by Hughes, Maya
Wouldn’t you know it? My sheets were absolutely not in the box. Mystery stains and a balled-up sweatshirt would have to do.
The front door swung open and slammed shut sometime later. Jules pushed up her glasses with the back of her hand, her travel pole in its bag slung over her arm, backpack on her shoulders.
“Damn, you look like shit. I’ll make brownies.”
Her go-to solution for any situation was exactly what I needed right now.
She peered out the front window. “There are a ton of people out on the sidewalk blowing up condoms like balloons. What’d I miss?”
2
Nix
A year and a half later
There were no sounds other than the blood pounding in my ears. The fans were on their feet in the stands, mouths open, yelling and screaming, but the noise didn’t make it to me. I called out the play and my heart seemed to slow. Each beat was drawn out for seconds on end.
Fulton U flags, banners, and jerseys were a living, breathing tapestry covering the rows of the stadium. The band had taken up their spot in the student section of the stands, but no one played now. Their trumpets and other instruments were clutched in their hands as they waved them in the air.
Sweat rolled down my neck. The ball was snapped, and the pebbled leather smacked against my hands. Exhale. The line of scrimmage broke. The linemen from the other team rushed toward me, out for blood, their eyes trained on me, searching for the smallest opening. Big glowing numbers counted down to zero on the scoreboard on the other end of the field. One last play. One last time.
The Fulton U line held, and I spotted our wide receiver twenty yards away. He darted across the field, more determined to get open than he’d been all season. Keyton had been drilling his receiving for months until he could catch balls with his eyes closed.
Reece, one of the best players on our team, had at least three guys swarming him. In any other game, I’d have thrown it to him. No matter what, he came through in a pinch, but it was Keyton’s time.
My fingers tightened on the ball. The leather dug into my fingers in a familiar pattern I’d memorized over the years. Time to put it all on the line. One. Last. Time. I pulled my arm back and whipped it forward, letting the ball loose. A twinge shot through my shoulder.
The second the ball left my hands, the roar of the stadium filled my head. Blocking it all out was easy when I powered up the laser-focus so I didn’t let my team down. As I stared at the ball spiraling through the air, someone dug the remote out from between the couch cushions, cranked up the volume, and set it to ground-shaking level.
That’s probably why I didn’t see the hit coming. Someone slammed into me—a late hit after the ball was gone. I flew through the air just like the ball I’d released a second earlier. But I wasn’t headed for the hands of our second best receiver. No, I went up and over, flipping through the air and my shoulder got drilled into the ground. The wind was knocked from my lungs. Every gasp felt like learning to breathe again. The burning ache punched at my chest and my shoulder throbbed.
“Stay down, Russo.” Johannsen’s bitter words didn’t change the fact that this was the final play.
I could tell his body loomed over mine, even with my eyes closed. Losing was exactly what that dick deserved. Most other guys we played were cool, but the St. Francis U team was our biggest rival and it brought out the uberdick in most of them—Johannsen, in particular.
I forced my eyes open, Berk—who’d never let me down on a play where he was on the field was trying to pick himself up off the ground with three defensive linemen on his back.
His gaze darted to mine. The anger at the dirty play raw and bare on his face.
I gave him the best approximation of a smile. It would be okay. My gaze shot to the spiraling ball.
And there was silence. The ball sailed through the air, and the only bodies moving in the whole stadium were on the field. I kept my eye on it, unable to look away. A crush of bodies blocked my view. The pass slammed into Keyton’s chest. His arms wrapped around it and he spun, darting for the end zone. The living, breathing animal that was our fans came alive again.
He pulled the ball in tight against his chest, pulled out some spin moves we hadn’t seen all season, and ran it into the end zone. The entire stadium lost their minds. They’d be able to hear the sound from Jersey.
Berk, an offensive tackle, held out his hand to me and helped me up off the ground. My shoulder throbbed, but that didn’t compare to the screams and shouts booming off every object in the stadium. Our team bench was cleared. Water bottles, towels, helmets, and jerseys were abandoned on the sidelines as everyone rushed the field to celebrate. I stood in the center of the chaos and stared into the stands, soaking it up. I looked downfield at my teammates piling on top of one another. Unsnapping my helmet, I pulled it off my head and committed every inch of it to memory.
Leaving this team behind wouldn’t be easy, but nothing in life was permanent. We have to soak up what we can when we can.
* * *
Was it possible to pull a muscle from smiling? Because I grinned at Johannsen as his team lined up to shake our hands under the falling confetti shot from cannons that lined the field.
“I’d have gotten you next year.” He glared, squeezing my hand too hard, but it didn’t hurt. I was untouchable right now.
“You won’t get the chance.” I was graduating and he still had another year to run the gauntlet. Hopefully, Berk and LJ would kick his ass next season right along with the rest of the Fulton U team.
We stayed out on the field for the post-game interviews and trophy ceremony.
After hundreds of games from the time I was seven, two surgeries, and more physical therapy sessions than I could count, I’d done it: a national championship, the first at Fulton U in nearly two decades. My dad barged down onto the field, practically throwing elbows to get to me, and tugged me in for a huge bear hug.
