by Ginger Scott
“And what if the results today come back and Duke’s cleared to start Sunday?” I pull my lip in at Jim’s last question. We all know that won’t happen, but he’s pretending because it puts that thought out there. What if it’s between me and Duke? Who gets the start now that I’ve shown what I can still do?
“Well, I guess that’s a question for Coach. And I’m pretty sure he was clear about not answering things about the future, so good luck with that conversation, Jim.” I wink at my old reporter friend, and he points his phone at me and winks back, turning the recorder off and taking his seat.
He’s already got his lead—he probably has his story completely written, minus the few bits I just gave him to fill in for quotes. He cowers back into his seat, balancing his notebooks and stat sheets on his jean-covered knees and begins to feverishly type with his thumbs on his phone. I miss the days of paper.
Coach Simms clears his throat as he takes over the mic again. I breathe easier when my ass hits the chair, glad my time is up. With his bald head reflecting the camera lights, Coach delivers seven or eight more perfect answers that will get sliced up and shown over and over again for the next week. With Duke going down, we became the big story in sports. Even with the blowout of a game over a team we were supposed to beat, we’re still newsworthy.
“Thanks, guys.”
I jostle from my trance hearing coach virtually end the press conference, and I file out behind him and the training staff. I lift a hand to Jason in the hallway but keep going where I know I’m wanted next. Everyone peels off one by one, but I follow Coach all the way to his back office, shutting the door behind us once we get inside. He goes right to the leather sofa in the middle of the room, kicking his shoes off with his toes on his heels and flopping down and folding his arms over his eyes. His sweatshirt lifts enough to show the white undershirt covering his belly, and he moves one hand to his waist to unbuckle his belt and give himself a little more room to breathe.
“I’m too old for this shit, Reed.”
I laugh as I sit back into the chair opposite him, sinking in so deep I might need help up when we’re done.
“That’s what that guy on Lethal Weapon always says.”
“Yeah, well he’s right. This is a young man’s game.” He starts to rub his thumbs into his temples, and it moves the loose skin on the side of his head.
I let him rest for a few long seconds, wishing I had the patience to wait longer. I don’t, though. I’m teeming with curiosity. I need answers.
“What are we looking at, Coach?” I ask, expecting more of a reaction from him. His breath remains steady though, his eyes closed and his hands still working to rid him of a headache. His mouth twists a little, like he’s thinking.
“He’s done for the season,” he finally says, and my chest lights up with the beats of a thousand butterflies.
I run my palm over my mouth, not sure if I should smile or vomit. Done.
“Tear?” I ask, already knowing.
He tucks in his chin, a crease forming at his neck as he lifts his head enough to meet my gaze.
“Double tear. He’s fucked.”
The butterflies drop dead; my lungs feel thick all of a sudden. Breathing instantly gets harder.
I’ve never been one to be affected by other athletes’ injuries, but that was all before. Now, it is impossible not to internalize what happened to Duke and imagine how my own legs feel. I can feel the tear, the throbbing, as I imagine that linebacker wrapping me up and driving me into the ground. I can hear the sounds the body makes when it’s breaking.
I smell the hospital, taste the meds, feel the heavy drowsiness and despair.
“Fucked, huh?” I respond finally.
“Yup,” Coach says, lying back and folding an arm over his eyes again.
I hide in the solace of his office for a few more minutes then finally pull myself from the comfortable hug of the chair and make my way to the door. It’s a posh office—everything in here new, like the rest of the building. There isn’t anything very personal in here, which makes me think Lowell isn’t planning on putting down roots. There is a photo on the wall by the door, though. It’s him and Trig, and I stop to honor it for a few seconds before opening the door to leave.
“Get some rest. We’ve got a lot of work to do,” he growls behind me.
“Right,” I answer, turning around before closing the door behind me. “See you at the service?”
He lifts his head again and meets my eyes. We linger in our connected gaze for a long breath, and finally he gives me a little nod. I leave him to nap and dream of what to do next. That’s about as rattled as that man gets, and I can’t help but wonder if Trig would have been all right if he just would have had Lowell around to give him advice when things got really bad. He was always Trig’s favorite coach, and they were a team for seven years. Maybe the best team in the sport for the last decade.
Duke Miller’s shoes aren’t the only ones I’ll be filling.
I texted Nolan immediately. I finally took a breath when she wrote back a full minute after. I made it through meetings with management, with Jason, with the small team of people that work with him who said I apparently have sponsors interested, and then I agreed to whatever Jason suggested because, ass-hat or not, he always has my best interests at heart. It’s freeing to let him make decisions.
I kept checking my phone, comparing the time that passed with Nolan’s one-word text: K. I told her I would call soon. That was two and a half hours ago.
OK.
It’s such a short response. She’s been waiting for a long time. I doubt anything is okay.
I climbed into my Jeep and ducked low in the seat so nobody felt the urge to stop and talk to me on their way out. I finally called as promised. I’ve been passed around to everyone in the house, shocked they’re all still up, given that it’s almost midnight for them. I’m staring down one o’clock.
