by Shey Stahl
I struggle with his words, the meaning, his selflessness toward me. He gives and gives and what does he get in return? Certainly not what he deserves. I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt. “You don’t have to.”
He lifts those beautiful dark eyes to mine. “I want to.” What I wouldn’t give to hear him say he wants me.
“Is that why your offensive lineman walks me home every night?”
He nods, his eyes narrowing, watching my reaction. “I don’t want you walking alone, and you know that.”
Sighing, my heart drops. “Because I can’t take care of myself,” I deduce, feeling like his charity case.
Asa closes his eyes and exhales. Twisting, he presses his back to the wall. With a heavy sigh, he turns his head to look over at me. “You know what I mean.”
Nodding, I stick my key in my door. “I know. Thanks again for dinner.”
He stops me though, his hand on mine and then I notice he’s placing something in my hand.
“What’s that?” I look down. It’s Sour Patch Kids. My favorite.
I smile, my chest aching. I wish I could be normal for him. “Thank you.”
Backing away, he winks. “Enjoy. Save me the red ones.”
I want to invite him in, but something stops me. I grant myself one more glance and let the sight of him wreak havoc on my heart. He’s beautiful, sinful, and everything I need but won’t allow myself to have completely.
And I leave him outside my room. I don’t want to be his charity case he can’t let go of. I want to be more than that, but he seems so caught up on protecting me nothing ever becomes of it. So yeah, I leave the dude standing outside my room.
I sit down on my bed and look over at my iPad on the nightstand. I think of Asa, again, always. Opening the package of candy, I sort through them to pick out all the red ones and place them in a baggie I find next to my books. It’s then I remember I should be studying. I have to write a five-to-eight-page paper reviewing a journal article on any subject that deals with cognitive psychology. I knew I was going to do the paper on False Memory Syndrome. I don’t have the energy to do it now.
I look out the window. No stars, only darkness. And though I know I can’t sleep, tonight I allow myself to dream without fear of a time when I’m no longer a shadow of my past. I’m borderline obsessed with the addiction of him.
I toss and turn at night. Every night. Nothing helps. All I see is my phone staring back at me and I wait to see if she’s going to call. Sometimes at 3:00 a.m., she calls and wants me to come over because she can’t sleep. I do without question. Now it’s created a habit of sorts where I constantly wait to see if she needs me.
I look at the clock beside my bed instead.
12:16 a.m.
Turning over toward the wall, I stare at the chipped paint where I threw my phone at it the trying not to call her in the middle of the night when I wanted to see if she made it back to her dorm.
I look at the clock again, watching the hours count down.
1:29 a.m.
With my hectic class schedule and football, I need my sleep. I do. So why can’t I get any? Barrette.
2:18 a.m.
She’s destroying me. I hate to say it, but she is. She’s all I think about when I’m not on the field, and sadly, it’s spilling over to the moments I am these days.
Rolling on my back, I throw my arm over my face. When that doesn’t work, I roll on my stomach and squeeze my eyes shut until they burn. Maybe if I squeeze them hard enough, I won’t see images of her or look at my phone.
Doesn’t work.
My hands slide up the bed and under my pillow, wrapping around my head. Maybe if I suffocate myself, I won’t call either?
There’s an idea.
I don’t. I look at the fucking clock instead peeking one eye open.
3:04 a.m.
I hate this. I fucking hate it. You know what I hate most? She still hasn’t fucking reported it to the police. Seventeen months have gone by and whoever destroyed her, he’s still out there, probably destroying other lives.
I see a therapist once a month. Football coach demanded that I do, for obvious reasons. You know what he told me? The therapist that is. He said rape destroys boundaries. Think about in terms of football. You’re at the ten-yard line and you fumble the ball and give the control to the opposing team. That’s what rape does to victims. It takes someone’s ability to control the world around them and gives it to the opposing team. He told me I shouldn’t insist she do anything. I should listen.
But at some point, she has to make a decision to want more. From life, school… and me. She’s gone in the sense that she’ll never be the same. But I can’t let her go no matter how hard I try. And no matter how much I try, I can never forget the night that changed us forever. I can’t stop seeing it. It’s a horrible nightmare that we will never forget. When I have nightmares about it, gasping and struggling to breathe, I feel like that breath I need is never granted.
GETTING UP AT 5:00 a.m. for most is too early. For me, my day starts at three most mornings, watching Barrette finally fall asleep. From there, I go to the gym with the rest of my team. Most days I’m running on very little sleep, but that’s nothing new. I’m a disaster in more ways than I can say.
I’m playing football at the University of Washington and the starting quarterback for the Huskies. Some think I’m this golden boy with the perfect life who is living the dream. Sure. They can say any of that, but I have to disagree. And sure, I’ve been on the cover of Sports Illustrated my senior year of high school and offered a full ride to any college I wanted, but if it was so damn good, I’d have the girl I want and someone behind bars.
I’m none of that. I have none of that. What I have is right now. Barrette asked me last night why I don’t live for the moment. It’s all I do. At this point, I don’t know any other way.
