Fifteen

FIFTEEN

REN

When I take a few minutes to scroll social media while lunch cooks, I realize that it's Thanksgiving. This explains why Felton took off this morning. Without asking, I imagine he went home.

Which only leaves me concerned all day. I've briefly witnessed how his father treats him and I've heard from him how it makes him feel. I spend a lot of time checking my phone to see if he's reached out.

But by that evening when I'm heading to bed, I haven't heard from him. Hopefully that means he's doing well. Maybe he's taken a step to put some boundaries in place. Maybe that's led to them hashing some shit out and moving in a better direction in their relationship.

Something inside me says that's not what's happening. But there's also nothing I can do about it.

I'm woken up to a loud noise. Disoriented, I sit up just as the doorbell rings and then the pounding follows.

Tapping my phone, I check the time. It's barely two-thirty. Rubbing my eyes, I get to my feet and head for the door. I'm both unsurprised and surprised to find Felton there. He looks… awful.

"I'm sorry," he says as I blink to see him clearly in the light of the porch lamp. "But I didn't know where else to go. I think I'm going to pass out."

He's shaking so bad, he's leaning against the side of the house to remain upright.

I reach for him, pulling him inside. He's not steady on his feet. Fuck, he's not even wearing shoes!

Without comment, I bring him further into the house, sitting him on the couch and wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. He's not seeing me. I'm not sure what he sees, but he's barely here right now.

"Please tell me you didn't drive like this," I say.

Felton shakes his head.

Thank fuck for that. "I'm going to get you a drink. Don't move."

He nods. Stilling almost entirely except for his shaking. God, did he witness a murder?

I return a few minutes later with a hot cup of tea and push it into his hands. There's no comment as he drinks. No argument. No fight at all. But he's still trembling when he's done.

Now, I know I told him I'd help him, and I definitely want to, but I'm completely out of my element right now. What am I supposed to do? Does asking what happened help or not? Does it make him relive it or get it off his chest?

Unsure about the talking aspect of this moment, I wrap an arm around him and pull him to my side. His entire body drops against me. He's a big boy, so because I wasn't expecting a dead drop, we fall backwards and sideways.

Smiling, I decide to roll with it, and I somehow manage to get him onto the couch so we're laying together like lovers. Felton's head is on my chest, his leg draped over mine. It might have been a sweet moment except that he's still shaking.

Sighing, I run my fingers through his hair. It's instinct to babble that he's okay. That everything is fine now. But I'm not sure that's true, and I don't want to lie. I don't want him to fall into a false sense of security.

"Want to talk about it?" I ask.

He shakes his head, but words tumble from his mouth. Most of them don't make sense in context from one sentence to the other. Hell, I think he changes thoughts entirely in the middle of a sentence sometimes. One thing doesn't clearly lead into the next.

What I can gather is that he went home for Thanksgiving and his father is a piece of shit. He spent time celebrating a four-year-old's participation trophy, a first grade second-place spelling bee, among other things, and always managing to put down Felton while doing so. Sometimes there were indirect jabs. Other times, there were direct assaults.

It also sounds like other members of his family tried to make his father stop. They were always neutral—never speaking for or against Felton and his actions—but they kept trying to get his father to let it go. But he refused. Or he'd change the subject as if abiding by their wishes, only to bring Felton down in the next subject they talked about.

"Where's your mother in all this?" I ask at one point, which is apparently a mistake because he seems somehow more upset.

I'd have thought that he'd tell me she had passed, or they were divorced, or something. I'm disturbed to know she's there and silent. Completely and utterly neutral. Rarely says much of anything at all.

Part of me wonders if his father is abusive. Is that why she's quiet? I almost hope that's the case, otherwise she's as much an awful parent as her husband. Sitting by while your husband verbally abuses your child and you do nothing for whatever reason, puts you at just as much fault as he is. Not that I want her to be abused. Absolutely not.

It's quite a while later when I realize Felton has stopped talking. He's stopped shaking too. When I shift slightly to look, he's asleep.

Unlike when I left him the other day, there's no peace on his face. He's not relaxed. Even in sleep, I can feel his stress. I can see it in the way his eyebrows are pinched and his lips are pressed together. His arm around my waist is tight, gripping me as if I'm the lifeline that's keeping him from drowning.

I'm afraid that I'm not quite as prepared for this battle as I thought I was. When I told Felton I'd help him, I thought he was just… bored? Even when he started opening up, I thought maybe I could help him find his inner strength. I'd help him get into a better spot in his career with a better agent, I'd help him focus on what's important, I'd teach him the tools he needed to put some personal boundaries in place.

It's clear now that this is much more complicated and runs a lot fucking deeper than anything I know how to deal with. Now I'm not sure what to do. Telling him to seek professional help is likely going to rub more salt into his plethora of wounds. I'll just be another person who thinks he's beyond help.

Maybe I need to find some help so I know how to help him .

My mind wanders down different avenues to find help without forcing him to do something he doesn't feel comfortable with or he's not ready for. Before I realize it, I've fallen asleep and am startled awake when Felton shoots upright.

The frantic look in his eyes has me reaching for him and bringing his attention to me. He's gasping, shaking again, but when he finally sees it's me here, he relaxes. Warmth spreads through me that I'm able to bring him at least that.

"I thought I was still there," he whispers.

"No, Fel. You got here early this morning."

He nods, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have called first. Or… not just shown up. I wasn't sure where to go and I needed to be with someone."

"You're welcome to come here. But can I ask you why you chose to come to me?" I ask.

He sighs and shrugs. "You're the only one who knows what I go through with my father."

"You're close to Dasan and Willits. You haven't told them?"

Felton shakes his head and shrugs again. "They know I don't have a good relationship with my family, but we leave it at that. I don't like to burden people with my personal issues."

