by Maya Hughes
“Those were outstanding times out there. How are you feeling about the draft?”
LJ’s face and cheeks were splotchy red as he dragged a towel over his neck. “Feeling as good as any of the guys out here. There’s a lot of tough competition, and I just hope I proved myself out on the field.”
“You killed it, L.” I shouted at the screen. Pride glowed in my chest, shiny and bright.
He’d worked so hard. He hadn’t played up the sideline silliness like he normally did. No grinning or winking. He was stone faced, serious.
I folded in on myself with my arms around my waist, staring at him, larger than life on the screen. An ominous cloud of desolation hung in the air.
“There’s a lot on the line and school is wrapping up for you. Are you looking forward to graduation?”
He dragged a towel down his face, schooling his face even as he sucked in air by the lungful. The light pads he wore rose and fell with every breath.
“Yes and no. There’s a lot to leave behind, but I’m ready to start a fresh new chapter.”
“I’m sure there are a lot of teams out there who’d be interested in helping you with that.”
“I hope so. I’m ready to work hard and do my part on whatever team I’m on.”
“We’ve got the draft coming up in April. Who’ll be coming with you on draft night? A girlfriend happy to see you go pro?”
“No, no girlfriend for me.” There wasn’t a chuckle or a cracked smile. Nothing. Shaking his head, droplets of sweat rained down around him. “My parents will be there. I’m going to make them proud.”
I stopped, stalling, and watched him move on to the next question. Choking on air, my lungs burned and the room tilted, my vision blurring and dimming. I didn’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
“Looks like you let that one get away.” Mom crutched over from the living room entryway to the couch. “Too bad. He’ll be swimming in football groupies by the end of the semester. Hell, there are probably a few there ready to bag themselves a pro player before he signs his check.”
“He’s not like that,” I snapped.
“Neither was your father, but all that time on the road, he forgot who was waiting for him at home. Time it. By the time he gets back here, he’ll be knee-deep in coeds who will do whatever the hell he wants.”
I stared at the screen long after they’d switched to the next position drills.
My skin felt burnt and blistered.
“And his dad’s probably sick again. You should’ve gotten in there while you could. Your welcome mat will be rolled up as soon as the chemo starts up again. Unless maybe they want to take that handy bone marrow again. Charge them this time. He’ll have the money.” She waved her arm in the direction of the screen LJ was no longer on.
Without another word, I left the house, got in the car that smelled like LJ, and drove the well-worn path back to The Brothel. Tears burned at the edges of my eyelids, but I blinked them back. My chest hurt with a deep and heavy hurt, like I was losing a part of myself.
On the drive back, my head throbbed, shoved full of all the insecurities and fears about crossing the line with LJ. Across the bridge, the throbbing against my skull turned to pounding and hammering. I kept my hands ten and two, making it an uneventful drive, except for the pit stop five minutes from the doorstep where I pulled off to the side of the road. I fell out of the car to my hands and knees and puked what remained of the sandwich I’d scarfed down before I left for the hospital.
Sitting against the side of the car, I wiped my mouth and gathered myself with long shaky breaths. I dragged the air into my lungs, climbed back into the car, and made it back to the house.
Inside, I fought against every instinct to bolt. With trembling fingers, I paced my bedroom, phone pressed to my ear, and ran my fingers through my hair waiting for the other line to answer. It went straight to voicemail, and, like no one else I knew under 50, I left one.
I sat, staring at the phone willing it to ring. All my mom’s words screamed through my head, ripping through my skull.
Instead of a return call, a text came through.
LJ: Not a great time. I’ll be back in town tomorrow. We can talk then.
That was it.
With one text, he’d wrecked all the things I’d given him. My friendship. My trust. My love.
I dropped to my bed, fingers curled around my phone and trying to catch my breath.
My vision blurred, adrenaline screamed through my veins, and my sob was locked in my throat.
This was the moment. The moment he left.
Even if he came back on Friday, something had changed, and I should’ve been preparing instead of pretending.
26
LJ
Checking my messages after I left the field had been a mistake. There was one from Marisa and another from my mom. The test results would be back in a few days.
Sitting in a hotel room in Chicago, I was ready to rip the paintings off the walls. He had to be okay. I’d pushed myself harder than I’d thought possible on the field today. My dad’s life might hang in the balance of however many zeroes were on the end of my contract.
I wanted—no, needed to take away all the financial worries that might hit them. I needed to take care of Quinn and make sure Marisa still got her European tour. I needed to take care of them and this was the only way I could do it.
Talking to anyone would only make it worse. Talking to Marisa would make me want to be there right now. It would make me want to max out a credit card to get on a plane tonight, not tomorrow morning at seven am with the rest of the guys and her dad.
He stood right on the sidelines beside the interviewer with the rest of the guys ready to go out onto the field.
I’d gritted my teeth not to let a word slip out about Marisa.
He’d won his championship and taken away Marisa’s chance of a lifetime. She’d been right. He didn’t deserve a second chance. He didn’t deserve a second of her care or attention.
