpaper.

“You took a bad hit.” No shit. “Your shoulder broke, almost tearing completely through the skin. I rode with you in the ambulance where you were in and out of consciousness for a while before you were rushed in for emergency surgery.” It sounds brutal and I’m glad I have no memory of any of it. “The doctor should be back to talk to you soon.” His eyes are heavy, pained. I briefly wonder if it’s him who’s injured and should be lying in this uncomfortable bed.

“What’s the recovery time look like?” A deep sigh escapes him, and he runs his hands over his bald head before bringing them in front of him and cracking his knuckles. The popping sound is deep and momentarily distracts me. When he’s done and still hasn’t said anything, I narrow my eyes at him.“How long?”

“You’re done, Knox.”

“For how long?” This isn’t my first injury—hell, it’s not even my first surgery, but the heaviness in his eyes is starting to concern me. “Coach.” There’s a slight nod of his head as if he’s answering the question I refuse to ask. A deep roar echoes in my ear and the beeps of the machines around me begin to accelerate. I can’t tell if the dizzying feeling around me is from the meds or what he’s saying.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No.”

“Knox, trust me, buddy ? —.”

“No!” I stop him. “I’ll do the rehab and have the surgeries, you know I will. Whatever it takes.”

“I know you would. It’s not about that, Knox.”

“I’ve recovered from worse.” Nausea rises in my throat and I know it has little to do with my condition.

“When you were twenty. You’re thirty-six now. ”

“I’ve still got four to six years left in me!” The machines continue to beep louder as I move again, but my body is fully drained, and I can’t even crunch myself up to sit.

“You know if there were any other way, I would find it. Unfortunately, this is how the cards fell. A career-ending injury doesn’t mean you—” I succumb to the heavy weight of my eyelids, drop my head against the flat pillow, and tune him out.

One hit. One fucking hit and I’m done. They’re just words at this point because I can’t even muster the idea of them. You’re done. The words float around until the darkness consumes me.