I take my time getting over to the stadium. It’s unreal the facility we have here and it makes me feel like I’m playing for a pro team every time I step foot in here. We have everything from state-of-the-art training equipment to personal iPads to flat-screen televisions everywhere, and even a barbershop.
A barbershop.
It’s insane.
As I’m changing into my shorts and T-shirt, I hear bits and pieces of conversations around me. I’m the quiet one on this team. I don’t talk much because all these guys are talking about is pussy and football. Sure, I’ll talk football all night long but not pussy. It’s none of their fucking business. And sadly, I’m not getting any so there’s nothing to talk about.
Once in the gym, I’m a little on edge listening to their bullshit and lifting weights relaxes me. I’m exceptionally tense these days. There’s this nagging feeling in my gut since the season started. Maybe it’s the pressure getting to me. It’s Wednesday and we have a Friday night away game against the Bears.
Coach Benning, the offensive coordinator for the Huskies, takes me aside. He immediately starts going over plays while I continue to lift; it leaves little room for confusion or questions. He’s thorough and I appreciate that. I never have to guess, and he trusts me on the field. There’s this saying that coaches make decisions, players make the plays. I believe that. They let me do what I do, and I respect them enough to do what they ask.
I train a lot with the other two quarterbacks on our team and it’s clear I’m the tallest of the three, 6’2”, and I think that gives me a good advantage over the other two players. My height lets me see more of the field. It’s definitely held some advantages for me because I was the first freshman to start in twenty years at this college as a quarterback. I’ve been the starting quarterback ever since. I’m watched by the NFL, talked about as being nominated for the Heisman Trophy and contacted by teams as well as promised the world.
If I play well.
If.
That’s a lot of fucking pressure for someone who isn’t even twenty-one yet.
Playing college football is different from high school. Ever
ything is more pressure, harder hitting, and fast-paced. Even with all that, I led our team to a 12-1 season. I threw 2677 yards on 230 of 336 passing attempts. I threw for thirty-two touchdowns with only six interceptions. Yeah, it was a good season and I’d earned the team’s respect. We’re four games into our season, and for the most part, we’re looking pretty good.
I spend the rest of the hour on the treadmill before needing to leave to make it to my classes on time. Besides the very early start, I enjoy these morning workouts because for once I don’t have to think.
When I’m finished in the gym, I take a quick shower and I’m on my way to my cell biology class. I’m dragging ass so I grab a coffee on the way there. Once in class, Terrell is already there, staring at the board and then his book.
“You’re going to hurt your brain staring like that.”
He looks over at me and flips his hat up. “I think I forgot about the test.”
I smile and hand him the coffee I brought for him. He smiles too and takes it. “You know the way to my heart, sugar.” Terrell, or T-Bone as we sometimes call him, is our center on the team which means he and I spend a lot of time together. He’s also one of my roommates.
“Anything for you, cupcake.” I wink at him as we continue to tease one another.
A chick walks by and Terrell bites his fist. “She has a nice fucking ass. The bigger the better.”
I look. He’s right.
I smile. “You have a nice ass too.”
He winks at me. “You touch it a lot too.” Being the center, it’s a given that my hands are near his ass a lot. Unfortunately.
This class is intense. We not only have to know everything about anatomy and physiology as well as biology at the cellular level, we also have to think like a crime lab and be able to process a crime scene. Why I agreed to take this class as my science requirement is beyond me. But, then again, I think I know why I took it.
A few girls walk by and smile at us. I give them a nod but not much else. I smile, knowing I’ll probably see one or two of these girls back at our dorm room later. I’ve had the same roommate since freshman year, and it’s worked well between us. He never cleans up anything, but we’re football players so it’s not really a top priority for us. And he’s the only person I know who can make twenty dollars last him an entire week for food. I think I spend that a day in coffee.
“Careful, you’re drooling,” I mumble, opening my textbook and tucking my phone away.
He laughs. “I’d drool all over an ass like that.”
Terrell Wilson gets a lot of pussy. Like a lot. Every fucking night it seems. He also has a porn stash, and a pretty decent one at that. I’m actually impressed. And a little jealous. Though it’s rare we have any classes together because of his accounting major, Terrell, a 6’4” center who most would assume is dumb as a fucking rock, is fucking smart as hell.
My major is in humanities. Everyone asks me what the hell a humanities degree would be good for and my response, “It’s going to serve me well when I’m a first-round NFL draft pick.”
My passion is football, plain and simple. I had to declare a degree when I accepted the scholarship to play football and this seemed like the easiest route. I had no idea what I’d be up against with the amped-up level of football that is played at the college level. School was important, but I knew what I was here for. I thought it would be an easy degree. Man, was I wrong.
Declaring a humanities degree as my major requires me to study everything associated with literature, art, religion… basically the humanities over the centuries. I do a lot of reading, even more writing, and a ton of research and staring at artwork, paintings, and sculptures by the great artists. And by sculptures and paintings, I mean lots of naked women. One more bonus point for this major.
Terrell bumps my shoulder, finally lifting his eyes from the girl with the nice ass. “You should get her number.”
Every player on our team has tried to set me up. Aside from Waylon. I don’t know what it is about society, but they see it fit that every guy needs a woman to fuck. I don’t see it that way. To appease Terrell, I look over my shoulder at her, then back to him. “No thanks.”
