Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill Read Free Book Online

complex—excelling at sports, developing good study habits, and preparing for a successful career. You can’t start too early.
    I tilt my head toward Ava. “I tried to give Jack some motivation out there. Told him to get his head in the game and focus.”
    My wife raises an eyebrow. “How’d he take that?”
    â€œAw, he’s a trooper,” I say. “Look at him now.” I point out to where Jack is driving down the field, passing back and forth with his teammate.
    â€œIt’s important for him to know that I care. That I’m watching,” I add. “I’m here at the game, cheering him on.”
    Ava nods and gives me a small smile, then hugs Sam to her chest. “Both of your boys love you.”
    I reach out, squeeze her fingertips, and lean close. “I won’t be like my parents.”
    It’s a story Ava has heard a million times. In the solar system of all relationships, my mother and father resembled an off-kilter sun and planet, each rotating on its axis, but never in complete alignment. Too close, get burned. Too far, freeze to death.
    When the pressure became too great for my mother, she imploded. My father, a great athlete, escaped by lecturing me on sports and conditioning. When on leave from the army, he’d take me to my own games, talking strategy and technique until he dropped me off at the locker rooms.
    If I succeeded, I’d get a smile, a slap on the back, or a wink. If I failed, my punishment was silence. Black and deafening. For days. Which is why I challenge Jack, talk to him, motivate him through my words and my presence. I’m here. He matters. We’re a team.
    I can’t become my father. It has to be different this time.

CHAPTER 10
    GRAHAM
    FRIDAY, MARCH 26
    My nephew scored his first goal tonight. He’s elated, and his team’s dominating the field. He made striker this year and is clearly a valuable asset to the forward line.
    I grin, clap, and whistle, making the shrill pitch sound over two soccer fields.
    Truth be told, this soccer game is my first crack at any social life in Mobile, Alabama, outside my nephew’s birthday party. I scan the crowd for my brother, but it’s halftime and he’s buried ten people deep.
    It’s a warm afternoon, even for March, with the air off the Gulf of Mexico hanging thick and heavy overhead. The sky, painted postcard blue, is punctuated only by the occasional wisp of clouds. I lean against the trunk of a thick oak, my hand gripping the rough bark. My knee throbs from standing so long. For the millionth time, I curse my next-to-useless joint and dig in my jeans for Advil. The concession stand is close, and the sweet, spicy scent of grilled hot dogs fills my nose. Balanced out with a tall, icy cold Coke, it’s the closest I’ll get to heaven this morning. At least that kind of temptation won’t get me in trouble with anyone, except a cardiologist.
    And I don’t need problems. Of any kind. Yeah, I know. I’m different. A paranoid lawyer with a conscience. If you’re asking why, the long version is complicated, but the quick answer is Vicodin. Those pills could erase Mother Teresa’s devotion to Calcutta. Convince a person to sell his soul.
    I know, because I did it. Ruined everything, had my law license suspended. Managed to keep my Harley and worked my ass off to regain a shred of self-respect. Thanks to my brother and Narcotics Anonymous, I’m clean two years, three months, and one day.
    After a torn ACL playing flag football on spring break from law school, I got hooked on pain pills. Because my grades were stellar, I still managed to land a job at a big downtown Birmingham firm. The salary paid for my habit until the day I showed up to try a case under the influence.
    It was only through the grace of God that one of the partners noticed and sent me straight home. His caveat? Check into rehab that week. I was later politely and quietly