Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  She’ll find someone to give it to her or sell something to get it.

  The sight of her rips every shred of emotion from me—anger, disgust, sorrow, resignation—just like it does every time we’re back in this space.

  And it’s been too many to count.

  “Maggs,” I say, disappointment flooding through me. “Long time no see. Apparently, it’s been long enough though for you to start using again.”

  “I am. I was. Things got tough,” my sister explains as she remains in a perpetual motion of twitches and feet shifts and neck jerks.

  “I see.” My sigh is heavy enough for the both of us. “And by tough, you mean what? The last check I sent you ran out? The one that was supposed to help you with living expenses but, from the sight of you, went to other things?”

  “Don’t you stand there and cast judgment on me, Drew. Not you in your fancy house, perfect life, and all your money. You don’t get to judge me or look down upon me or—”

  “You had a good run. I’m proud of you,” I murmur as I try to remember what her sponsor from her last rehab stint instructed me was best to say to lessen her agitation. As I try to bite back the anger that eats at me with each and every passing minute. “Is everything okay? What do you need?” We’ve played this delicate game more times than I care to count.

  Maggie stares at me as she zones out for a second. I’m used to this from her, but the seconds give me time to study my sister and despise her even more for everything she didn’t become.

  My once gorgeous sibling is now a shell of herself. Her hair that used to be glossy and the envy of her friends is now brittle and dull. Her model-worthy cheekbones now look like harsh angles. Her full lips are cracked and hiding stained teeth.

  “If I ask, you’ll get mad.”

  “Try me.”

  I shut the door at my back and lean my shoulder against it. The last thing I need is Brexton coming out to this shitshow and having to explain yet another Bowman family embarrassment.

  “What is it you need?”

  She dances on her toes and then rocks on her heels, all the while her hands are continuously touching her face, her hair, her arms. It’s a dizzying constant that has to be exhausting. “Do you think you could spare some money? Please, Drew? Could you help me out?”

  “What are you using this time? Meth? Crack? Or have we moved on to heroin?” My voice is as cold and flat as my expression.

  “Does it matter? I just need a hit. Just something to take the edge off and then I’ll be able to think clearly.”

  “When’s the last time you used?” I ask, trying to get as much information as possible to give to her sponsor.

  “It was just today. Just yesterday. I swear.” Panic flutters in her voice and desperation owns her eyes. “I had some bad news. My job. I lost it. I was down and needed the pick-me-up.”

  I nod as if I care, nonchalant despite the fury coursing through my veins.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I were stronger. I wish I could beat this but I swear to God, Drew,” she says as tears well in her eyes and defeat mirrors her posture. “It has its claws in me and no matter how hard I try, it keeps dragging me back down. I promise I’ll go back to rehab. I promise I’ll get better. If you’ll just help me tonight.”

  Do I give her the cash and enable her? Do I push her away knowing she’s going to find her fix somewhere else—somewhere most likely more dangerous?

  The same questions I ask myself each time.

  The same difficult answers each and every time.

  “Please.” She gives me a smile. She doesn’t realize she looks like a broken clown with makeup smeared beneath her eyes. “It’ll be the last time I ask.”

  “Until the next time.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t asked about her once, Maggs. Not once.”

  “I know she’s okay.”

  “You do? Is the high so important you’ve lost sight of what matters? Like, your three-year-old daughter? You know. . . Charley?”

  “I love her. Don’t you dare accuse me of not loving her.”

  What a waste. The thought runs on repeat as I look at her, and then think of the angel of a little girl who deserves so much better.

  How is it that one thing, one event in time, started the slow demise of a family? It’s like a ball slowly gaining speed and power, trying to take out everything that it comes in contact with.

  I think of Charley and the life she deserves, of the mother she deserves, and I take a step

  toward my sister, hating myself before I even speak. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to do whatever it is you’re going to do tonight . . . and then tomorrow afternoon, your sponsor is going to meet you at your house. From there you will check yourself back into rehab.”

  The first tear spills over. “I don’t know if I can go back there. I don’t think—”

  I step toward her and put my hands on her shoulders, holding her body still. “You can and you will. I’m not giving up on you, Maggs.” My heart aches in my chest at the empty words even I don’t believe anymore. “And we’re going to get you better, okay?”

  She nods enthusiastically. “But can I have some cash for tonight? Please. I won’t ask again.”

  “I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t. Just like I didn’t last time. And the time before that. It’s clear the money I used to pay your rent only allowed you to use whatever cash you made to buy drugs . . . so obviously we need to make some changes when you get out of the program this time.”

  “Drew. Please.”

  I enter the house but she doesn’t move. She used to fight me, try to push the door in, but there’s resigned sadness to her this time that tells me she knows better.

  “Good night. Tomorrow, I’ll have your sponsor call you to set up a time. And if you don’t show, then I’ll make sure you never see Charley again.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” she screams.

  “Try me.”

