Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  Yes, I heard what he said to his parents, but the pull of family is much stronger than the pull of a new love.

  And then I feel selfish for feeling that way.

  For thinking of me and us when more than anything, Drew needs this for himself. Answers. Closure. A new start.

  I drive. Here. There. Everywhere through the suburbia adjacent to his neighborhood, hoping, willing, wanting, a text or phone call from him.

  Anything to know that he is okay.

  Anything to know that we’re okay.

  Surely their discussion is over by now. But by the time I’ve wasted hours driving and have arrived home, I decide to take the plunge and call him myself.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I text him.

  He doesn’t reply.

  And that selfish feeling starts to return. The one that wants to know what happened. The one that fears he believes the ugly lies once again.

  The one that warns me that a heartbreak just might be on the horizon.

  DREW

  THE BOTTLE OF WHISKEY IS empty.

  My phone buzzing alerts is face down on the couch beside me.

  My house is pitch-black.

  But my thoughts don’t stop.

  They walked away. Fucking walked out the door minutes after Brexton left when I demanded answers.

  “She’s a Kincade.” My father’s voice is low, his expression unmoving, as Brexton’s taillights are still a glimmer down the street.

  “Why don’t we address why the thought of me being with her has you in an absolute panic, Dad? Why don’t we talk about how scared you are right now that the goddamn ruse is up?”

  “Her father ruined our family,” my dad says with a quiet steel to his voice.

  “So you’ve said, but you know something?” I ask and make a show of scratching my temple. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would he burn a big-time client who he was making a shit ton of money off of in commission? Why would he hurt the friends who were like a family to us? Only a coward would do that and from what I remember, Kenyon Kincade wasn’t a coward.”

  But I’m beginning to see that you were.

  I plant the seed. The bait. I wait for the reaction. I need to see if he’s going to stand and fight or turn away like a coward.

  Two completely different reactions. Two completely different truths.

  He lied about what happened. I know deep in my bones he did. Maybe I always have but was too much of a coward myself to admit it to myself. Maybe I needed to hold on to the hope that my father was the man I’d always wanted him to be.

  “You’ve made your choice then,” my father says.

  “No. You’re making the choice. Not me.”

  My father’s eyes meet mine and I swear there is something in them akin to devastation, but it’s fleeting and wiped away by a harsh bout of tremors. My mom’s face falls, and I want to reach out and help support him but fear the reaction I’d be met with.

  Emotion is thick in my throat as my mom murmurs to him to calm down and guides him down the walk away from me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter into the darkness, into the loneliness, as the events replay over and over in my head.

  I should have gone after Brexton.

  I should have left my parents and their non-answers behind and run after the only person in as long as I can remember who is true and real and honest.

  Goddamn Brexton.

  My savior. My sounding board. My best friend.

  But I didn’t chase after her. Now I’m left feeling like the asshole who didn’t do enough to stand up for her and the son who just walked away from his sick father.

  Last time we fought, we didn’t talk for over a year.

  Over a goddamn year.

  What if the same happens now? Because I won’t bend this time. I won’t unless I have answers. I deserve that much.

  But what if he won’t give them?

  Will the disease have ravaged him by then? Will I lose out on time my father has left before it’s too late?

  But he didn’t give answers . . . just ultimatums.

  He didn’t say a fucking word other than to point fingers at Brexton and the Kincades.

  I guess, perpetuating the lie is more important than mending fences.

  And how the fuck is that supposed to make me feel? That whatever the fuck he did was more important to him than me?

  So I drank whiskey. So much whiskey, I lost count but the bottle is empty on its side on the floor by my foot.

  And there was rage. A swipe of the kitchen counter and all the preparations for the celebration went flying to the floor. Dishes breaking, food flying.

  Then there was knock after knock on the front door as my teammates came and then left probably wondering what the fuck was going on. Still texting to make sure everything is okay.

  And now? Now I’m trying to understand the measure of me as a man. How gullible I was to be held under my father’s spell. How easily I’ve tried to please a man so fucking selfish that he chose a game over his family.

  He did this. To us. To our family. To him.

  It wasn’t Kenyon, and it sure as fuck wasn’t anyone else.

  It was him and whatever weakness he caved to.

  And even worse? I’m sitting here, drunk as fuck in the dark, wondering how I can feel sorry for him. I worry that tonight affected his health. I still want to know if he’s proud of me for the game I played today. I wonder if I’ve just lost my family.

  What kind of man does that make me?

  A pussy? Lacking character? Spineless?

  I scrub a hand through my hair and rest my head on the back of the couch.

  There’s shit I need to figure out, need to find answers to, before I can be worthy of a love like Brexton’s.

  She deserves better than this. Than me. So much fucking better.

  She deserves the white knight when I’m nothing but a Montague destined to be at odds with her and her family forever.