I’d wanted to believe she was wrong, but she wasn’t. Fuck him.
She’d called when I was in the locker room, but I’d been expecting a call from my mom, and her dad had been there with us, going over all the final numbers for the day.
Stewing, I struggled to settle down back in the dry, heated air of the hotel room. At least I hadn’t had to share one. But there would be a worn path in the floor by tomorrow morning.
A pound at the door dragged me from the bench-clearing flood overwhelming my head.
I jerked it open. Keyton stood in the hallway.
“We’re going to get something to eat. Let’s go.”
“I’m not really—”
“It wasn’t a request. Get your shoes and wallet and let’s go. Berk will meet us down there. He’s talking to Jules.”
A silent elevator ride down to the hotel restaurant later, Keyton sat cross from me in a chair while he’d made me take the booth like they were afraid I’d take off and go right back to my room. It wasn’t the stupidest conclusion. I’d thought of trying it the whole time he’d been going over his menus.
The sports bar restaurant had jerseys framed and hung on the walls. Smells of fried food and beer on tap flooded the whole place. TVs on the walls replayed the Sports Center combine results from today.
I sunk down deeper into my chair.
Keyton set down his menu. “Do I need to call Marisa?”
“This has nothing to do with Marisa.”
“You’re only ever a pain in the ass like this when there’s something up with Marisa.” He averted his gaze. We’d kept all talk of me and Marisa and how he’d caught us to a minimum. There were a few times our loud-as-hell beds had probably given us away, but other than that, we’d kept a low profile. Too low.
“It has nothing to do with Marisa.”
Other than me wanting her here. I wanted her with me to tell me everything would be okay and to not freak out until all the tests came back. It was so much
worse when I couldn’t see her or touch her.
“Are you worried about how today went?”
Another row clicked into place on the Rubik’s cube of looming catastrophe. Not only was I dealing with fear of my dad being sick again, but now I could add in a dash of my numbers not adding up to the pro scouts. My stomach, which had been not interested before, now outright rejected the idea of putting anything in my mouth.
“You’ve got it handled. We all saw how you did out there.”
“Who? LJ?” Berk slid into the seat beside Keyton. “You’re a lock, man. First or second round. No nefarious past. No performance issues. It’s not like you showed up late and missed the first half of one of the biggest games of the season or anything.” He shook his head and laughed, gulping down the water in front of him.
At least I wasn’t the only one who’d had a fucked up season. Berk had almost been kicked off the team for fighting an opposing player during the season, but it had all faded away like a mirage, and he’d kept tight lipped about it.
“What’s your assessment of me?” Keyton turned in his chair.
“It’s harder with a tight end.” Berk waited, but neither of us took the ‘that’s what she said’ bait. Read the room, Berk.
“You’re probably looking at second or third.”
Keyton’s shoulders dipped a little. Not with sadness, but relief. “I’d be happy with fourth. I don’t even care. I just want to play.”
Berk spun the laminated half page menu on the table, flicking it with his finger. “Not go on tour with your secret rock band?”
“What?”
“The guitar. It’s not an easy instrument to sneak in and out of the house.”
“I don’t play.”
“What’s the story then?”
The server came over and took our orders. I went with a burger and fries, but there was no way I was going to be able to choke down more than a few bites.
Berk drank some of his soda. “We’re not dropping this, Keyton. Graduation is a little over two months away and you still haven’t spilled the beans. We don’t hear you playing late at night. Is it electric? Or do you only play when no one’s home?”
Keyton’s gaze flicked to mine. “I don’t play. I’m holding onto it for someone.”
“You’re schlepping a guitar around in college for someone.”
“Yeah. No story there.”
Berk leaned across the table. “I highly doubt that.”
But he let it drop. I wasn’t much company for the annoying needling game.
Food arrived and I pushed it around my plate.
“If you’re not going to eat it. I will. All the snacks Jules made for me are gone.” Berk slid my plate toward him without waiting for a reply.
Keyton let out a low, rumbling laugh. “You mean the two gallon-sized Ziploc bags of cookies are gone?”
He shrugged. “I was stress eating.”
“My friends and I were wondering if you’re the guys up there.” A college-aged blonde and two friends stood between Berk and Keyton’s chairs and pointed at the TVs replaying the combine highlights.
“We are.”
“That’s so cool. We’re in town for a national sorority meeting, but our football team sucks, so we’ve never seen any of our players on Sports Center.”
“Well, there was the one time they put up the worst plays of the season and our team made it twice.”
Polite chuckles and half smiles were all they got.
“Can we get a picture with you guys? Maybe it’ll be worth something once you go pro.” They smiled and bounced on the toes of their feet.
Keyton read the table. “Now’s not really—”
Two of them slid into the booth beside me and pulled Berk and Keyton in, cramming the six of us into a seat meant for three.
The quicker we did this, the quicker they’d leave.
