Benecio
The air at the ranch was tense with… tension.
Yeah, I knew that sounded dumb. But I was a football player, not a poet. My job was to run into people, not to describe the weather of my feelings.
Still, I could feel it the second I stepped outside that morning. The whole place was holding its breath, like if one of us laughed too loud the entire house might cave in on itself.
It had been three weeks like this.
Danilo and Pa weren't talking. Not at all.
Pa kept trying. He really did. At every single meal, every morning when Danilo came downstairs, every time he walked past him in the hall. "Son," he would say, with that hopeful, broken kind of voice. "Buck, can we talk for a minute?"
And Danilo would just keep his eyes forward, jaw tight, and walk right past him like he hadn't heard anything.