  Figure your shit out, Bowman.

  Sleep on it. Get your head straight. Then figure your shit out.

  The answer is a simple one.

  At least it should be.

  I don’t know how long I sit and stare at the ceiling or how many times I replay tonight in my head, but when my phone buzzes yet again, I finally pick it up.

  Text after text fills my screen. From my teammates wondering what the fuck happened tonight with the party.

  From Brexton.

  She’s worried.

  So am I.

  But I open her text and respond.

  Me: I just need some time to sort through the shit in my head.

  Brexton: Okay. I’m here if you need me.

  I should type something else. A thank you. A come over. An I need you.

  An I love you.

  But I don’t. Instead, I toss my phone back where it was and close my eyes.

  I just hope she can still love me after I didn’t stand up for her more, tonight. Didn’t chase after her.

  I didn’t fight hard enough for the one thing I love.

  Doesn’t that make me just like him?

  BREXTON

  THREE DAYS.

  It’s been three goddamn days since I walked out of that house, since I got that text that felt like a death sentence to our relationship, and not one word since.

  I know he’s been at practice but nothing else.

  Did they fight it all out and Drew’s mourning whatever the outcome was? Did Gary reassert his truth that my family is to blame, and Drew fell back down that rabbit hole and is afraid to tell me that we’re over?

  “Quit overthinking it,” Lennox says in my ear.

  “I’m not.”

  “That’s total bullshit and you know it. He didn’t have to answer your text but he did. In fact, he was specific that he needed time to figure his shit out. I’d say that’s progress. I’d say that’s a man letting you know what is happening instead of shutting down when it comes to communication like most do. I
know it’s hard, but you need to hold tight to that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No perhaps about it. It’s a fact.” She chuckles. “If he was going to end things he wouldn’t have responded. He would have blown you off and that would be that. Instead he asked for time, for grace, and you’re giving it to him. Sounds like the perfect give and take if you ask me.”

  “Except that I’m sitting here in the dark.”

  “True, but you’re also being the person he needs you to be right now. And that is one of the most important things in any relationship. You both had to bend and bow at different times. You might not always like it, but it’s true.”

  “Of course, because you’re a relationship expert now that you’ve found Rush.”

  “Far from it, but I’m learning as I go. Oh, and don’t think for a second that I don’t know why you call me for this shit. Because you don’t have to see me face to face so when I’m right, you can still save face.”

  “Whatever,” I say but know there’s an iota of truth in what she said. With her living in the UK now, she’s my go-to advice person because it’s easier. “Things with Rush still good?” I ask.

  “Gloriously so,” she says. “And speaking of the devil, he’s calling for me from the other room. You good?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You can thank me when I’m proven right.”

  “Funny.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  And when the call ends, I feel a little better but still worry about him.

  Still miss him.

  I have a million contracts to review—because life goes on even when my heart wants to stop and wait for the man I love—but I’m mentally exhausted. So even though it’s early, I snap my laptop closed and crawl into bed.

  But sleep doesn’t come.

  Just staring out the window at the stars trying to shine through the bright lights of the city and my thoughts running wild in the darkness.

  “Go away, Bratty Brex. I don’t want company. Don’t feel like talking,” Drew says.

  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that this trip. Dreadful Drew has become Moody Drew, always wanting to be alone, and while I’ve tried not to feel hurt by it, I’m still hurt.

  He’s never minded my company before. In fact, he’s been fine with just sitting in silence if he didn’t feel like talking.

  But not this trip.

  And it stings more than ever.

  I bet if Ginnie Huber were here he wouldn’t say go away to her.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Then why are you so grumpy?”

  “I’m not grumpy, it’s just . . . stuff.”

  “Like what kind of stuff?” I ask, imagining him heartbroken. How I could swoop in and save him from it.

  “This is why I want you to go away. You keep asking questions.”

  “Yeah, well, you keep being grumpy.”

  “I said it’s just stuff, okay? Stuff you don’t understand.”

  “Humph.” I cross my arms and stare at him. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you either, Dreadful Drew. Maybe I’m just here to look at the stars and you’re the one who should go away.”

  “I was here first.”

  “So?”

  He looks over at me and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t object when I take a seat beside him. “My mom likes to look at the stars.” I point to the star-filled sky above. “She says there’s nothing better when you need to think than to look at the stars.”

  “Why?” he asks and glances over at me. I lie on my back beside him and put my arms behind my head.

  “Because the sky and its stars remind you that your one problem is so very little in this great big world. It makes you feel like you’re not all alone.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  “A Mom fact,” he says with a snort but copies how I’m lying.

  “And now you need to make a wish.”

  “A wish? For what? It’s not my birthday.”