I knew Nolan would be up, though. I’ve run out of people to congratulate me, and Peyton lost interest several minutes ago. Nolan takes the phone in her hand and tells everyone else goodnight while she climbs the steps with me on the line. She doesn’t talk until she’s in our room, and I picture her climbing into our bed, a giant sweatshirt, leggings, and those fuzzy socks she lives in on her feet.
“How are you? Really?” Her breath buzzes against the line as she settles into bed. I sink lower in my Jeep, wishing I was joining her.
“I don’t know.” There are a lot of answers to that question, but that one seems the most accurate since I don’t know which answer is the most right about how I feel right now.
“Leg feel good?” She means neck, and back, and head.
“Yeah, it hasn’t hurt in a while. I didn’t have to scramble much.”
“Liar,” she says with a giggle.
“There were a few plays, yeah…” Really, though…today was nothing. She knows it too. It’s about next week, and the week after; that’s what she’s thinking about.
“So, no celebrating with the boys, huh?” Her tone is guarded, like she’s forcing herself to be positive.
“They didn’t need a chaperone. And I’m fucking beat,” I say through a yawn. It sparks one in her, and I wait for that small little humming sound she makes at the end of her yawns. I barely hear it, but it’s there, and I smile.
“Duke’s done; isn’t he?”
She knows. We’ve been through this enough.
“Yeah,” I say.
Silence fills our connection for a long time, long enough that I sit up and glance at my surroundings in the mirror, relieved to see I’m not the only car in the lot still.
“I’m looking at an extra six or seven mill, Jason says.” I know she isn’t interested in the money. It’s never been about that. I’m not sure why I brought it up, other than needing something to say. It’s probably only going to piss her off.
“Mmmm,” she says.
Yeah, she’s pissed.
“Nolan, we knew this was a possibi
lity.” I wince at how that came out, and I try to fix it fast. “I mean… I’m sorry. I wish I could have given you warning, but…”
“It’s fine, Reed. I’m glad you’re feeling okay, and that your leg doesn’t hurt.”
“Don’t do that.” I shake my head and draw my lips in tight. She’s saying so many things without saying anything. I hate it when she does this.
The line grows silent again. I notice a bright stream of light in my mirror, so I check to see what it is. A few coaches are leaving the offices, and I know that means Jenkins is on his way out soon, too. If he sees me, he’ll want to go into strategy right away. I’m too tired to retain any of that, and I don’t want to leave Nolan.
I crank the engine and back out, turning the wheel with one hand, then make my way onto the main road through the city, deciding to take my time getting home.
“You were really great.” Nolan’s compliment startles me. I wasn’t expecting her to talk, let alone say something complimentary. It takes me a few seconds to respond.
“I’m rusty.” I puff my chest with a laugh replaying mentally how many major fuck-ups I made.
“You’re modest,” my wife says. She means it. I can tell.
“Thanks,” I say.
I chew at my lips, wrestling with what I want to ask her, but knowing we have to talk about it. We had plans.
“So, Thursday…” That’s when Trig’s service is. Originally, we were going to meet there, then drive on to L.A. I’m going to need to be with the team a lot more now, though. That road trip isn’t going to be possible. My leash just got a whole lot shorter.
“I guess I’ll meet you at the service.” She’s already assumed so much; she’s given up on any time for us to be together. That’s not okay. Before she can say she’ll fly back home from there, I take advantage of the one thing I have in my back pocket—my brother. At the very least, he owes me for keeping his proposal plans secret. Maybe it’s more of a leverage thing than owing thing, now that I think about it.
“Jason is going to take you with him…from Santa Fe. You’ll fly with him.” I shove my hand in my center console in search of anything paper. I settle on a napkin from God knows where I stopped on the road on my way to Oklahoma. I find a Sharpie next, bite the cap off and write the word JASON really big. I throw the marker and the napkin on my dash so I have to see it; so I remember to call my brother and let him know I just made all sorts of plans for him—plans that require him cashing in some miles and upgrading a few plane tickets.
“Reed, it’s okay. We’ll be together…”
“When, Noles?” I interrupt her because she’s just going to go back to that complacent place, and I need her to fight right now—for us. Hell, be pissed at me even. Let it out!
“You’ll have the Arizona game, and maybe I can get up to Oklahoma once or twice.” She knows that isn’t going to happen, and I don’t even have to question it out loud. She exhales, and I imagine her body sinking more into our bed at home, defeated tears stinging her eyes red.
“Jason has it handled. We talked about it.” I lie, but this is one of those good lies. I need to sell it like a deal that’s done, and a pain in the ass to undo. “The tickets are bought, Nolan. And me and you…we need this. You know we need this.”
I hear her breath hitch. I lower my volume and pull off from the main road into the golf club where my condo is. I slow enough I can hear the crickets outside. She’s never even seen this place. She’d probably love it here.
“Nolan, I can’t do this without knowing we’re good…solid.” I slide my palm with the phone along my forehead as I slow to a stop just in front of my place. I lean against the steering wheel and close my eyes to prepare to beg.
“Please, Nolan.” It comes out a whisper, and I can tell by the faint, but choppy, breaths on the other line that my girl is crying. I hate how hard this is.
“I don’t know if I can see it. I don’t know if I can handle the game, Reed,” she says.