My hands are still on his face, so I find that I'm rubbing his cheek softly. "Friends do not find you confiding in them a burden, Felton. I would wager that neither Dasan nor Willits would feel that way."

His body sags a little. I'm not sure if it's from more weight stacked on top of him or relief. He yawns and then apologizes through it.

"Come on. Let's get you into bed for a while so you can catch up on sleep."

Felton lets me get him to his feet, and I'm relieved to see that he's not still shaking like he was last night. I lead him back into the spare room that he'd been in two days ago, only it's put back together as my guest room with the furniture back in their places and all the sex paraphernalia put away elsewhere. Plus I've aired it out so it doesn't smell like some guy just got his guts rearranged four times.

"There's a bathroom here," I tell him, pushing a door open a bit so he can peek in. He glances and nods before falling to the bed.

He's far too big for it. Seeing him laid out nearly has me chuckling since he's hanging off the end. But he curls up and I bring a blanket over him, tucking it in around his body. Closing the curtain to block out the light as much as I can, I bring him a bottle of water and set it beside the bed before kneeling next to him.

Felton yawns again.

"Sleep. I'll make sure you're up in plenty of time for the game."

He nods, his eyes fluttering closed.

"You're in goal tonight, aren't you?"

He nods again, his eyebrows knitting together.

I run my fingers through his hair. "Sleep. Don't worry about it now. Just catch up on your rest."

I'm not sure if he wants me there or not, but I stay until he falls asleep, gently smoothing my fingers through his hair. My gaze is locked on his face, reading every little movement and muscle twitching. I can tell when he's thinking of something unpleasant and when those thoughts fade away. I know the moment he falls asleep, though his expression doesn't smooth out again. Even in sleep, he's hurting.

After a few minutes, I leave the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I don't want to leave him for my morning run, so I stick with the treadmill today, even though it's not nearly as satisfying without the crisp air against my skin. Opening the window my treadmill is facing only helps a little.

When I'm finished, I check on him before heading to the shower. He hasn't left my mind all morning. Hell, he hasn't left my mind since he was getting railed by my friends. One man should not consume my thoughts like this.

I prepare a protein shake and go about my morning until I'm ready to prepare lunch. While I do, there's an internal debate on whether I should wake Felton up to eat or not. Since I made enough for two people, I decide he needs to get up to eat. Which is only the responsible thing to do since he needs to consume some calories in preparation for tonight's game.

He's still fast asleep when I step into the guest room and kneel next to him. I don't speak, but gently brush my fingers through his hair again. It's soft. Smooth. After a minute, he stirs and his dark eyes blink open.

"Hey," I say. "I made some lunch, and you need to eat so you have some energy for the game tonight."

Felton sighs and nods. Silently, he gets up. I watch him veer off from following me and into the bathroom. Since it feels creepy to wait in the bedroom for him, I meander in the hall. My excuse is simple—I've never shown him around my house. I've led him to this room and the living room, but both times he's been here, he hasn't exactly been in a clear state of mind.

Not that my house is enormous. He'll likely find me easily enough.

My internal debate ends when Felton steps out of the bedroom. His shoulders relaxing when he sees me has me convinced that I made the right decision.

Generally speaking, I eat most of my meals at the dining room table. Otherwise, why have a dining room at all, right? Our places are already set with a large stuffed sandwich, full salad, small bowl of cottage cheese, and I made a protein shake for Felton to make sure he gets enough in his diet today.

There's a soft smile when he looks at what I've prepared for him. For a few minutes, during which I watch Felton devour his food, we don't speak. But eventually, he looks up, eyes meeting mine. His cheeks are slightly flushed.

"I'm really sorry for showing up here like I did this morning," he says.

I shake my head. "It's fine. I'm just glad you didn't drive."

"No. I drove home from the airport, but don't remember it. So when I realized I couldn't be alone right then, I was smart enough to order a rideshare."

"Good." I wait until he's eaten a few more bites. "Do you have your phone on you?"

Felton's hand disappears, and I imagine he's checking his pockets. He nods.

"You said that you snuck out in the night, right?" Felton nods. "And no one called when they didn't find you there?"

At first, his shoulders stiffen, but they relax again. "My battery died as I climbed into the rideshare. It's still dead."

"Ah," I say, feeling slightly better about that. What kind of parent would find their child gone and not be concerned? Even if they are an adult child.

Then again, I've already come to the conclusion that he has shitty parents.

"You can plug it in while you sleep some more," I tell him.

His chewing slows as he stares at his plate. When he swallows, it's almost audible. "I kind of don't want to turn it back on."

I nod and am ready to support that except for something important. "That's your only line, isn't it?" Felton nods again. "The team needs a way to get in touch with you. Even if it's through email. Do you have a tablet?"

"Yeah," he says. "At home."

"How about we set you up with a messaging app on there so the team and management can get in touch with you. And we'll make sure everyone knows to email you any kind of important communication. But that means you need to be checking your email regularly."

He nods.

"Easier still, we can block your parents' numbers."

"Can't they see that?"

"Kind of. It'll just go to voicemail."

He winces.

"I think there's a feature where you can turn voicemail off. But even with your phone dead, their calls are going straight to voicemail."

"But I can't see that when my phone is dead."

"I'll tell you what—when you're done, you can go back to bed if you want to and we'll talk about it later. No need to concern yourself now. All you need to do is concentrate on your mental health so you're ready for tonight's game."

Felton nods. I don't want him to feel like I'm only concerned with his performance tonight—honestly, hockey isn't a concern at all. But we're all in the same boat. We compete for our positions. We can't just take mental health days when we're not feeling like coming in.

He doesn't need to be worrying about his job right now.