  “It doesn’t have to be your birthday.” I sigh. “You’re looking at this great big sky. How do you not know that someone else who is looking at the same sky—somewhere—doesn’t have the answer to your problem? So make a wish. Maybe they’ll hear it and help you.”

  “Another Mom fact?” He nudges me.

  “Nope. A Brexton fact.”

  He laughs out loud, but he stays there beside me for well over an hour until our parents call us in.

  “Hey Brex?” he asks when he stands, offering me a lopsided grin as he pulls me up.

  My heart flutters in my chest. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. Maybe looking at the stars with someone is better than being alone.”

  An idea hits. One I’m not certain is smart, but I can’t stay away from him any longer. I grab my phone and text him.

  Me: Remember that time we stared at the stars and made silent wishes? I’m looking at the stars right now, Drew. I’m making my wishes. If you want to join me, you can call me. We don’t have to talk, but it’s nicer looking at the stars with someone than being alone.

  I hit send and then feel like an idiot the minute I do. He probably doesn’t even remember that night. He probably doesn’t—

  I startle when my phone rings and his name is on the screen.

  “I’m here,” I say when I answer the call. “I’m here.”

  “I know.”

  It’s all he says as we stare at the stars together, feeling less alone tonight.

  DREW

  “MAY I COME IN?”

  I stare at my mom standing in my doorway and hate that I actually want to say no. The last thing I need is more bullshit when my head is finally clearing.

  “We have a team meeting I have to get to,” I lie.

  “No, you don’t. You forget you’re talking to an NFL wife. Meetings are for mornings. Practices after that. Film review on Mondays. I understand that you don’t want to talk to me, son, but there’s something I think you need to see,” she says motioning to the box at her feet.

  “Mom.” The word is a plea. “I can’t do this again. If he’s not going to give me answers then I can’t do this. Don’t you think I deserve that much? Don’t you and Maggs and Charley deserve it?”

  “Please?” she asks with tears in her eyes.

  I open the door and hold her gaze until she walks inside. We move in silence as I carry the box and set it on the coffee table, which is situated between the two couches.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “The other night there were a lot of things said.”

  “More like a lot of things left unsaid,” I argue, not wanting to let her off the hook this time. She was an enabler in this whole thing so my resentment toward her is strong too.

  She levels me with a look that says to give her a chance. I sigh and sit back, already frustrated.

  “You told your father he never cared about anyone else a day in his life.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You are his pride and joy, Drew. How can you say that?”

  “How?” I scoff. “Because when he walked away from the sport, he left me behind with it. He never showed up to a single one of my games. He never said anything positive. Most dads would be thrilled to have their son follow in their footsteps. Mine resented me for it and let me know I’d never live up to his legacy.”

  “On the contrary, son. Dad was staying away so you could have your time to shine. If he was there, it would only draw attention to him. He was staying away so he wouldn’t be selfish and take the light away from you.”

  “Those are just words, Mom. They mean shit because even when he wasn’t there, the whispers and comments still were. Every goddamn game. Don’t you think it would have been easier if I’d had him in my corner? Wasn’t it selfish to leave me to face all of that alone? Was it too hard for him to come to a game or simply say he was proud of me? Or did he
resent me so much because I played a game he was too chickenshit to fight for?” I shake my head.

  She pushes the box across the table. “Open it.”

  “Why? Whatever is in that box isn’t going to solve our fucked-up family.”

  “Open the damn box, Drew, and stop being difficult.”

  When I lift the lid off the box, I uncover a bunch of binders or maybe scrapbooks. I glance at my mom as I pick one at random and pull it out.

  “Open it,” she urges.

  And when I do, I’m met with an image of me during a game. The black and white photo of the newspaper cutting is one I remember vividly. It was a conference championship in college that we lost in a nail-biter.

  But just as clearly as I remember that first article, when I flip the pages, there are dozens behind it that I don’t. Little scraps with a mention of me. Squares of game stats glued to a page. A faded picture in action. A college team brochure.

  I look at page after page, each one chronicling my history. Each page documenting a moment in time I never would have remembered.

  “He did care, Drew. He followed every single step of your career. The highs. The lows. The in-betweens. These are his proof. And what you find in that binder, there are dozens more just like it.”

  I don’t bother hiding my tears. This is a little boy’s wish answered and in the way I’ve always wanted.

  I’ve looked for him. In every game I’ve taken the field, I’ve looked for him, so why didn’t he tell me he’d been following me? Why couldn’t he have sent text messages, emails, picked up the fucking phone, anything that said he was proud of me?

  Is proud of me.

  The visible proof is here in front of me that he cared, but what am I supposed to do with it now? It’s like a belated birthday card—nice to get, but a reminder someone forgot the big day.

  “Wouldn’t saying it have been easier?” I ask as I stare until the words in the article become blurred.

  “Would you have believed them if he had said the words? Or would you have thought he was justifying his absence?”