  Without another word, I shut the door in her face and rest my own forehead against it. The bleak, downtrodden, and desperate image of her is ingrained in my mind and, just like every other time my sister walks away, I wonder if it’ll be the last time I see her alive.

  Fuck.

  I thought this last time was going to be the time.

  I thought this last facility would be the final one.

  However, just like my sister, I don’t understand the claws that own her either.

  BREXTON

  “EVERYTHING OKAY?” I ASK AS Drew comes onto the patio but the sight of him—a strained smile and taut shoulders—tells me whatever the raised voices were about isn’t okay.

  “Yes. No.” He chuckles. “As okay as it’s ever going to get.”

  “I’m assuming that’s cryptic and that’s all you’re going to give?”

  He takes a long swallow of his beer and gives a quick shake of his head. “Pretty much.”

  The mood has shifted. The sexual tension that was vibrating between us no less than fifteen minutes ago has all but dissipated.

  I wish I hadn’t picked everything up and cleaned the dishes while he was outside, because it’s awkward and I have nothing to do.

  “Well then,” I say as I rock on my heels and chuckle nervously when he falls silent with a pensive expression. “I guess I’ll be going. I’ve already hijacked enough of your evening. I don’t want to take any more of it.”

  He stares at me for a beat, as if it’s taking a second to register what I’ve just said. Then he takes a few steps toward me. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know—that was Maggie.”

  “Your sister?” My voice escalates in pitch as I think of all the fun the two of us used to have. Not to mention all the trouble we got into as well. “How is she? How is . . .” But his expression stops the words on my lips. “Drew? What is it?”

  He shakes his head and takes another long swallow of his beer. “Remember when I said the past is the past and we don’t talk about it?”
he asks in a definitive tone, and I nod. “That’s exactly what that was.”

  I stare at him, blinking, wondering what he means. Obviously, even though I knew her in the past, she’s still here now. “Sure. Okay. I don’t . . . okay.”

  And then it dawns on me. While I’m here and he’s fine with it, maybe he doesn’t want his family to know I’m here. Maybe that would tear open a wound to the past he’s not ready to confront with them yet.

  Especially when, who the hell am I? Just a woman who stopped at his house and invited herself in for dinner?

  It’s not like we’re dating or anything.

  Why would he tell Maggie that I’m here and cause a rift?

  “I’m going to grab my purse then,” I say and throw my thumb over my shoulder before heading inside to find it.

  Drew follows.

  A part of me hopes he’ll tell me to stay. That we can sit back down at that table in the backyard, fall back into that easy camaraderie we had, but I know the moment has passed.

  And even worse or weirder or whatever you want to call it, I’m confused on why I want to so badly.

  He watches me silently as I grab my purse and slide the strap over my shoulder. “I’ll walk you out,” he says.

  “No need. I can manage on my own.” I offer him a smile that I don’t think reaches my eyes and head for the door.

  “Brex. Wait,” he says just as my hand reaches the handle. When I turn to face him, I’m surprised to see him so close to me. “Thank you for stopping by. I had a good time catching up. I apologize for this.” He waves his hand in the space between us. “Maggs is Maggs. I need to stop hoping she’ll somehow be different so that I stop being disappointed when she isn’t.”

  I don’t understand what he’s talking about, but I smile and nod. “The only person you can control in life is yourself, Drew. You know that.”

  “I do, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Thank you again.”

  “Maybe we could do this again sometime. Finding friends who knew me when are few and far between most days.”

  I nod, trying to not be miffed by the friend comment, and smile softly. “I’d like that.”

  And I would. There’s something about him that makes me remember how easy life used to be before adulthood happened.

  “’Night, Bratty Brex.”

  “Good night, Dreadful Drew.”

  This time when I walk away, he lets me.

  But after I climb in my car and glance back at his house, he’s still standing there in his doorway watching me.

  I wave and drive away with a crush that has been rekindled. And that’s all it can remain. My heart has been hurt so many times before that I wish it were more jaded, because there is comfort in spending time with a friend who knew you when.

  DREW

  “YOU REALLY SHOULD KEEP YOUR front door locked,” I warn as I stride into my parent’s house irritated at how my evening has turned.

  “Drew. Oh.” My mom claps her hands in front of her where she stands in the kitchen when she catches sight of me. “You paid us a visit.”

  “Anyone can walk right in here.” I walk toward her and press a kiss to her cheek, noticing and grateful my father is nowhere in sight. “We live in a good neighbor—” But when her eyes meet mine her words fade. “Drew?”

  “She’s using again.”

  Her sigh is as audible as the shake of her head is resigned. But it’s her eyes widening that tells me she gets my gist. That she understands that Maggie might come by only to steal something to feed her habit.

  Some things are like clockwork in this family and that’s one of those things.

  “How do you know?” Ever the mother, she shakes her head as if she rejects what I’m saying. Maggie could never do wrong in her eyes and even all these years later, it’s still hard for her to see otherwise.

  But I looked like him. I played the same sport. It was much easier for her to shift blame on me.