“So, come to L.A. Fuck, just go shopping when you get there. I don’t even care if you enter the goddamned stadium. Just…Nolan, just be with me. I’ll see you in New Mexico and then a plane ride later. I’ll see you before the game, and after the game.”
“When you’re all bruised and broken,” she chokes out.
“Baby…” I murmur.
The silence takes over again. I focus on the crickets and the smell of wet grass, rolling hills that chew up golfers during the day and fuel wild coyotes in the night. Why couldn’t I have been good at that damn sport?
“I’ll come,” she whimpers. Everything about her promise is so unsure.
“Yeah?” My heart beats in my throat. It’s hope pumping in my veins. If we can just have time—time alone to be us. I know it will be okay.
“Yeah,” she echoes. “I’m not promising anything…about the game.”
“That’s fine,” I answer fast. I need this guarantee she’s giving me. I need her.
“Okay. Tell Jason to let me know what to do and where to go. I’ll see you Thursday.”
“I love you, Noles.” I look up at the open sky—black, speckled with stars and a sliver of a moon big in the middle, like a bowl trying to catch diamonds. “I’m nothing without you.”
“I love you, too,” she says, ending the call so she can hide the sound of her tears in her pillow.
I sit out here and imagine it, probably exactly as it plays out a thousand miles away. I wish I could hold her—rock her and tell her it’s all going to be okay. I honestly don’t know that it is, though. Today was a fluke. I got lucky and got a defense that wasn’t prepared for me. Duke and I run things differently. L.A. is going to know what they’re getting, though. They’ll be gunning for me. And that means this tired-ass body needs to be ready right back.
And my girl needs to be on my side, even if she doesn’t watch a single play.
Chapter Eighteen
Nolan
Peyton wanted to come with me. She knew Trig, or at least the version of him he was before he retired from the game. I think if we all lived in the same place for longer, she and Shayla, Trig’s oldest daughter, would have been good friends.
Now that I’m here, though—faced with packed rows and somber faces and waving programs staving off this sweltering heat in an auditorium that really should have better air—I’m glad she’s missing this. Some things don’t need to infect a mind, and seeing the massive hole Trig left behind won’t help her. She’s better with the glorified memories that will only get better with her imagination.
Reed has been here for a while now. He drove in to spend time with Trig’s family before the service. He’s wearing a suit. He’s both handsome and unnatural-looking. It’s not the right time for me to be thinking this, but I mentally go there for just a little bit as he walks up the aisle toward me and Jason. His jacket collar is folded in. It’s a common problem for him, because his arms never fit in the sleeves very well. I can’t get him to visit a tailor; he always insists on just buying whatever’s on a rack. I think one fitted suit would change his world though. Maybe in L.A.
L.A.
I force air into my lungs through my nose. I haven’t been able to get a full breath in days. Sarah said I should just start smoking pot. She just wants me to get a medical license so she has one more thing to snake from my drawers and cabinets. She got over being embarrassed or angry or whatever, and I’m glad because I need her now.
Reed stops a few feet short of my reach and lets out a breath of his own. We’re so similar, how we carry the weight of our worlds.
“It’s so unbelievably good to see you.” Those familiar warm eyes are sad, his lids heavy from a lack of sleep and the responsibility he feels for this day.
“It’s an amazing turnout,” I say, stepping into him and sliding my arms where they go, under his arms and around his body. My head falls into his chest and his chin lands above me. I’m protected everywhere. This is what safe feels like.
“It is. The girls can’t q
uit crying. It’s so awful, Noles.” He presses his lips to the top of my head and holds them there.
“We should take our seats,” Jason whispers close to us, resting his hand on my back.
Soothing music has started from the organist at the front of the church. I let go of my hold on Reed’s chest as my hand automatically drifts to his. My fingers weave with his and I hold on tight as he leads me to the front rows of the church pews. He brings our fisted hands to his mouth as we walk and hugs my arm close, kissing my knuckles. I glance at his eyes when he does, but they are focused on our path ahead.
Reed is scared.
We slip into a space that’s been saved for us in the second row. I recognize Stacia quickly. She twists in her seat and reaches her hand for me, so I bend down and embrace her. Divorce doesn’t make something like this easier. Her girls lost their father. She lost the man she began motherhood with. And as ugly as their relationship had become, there’s always love in there somewhere. All those good memories…
“Thank you so much for coming, Nolan.” She speaks at my ear, and I can hear the raspiness in her voice. She’s been crying. Her girls are all sitting in a row next to her, their knees pulled up to their chins, arms wrapped around their legs, heads buried in their laps and hidden so they can cry without anyone telling them to stop.
They shouldn’t have to. Now is the time to cry. I want to fix everything for them. This entire room of people does, I’m sure of it. But there is no fixing this. This will change them.
“I’m so very sorry, Stacia. If there is anything I can do…” That’s what people say, I suppose. I don’t finish it because I know there isn’t. I also know she would never ask. If she did, though—I would come to her side. Anything.
My chest seizes, as it has done periodically ever since we got the news, because I can’t help but switch places with this woman and picture my life in the same circumstances. Life without Reed is not life.