“Good job, son.”
“Thanks, Dad.” My grin could’ve been seen from a space shuttle.
“Wonderful game, Phoenix.” My grandfather slipped through a gap in the sea of celebrating bodies.
“Gramps! You’re here.”
He wrapped his arms around me and patted me on the back. “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
Dad grumbled something under his breath and shot a look at him.
Gramps held on to my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You played so well out there, better than I’ve ever seen before.”
“It’s the only time you’ve seen him before.”
“I’ve seen him play.” Gramps shot my dad a look. “Amazing display, and now that the season’s over, you can come by the restaurant more.”
“He has better things to do than hang around that sweaty, hot box.”
Gramps rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you soon. I need to get back before the dinner rush is over.”
Dad crossed his arms over his chest. “Leaving already.” It wasn’t a question.
“The kitchen calls.” Gramps tugged me closer again. “There’s a chocolate chunk salted caramel surprise with your name on it.” He let go of me and grinned before disappearing back into the swelling mass of shrieking teammates and fans on the field.
“He never sticks around.” Dad stared after his retreating form.
“He’s busy.”
Dad scoffed and shook his head. “Great game, but it could’ve been cleaner. We can talk about that tonight.”
Of course we would. Wasn’t like I’d have a choice. Sometimes I swore I got even longer post-game breakdowns from him after a win than a loss.
“The whole team knows they’re invited, right?”
“They’ll be there.” Like they ever turned down one of his invites. The storied history of Phil Russo…he was always generous with his praise of everyone on the team—except me—and they always took his advice like it was spoken through a beam of light shining down on them from heaven. None of them knew what it was like for
that advice to be an endless stream of how you were continually not measuring up.
One of the reporters recognized him, and he started his own little press conference on the field. I was used to it by now.
The locker room was chaos piled on top of euphoria. Even though Coach would probably castrate anyone he found drinking, the smells of beer, Icy Hot, and athletic tape permeated the room. The championship trophy with confetti stuck to the wooden base sat in the middle of the space. My fellow seniors and I were going out on a hell of a high note.
“Is your dad sure he wants to host us tonight? I don’t think we’re exactly upper crust material.” LJ, my roommate and a safety who’d had my back on that field more times than I could count, rubbed his towel over his brown, curly hair.
I slipped my arms into my suit jacket. “You forget who he was before he was Phillip Russo. I’ve got a call to make, and then we can head over.” Grabbing my bag out of my locker, I slung it over my head, wincing as it landed on my shoulder. It seemed my knee and shoulder wanted to be a matching set. Figures. I ran my hand over it and squeezed to alleviate the pressure.
“And why don’t you look happy about this?” Reece, my fellow senior and best friend, stared at me with his eyebrows dipped down low like he was trying to figure out if I was having an aneurism.
“Tired, that’s all. The adrenaline crash is real, but don’t worry, I’ll be good in a few.”
“Hell yeah you will be! And you want to know why?” Berk jumped on the bench and started his own off-key and much too energetic rendition of “We are the Champions” for the seventh time.
I stared at them all through the slowly closing locker room door. Big smiles, towels snapping, and the kind of camaraderie that existed when you’d bled beside one another on the field. Damn, I’d miss them.
They spilled out of the stadium and we piled into my car. Berk pushed the buttons on the radio, cycling through stations until he found a song he liked, but LJ threw out his veto and it started all over again.
“Enough,” I shouted and jammed my finger into the power button, blanketing us all in silence.
“Jeez, I liked that one.” LJ sulked in the back.
My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Do you want me to turn this car around?’ was on the tip of my tongue, but going to this party on my own would be more of a punishment for me than for them.
We piled out of the car at the valet and headed to the restaurant to meet my dad, who was of course not at Gramps’ place. As far as I could tell Dad hadn’t set foot in there since my mom died.
I pushed through the doors with the guys behind me—and was blinded by the cascading wave of camera flashes.
Blinking to erase the spots dancing in front of my eyes, I was pulled into a bear hug.
“There he is, our national championship quarterback and future number one draft pick, and the rest of the first-round picks.” Dad held out his arms, gesturing to the rest of the Trojans in his best Vanna White impersonation. “Let’s get these boys some drinks.” He clapped Reece on the back, and oversized glasses of beer appeared in everyone’s hands like magic. “And there are more than enough ladies to keep you guys entertained for the evening.”
I glanced behind me. Reece blanched as the women approached, looking like he was ready to run for cover. LJ took a step back, and even Berk kept his eyes trained on his glass.
The swarm began, but this party wasn’t his normal booster schmooze session. It wasn’t just former players and team donors along with the women. There were lots of guys in suits who looked suspiciously like agents, which would still technically be against the recruiting rules.
“Hey, Dad. What the hell is going on?”
He pulled me in for another hug. “Giving the guys a head start on recruiting. Gotta maximize those dollars.”
My jaw ticked. “This could get them in trouble with the NCAA.” And I was the team captain. Screwing the guys over at the eleventh hour was out of the question.