  “She came to my house asking for money.”

  “I see,” she says quietly. “And you did what?”

  “I told her no. I told her—”

  “But, Drew, what is she going to do to get money?” Desperation and fear are woven into every thread of her voice.

  I bite back my sharp rebuke, knowing it won’t do any good. “I don’t know, Mom. The same thing she does every other time she needs it. I pay for her home and her utilities. It’s not my job to feed her habit, and I’d hope if she showed up here, you’d feel the same way.”

  “Of course,” my mom says with a wave of her hand as if my suggestion is nonsense. At the same time though, I know how hard I struggle with the decision to keep Maggs at arm’s length, so I imagine it’s even harder in Mom’s shoes. “You came all the way over here to tell me that? You could have just called.”

  “That would mean you’d actually have to carry your phone with you and answer it,” I say, referring to a long-running gripe I have. They got rid of their landline, but they forget to answer their cell phones.

  She gives me the look that every kid knows from their mother. The one that says drop it. “Did you tell Wayne?” she asks, referring to Maggie’s ex and Charley’s father.

  “He was the first person I called,” I say, thinking how I stood at my front door watching Brexton’s taillights until they disappeared down the street. How I wished I could have my evening back with her instead of dealing with this bullshit. “He said not to worry. Charley is and will be fine.”

  “It still makes me nervous.” She moves around the counter and points to the couch for me to make myself at home. “Please don’t tell your father. When he gets agitated, everything flares up, and we’ve been on a roll of good days lately.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I forgot. I need to start tiptoeing around here to forgo the inevitable fight.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  She moves closer and lowers her voice. “Maybe you should try talking to him again.”

  My laugh is caustic. Memories slam into me. His sharp words and cold shoulder. The man I love more than anything feels like he gets further and further away from me when all I want to do is understand.

  Why he walked away.

  Why he can’t come to my games.

  Why he resents my career because he didn’t fight for his.

  “Surely you don’t mean that. Last time was a disaster.” And last time was before his diagnosis.

  When I dared to ask him for all the details . . . and we didn’t speak for over a year.

  She stares at me, a woman who I think knows way too much and is stuck between her husband’s secrecy and her son’s need to know.

  I don’t envy her.

  Not one bit.

  And that’s why I’m about to leave well enough alone when I hear his voice.

  “Drew. What a surprise,” Dad says as he makes his way to his chair and takes a seat. I watch each movement for signs of progression, but my mom is right, despite the tremors in his hands, he seems to be doing okay.

  The untouchable man I’ve always hoped someday to be close to again.

  “Dad,” I say with a nod as I meet his eyes.

  The strain is still there, even after all this time.

  The sense of betrayal still between us.

  The distance can’t be resolved.

  I’m the kid who went against his parents’ wishes. The son who played a game his father left behind and a father who has resented it ever since. I’m the child who has lived a great, upstanding life while Maggie has screwed up everything she touches—everything but Charley, of course—and yet I’m the one who’s still on the opposite end of the awkward silences.

  I’m still the one who feels like I don’t belong.

  “I watched the game the other night,” he says. “Hobbs needs work. He looks rusty. You need to tell Bellinger that you deserve a chance.”

 
“Hobbs scored four touchdowns.”

  “But his mechanics are off. His elbow was too low and he was missing the obvious pass most plays.”

  I nod as he continues through his analysis of the man who starts in front of me. An analysis that can be so critical and cutting it can be debilitating.

  I happen to know from experience.

  But when such critiques come from one of the best in the game of his time, you shut your mouth and listen.

  The upside? That man is my father.

  The downside? The same.

  “Should I type up notes and send them to him?” I ask as my mom takes a seat beside Dad. “Or better yet, I’ll give them to his agent so he can shop for a better team for him.”

  His eyes flash up to mine and he points a tremoring finger at me. “The last thing you need to be doing is talking to any agent.”

  His tempered words are an ever-constant reminder of what happened.

  Of why Brexton Kincade is another element of my life that needs to stay firmly in the past.

  DREW

  9 years earlier

  “BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND.” I sit on the couch in the middle of the living room staring at my father. He’s a hulking figure in the space, all six foot five inches of him, as he stares at Maggs and then me with a look I know I’ll never forget. Sadness, fear, confusion, and the one I’ll never understand, resignation. “What does it mean you’re no longer playing football? That’s who you are. What you do.”

  “It’s not for you to understand, Drew. It’s for you to simply accept.” He glances over and meets my mom’s eyes, and she swallows nervously.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I mean, I know what’s going on—he’s explained it to me no less than twenty times and we’ve been living with its fallout since—but this makes no sense.

  He didn’t do it.

  He told me he didn’t.

  “Mom?” I ask for clarification from her but she just looks at my dad and waits for him to continue.

  “Earlier today I tendered my resignation to the Patriots and the NFL Players Association,” he says somberly.

  “Dad?” Maggie’s voice vibrates with the same uncertainty I feel.