After more selfies than I’d taken in my entire life, they left with hints dropped about a club not far from here. Evasive maneuvers and fascination with the nicked and worn table tops were enough to end the interaction which had gone from annoying to painful.
“I guess that’s something we’ll have to get used to, right?” Berk’s uncomfortable chuckle did nothing to raise the stale mood. “I’m going to call Jules.” He threw down some bills and jumped up from the table, rushing off like he was afraid she’d find out he took some pictures with a few overzealous fans.
On our floor, Keyton stopped outside my door. “I hope whatever’s going on with you works out okay. You don’t have to talk about it. I know sometimes it doesn’t help one bit, but we’ve got your back no matter what it is, and Marisa’s the number one lined up for you. It’s hard to find people who’ll go to the mat for you like that.” He rocked back on his heels, turning and walking toward his hotel room.
I sat on the edge of the bed trying not to let all the worst case scenarios eat at me. Things were so close to falling in place. So close to finally being perfect, I couldn’t deal with being blindsided right now.
Back at the house, I ran up the stairs taking them two at a time. I burst into Marisa’s room.
She pretended she didn’t check when I landed, but I knew she did. Only she wasn’t here now.
Her computer, my old one from last year, wasn’t on her desk. She didn’t normally lug it around to classes. It was a brick and a half. And her backpack wasn’t here either, although she didn’t have classes.
Maybe she was studying in the library. But she hated studying there, especially when she had the house to herself.
Me: Marisa, I’m back. Where are you?
A text bubble popped up and disappeared. No message came through.
I called my mom and paced in my room before heading downstairs to sit by the window.
My head dropped and shot back up. I rubbed my eyes, barely keeping them open and checked my phone again.
No response to my message. It was almost midnight.
She never stayed out this late.
Now the scenarios were spinning in my head.
I sent another message.
Me: Where are you? Are you okay? It’s late.
The text bubble popped up again. Some of the tightness clenched in my gut eased.
Marisa: I’m fine.
Me: When are you coming home?
Marisa: I’m not coming back tonight
Me: When are you coming back?
Marisa: Go to bed. I’m sure you’re tired.
Me: Where are you?
Marisa: Out. I’m not responding anymore. I’m fine. Goodnight.
Standing in the center of the living room, I chucked my phone at the couch. Frustration filled every cell in my body. I needed her here. I wanted her here. The only thing that had kept me from losing it with the news of my dad was knowing Marisa would be waiting for me at home.
I’d been ready to drag her to bed. Screw anyone else knowing about us.
“You’re up late.” Keyton sat on the middle of the staircase, staring at me from between the bars.
“Marisa’s not coming home tonight.”
He scooted down a couple more steps. “That’s unusual.” There was a measured tone and cadence to his voice, like he was waiting to see exactly how I felt about that.
Shitty. Angry. Anxious. That’s how I felt about it.
“Did something happen?”
“No.” I scrubbed my hands down my face suddenly feeling all the weight bearing down on my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Is this relationship stuff or something else?” He stood at the bottom of the steps.
“Are we even in a relationship?” I dropped onto the couch and braced my forearms on my legs, squeezing my hands together.
“Not that I haven’t tried to purge the image from my head, but you two certainly seem like you’re more than friends.”
“I want us to be. I’ve wanted us to be, but she’s throwing up road blocks every step of the way.”
“Maybe she’s scared.” He li
fted one shoulder. “When people are scared they do some crazy things. Terrible things they wouldn’t normally do.” A haunted look crossed his face.
“What is she scared of?” I looked to him, wanting someone to have answers to the questions roaring in my head.
“That’ll be up to you to find out.” He patted my shoulder and headed back upstairs.
I interlocked my fingers at the back of my head and stared out the window at the quiet street outside. Tracking her down was the first thing on my list, but fear gripped my heart. The stakes had been raised. The results still weren’t back from my dad and now Marisa was gone. I couldn’t lose two people I loved, and there was only one I could do something about. I wasn’t going to give up without all the answers I needed.
27
Marisa
“Marisa?”
I shot up from the comfy leather couch in the Art History department, shoving the blanket behind me. “Professor Morgan. What are you doing here?”
She stared back at me, taking in the limited sprawl of my things with her keys gripped in her hand.
“What are you doing here? Are you sleeping here?” There was no censure in her tone, only concern.
“No, of course not.” It didn’t even sound convincing to me. Not with the overstuffed backpack, bedtime ponytail and blanket bulging behind my back.
She tilted her head.
My shoulders sank and I slumped back.
“How long have you been sleeping here?”
“Only one night. I came in after the cleaners left on Friday. I figured I’d have the weekend to figure something out.”
“You don’t have anywhere to go?”
“Not really.”
She picked up my backpack. “Come with me.”
“I swear, I’ll leave right now.” The last thing I needed was a write-up for crashing in university offices or something.
“You’re not in trouble.” She slung the backpack onto her shoulder. “I have a guest house you’re welcome to stay in. You’ve had the worst luck with living arrangements, haven’t you?”