“Who do you think will trade to get the first pick for you? I know you want to stay in Philly, but going up to New England could launch your career,” someone called out.
Laughter rippled through the room. Suits, lots of suits—agents everywhere. It was like he’d put in a call with every agent in the entire country.
Business cards were slipped into my hand with every handshake.
“I feel like I’m on display at a meat market.” Berk came up to me with his hands over his chest like he was hiding his imaginary boobs. “Is this what women feel like when they go out?” His eyes darted around the room.
LJ leaned over our shoulders. “Except with these guys, you wake up the next morning wondering what the hell you did and forty percent of your future potential earnings have evaporated.”
Dad waved me over from across the room. After another round of introductions, he grabbed another drink.
“I’m headed to Tavola tomorrow,” I told him. “You should stop by.” With the season going the way it had and my classes, I hadn’t been able to visit in way too long, since back when I had practically lived there.
Dad scoffed like he always did whenever I brought it up. “You know who I don’t see here tonight to congratulate you on your win? Your grandfather. Never could pry the old man away from that place, no matter what.” He took a gulp from his tumbler, the amber liquid swirling in his glass.
“It’s Gramps’ life’s work.”
Dad snorted. “You think I don’t know that? I know that better than anyone.”
“Don’t start. It’s awesome you’ve come to all my games, but he can’t always swing that.” My fingers tightened around the cold, metal fork.
“Try never.” His face darkened before he drained his glass and wiped away the storm clouds. “Tonight isn’t the night to discuss this. It’s a celebration. You’ve got football in your blood. You’ve devoted your life to it. You play as well as you have been and you’ll be an MVP in your rookie year next year, write your ticket to whatever you want to do.” Dad shoved an hors d'oeuvre into his mouth and smiled for a picture, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Now, let’s go over what went wrong and how you can make sure you don’t make those same mistakes next time.”
With a play-by-play notated on his iPad, which he’d had someone bring over, I was given excruciating details on how exactly my national championship win could’ve been even better. The veins in my neck throbbed and my blood pounded in my veins. I yanked at the tie around my neck. Every fucking time.
“Nix,” my dad called out behind me.
I didn’t stop—couldn’t stop. Men in suits clapped me on the back and tried to get in a word, but those words stalled in their throats when they saw the look in my eyes. I’d paid my penance in blood and sweat out on the field for him. I’d run myself into the ground and kept coming back for more. If this wasn’t enough for him, was there anything that would be?
I shoved open the doors to the restaurant, leaving my coat behind. The biting January weather sliced right through my sweater and blazer. I didn’t know if they’d been warned or were just lightning quick, but the valet pulled my car up to the curb the second my shoes hit the pavement.
My dad had bought me the sleek black Mercedes S-Class when I’d won the high school state championship. If it hadn’t been so damn cold, I’d have left it there and gotten it in the morning. I climbed inside and headed back to the house. Reece, LJ, and Berk had been smart and ducked out over an hour ago, ready to get to the real party with their pockets stuffed with the cards of every agent under the sun.
There was sure to be a party in full, brain-melting swing when I got there. There always was, no matter how much none of us wanted to party.
Sometimes it was easier to go along with the tide than to fight against it. I’d learned that once again tonight with my dad. If you fought it, sometimes you drowned. That was me right now, flailing and flapping. Somehow I needed to figure out how to get him to see what he wanted for me and what I wanted wer
e never going to be the same thing.
I’d left it all out on the gridiron.
* * *
The floor vibrated beneath me, straight through my mattress. Sweltering heat from the party filled my room, and even with the window open, the stifling air stalled in my lungs. I flung the ball up and it nearly kissed the ceiling. Old scuff marks dotted the paint job. There goes my security deposit. Escaping the party hadn’t been as easy as I’d hoped. Before, I’d never had any issues going with the flow of the celebrations that popped up in our house whether I wanted them there or not, but on this night, I needed a break.
I didn’t want to kill anyone’s fun, but right then all the noise and the people crowded my head, creating a simmering stew right along with my dad’s words. ‘Good job, son.’ After all this time and all I’d accomplished, that was the best he could do. Even undeniable victory was wrapped in a shroud of criticism.
My arm whipped back. The pebbled surface of the ball dug into my fingers as I squeezed it harder, my blood pounding in my veins. Maybe it was because I’d had way too much to drink. Maybe it was because I’d yet to receive a ‘Good job, son’ without a hint of a ‘but’ in the distance. I launched the ball like I was back in the stadium. Instead of leaving a nice security-deposit-revoking hole in my wall, it burst through the screen on my window like a showgirl making her grand entrance. The metal mesh glittered in the moonlight, and the sound broke through the body-shaking rumble from downstairs.
There was a second shattering pop and I rushed to the broken window, peering outside. The short, party-ending, whoop-whoop was accompanied by the flashing red and blue lights of a police car idled curbside. The splintered mosaic of what had once been his window had been blasted all over the ground. Shards of glass bounced across the sidewalk as the cop’s head snapped up to my window. Please not the township cops. Please not the township cops.