“Ya picky, man.” And then he smiles. “What’s with you and B these days?”
I shrug.
“C’mon, man, I know yous beatin’ the meat to that pretty little face.”
If you’re wondering what the hell all that means, just ignore it. It’s Terrell, and most of what he says is like trying to read braille. If you know what it means, as you can see, I’m not exactly denying it.
I don’t answer him, and he knows me well enough to know I’m not talking about it with him anyway. It’s nobody’s business that I’m in love with a girl who just might be incapable of loving me. I know that, but still, I stay.
I stay because she’s fucking worth it, and I’m going to make her see it even if it takes me a lifetime.
LIKE ANY OTHER day, I move from class to class, study my ass off before practice, head over to the players’ lounge directly after that, relax for a few minutes and have a protein drink, and then it’s practice for three hours.
It’s clear when you look at the college football stadium and training center, all the money goes into this place and pretty much anything you want. I’m in the players’ lounge with an iPad in my hand, a bottle of water in the other, watching films from the Bear’s last game trying to see any advantage we might have.
I’m trying to get an idea of the defensive line. But like any other day, my mind isn’t on the films like it should be. Instead, it’s on Barrette. It’s hard to focus on anything but her most days. There are times when I can’t think about her, like at football camp because they run you into the ground. Other times, she’s someone I can’t seem to shake.
I worry about her. I feel like if I didn’t have her in my life, in some way, she would slip away completely. It’s far from pity or sympathy that I feel for her. What we had is so much more. Hell, what we still have is so much more.
An hour later, our team is on the field and split by position, each of us working on specific plays and strategies. By the end of the week, we’re in scrimmage games and heavy-hitting, though I’m usually off-limits for hitting. Surprisingly, I love the roughness of football. Hard hits don’t bother me one bit.
I trust these guys on my team and we’ve played well together the last two years. Who I don’t trust is Codey Jackson, our tackle. He’s sloppy at times. Like today. When he leaves me open for a sack and I’m picking grass out of my faceguard.
College football is so much more intense than high school ball. Nothing is the same. Every hit is harder and with every play more is on the line. I don’t like to be sacked. Ever.
Codey laughs, throwing out his hand. “You good, bro?”
I hate that word “bro.” It’s fucking cliché.
“Fuck you,” I answer, casually picking myself up off the ground. I brush past him and get back into huddle as we call the next play. I feel Roman’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him, especially not after the word “bro” is said to me by Codey.
When I look at Roman, anger gets the better of me. I hate that he was there that night and didn’t keep an eye on her. Barrette’s his sister’s best friend. Or was. He should have been looking out for her and he wasn’t. For that reason, our relationship changed.
We break apart from scrimmage and run plays. Sometimes the same one over and over again until we get it right. Roman struggles. He can’t seem to get to the ball or he overruns it. Just like every other practice. It pisses me off when I watch him. He’s by far our best wide receiver, even better than Demarcus Witten, the senior he beats out for the starting position each week.
Roman never gives 100 percent and it irritates me. We’re a team that’s supposed to be tight and trust one another, yet he can’t even give us the gratification of knowing he gave his best. A total slap in our faces.
Roman catches up with me. “Sorry, A. I’ll get it.”
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Yeah, right. “Late nights?” I grumble, knowing damn well he stays out too late, drinks too much and fucks all night.
He doesn’t say anything and runs back to the line.
We bust ass through the rest of practice, and I watch Roman bullshitting with Codey and the other running backs. They’re talking about some cheerleader they all had the other night, and it makes me fucking sick that they treat sex like it’s some kind of game. It also drives me mad to think about them treating sex like it’s some kind of status. Believe me, I wish Barrette and I were having sex, but it’s not like that with us. I’m not sure it ever will be after seeing what she went through. Because of that I can hardly stomach half the shit said by the players on the team in regards to women and sex.
The idea that the guys who did it to her were probably bragging like this sends rage through me instantly.
I leave the locker room without talking to any of them.
It’s late when I get back to my dorm room, probably around nine or ten. I’m not feeling like much of anything, nor do I want to study. I have to though.
During the week, we don’t usually party. At all. Unless you’re Roman. We’re too busy with practice and school. Although tonight, as I’m studying, Terrell has some kind of open house going on. Our dorm room is open, as is the door leading into the bathroom that connects our room with two sophomore running backs who play with us.
For over an hour, it’s an endless flow of girls moving in and out. Some make their way to my side of the dorm where I’m studying, others don’t and stay beside Terrell.
Sometimes I want my own room, but we room together because of the unity. It’s important in football. I’m reading the same passage over and over again, only the giggling is louder. When I turn my head, Terrell has a girl on his lap, his chocolate skin standing out against the fair-skinned busty redhead straddling him.
Smiling, I look away.
Like I said, Terrell gets pussy. There have been a few who show up when he’s not here and try to test their luck with me. I’m not really into the whole “hook-up with whoever” thing, as I said before. It’s not that I wouldn’t mind the occasional one-night stand just to satisfy the urge, but it’s not my thing.