Inside Game

by Collette West

  When I reach for his boxers, my fingers skim over a jumbo-sized box of condoms in the corner.

  So he is having sex—a lot of sex.

  I take a seat on the bed. The press did leak the story about the party he'd had in this very apartment that his then heavily pregnant wife walked in on. Needless to say, it's what led to the breakup of his marriage. I don't know how much of it is true, but there has to be a very good reason why she left him weeks before giving birth to their second child.

  My eyes alight on the digital clock on the bedside table. I've been here for a good two hours and I'm still coming up empty-handed. My stomach growls, and all I can think about is the pristine state of his kitchen. There's probably nothing for me to eat here. Hell, it's like he's never eaten a meal here either, much less cooked one.

  It's too sterile, too perfect, too…

  I jump to my feet and rush toward the kitchen. My eyes are everywhere at once—until they come to rest on the stainless-steel oven. I take a deep breath and pull the door open, hoping against hope my hunch is on target.

  And it is.

  Staring back at me are syringes, vials of HGH, and the one thing I was praying I wouldn't find.

  A gram or more of what appears to be cocaine.

  I exhale deeply and pinch the little, plastic baggie between my fingers, keeping it at arm's length. This is the stuff that almost killed me while I was struggling to survive in my mother's womb. And just like that, I lose my appetite, feeling nauseated, because now, I know without a shadow of a doubt how much I have my work cut out for me.

  Chapter Seven

  Drake

  Step Two

  Find Hope.

  "Where were you?" I snap when she walks through the door six hours later.

  The whole time she was gone, all I could think about was how much I wanted a hit. I've been practically crawling the walls with nothing to take my mind off my incessant craving for the type of high where I could float right out of my body and escape all of my troubles.

  "Hello to you, too," she says breezily, wheeling a suitcase of mine in behind her.

  If it were a wasted effort, she wouldn't have been gone this long. She wouldn't be this calm. I have to find out what went on, get her to talk to me.

  I jerk my chin at the brown paper bag she's clutching in her other hand. "What's that?"

  "Lunch." She offers me a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

  I don't know what to make of that, so I snarl back at her, "Too bad it's time for dinner."

  "Yeah, sorry about that. The day just got away from me." She spins around, pointing at my suitcase, seeming to want to look anywhere but at me. "I brought you some things to wear."

  I hate that, even after having showered, I'm still in the same clothes I had on yesterday. I'm meticulous when it comes to my appearance, and being in a day-old, wrinkled shirt isn't how I roll. Last night, I fell asleep naked, and I was going to get up before her to get dressed, but she strode into my room like she owned the joint. Just from knowing she was standing above me, I was as hard as a rock, something that hasn't come easily for me as of late. I was stoked that I was able to get it up for her, yet I was irritated that I couldn't do anything more about it.

  Okay, maybe I did want to get caught. It's sort of become a pattern of mine.

  That's why I gave my ex-wife an eyeful when a bevy of girls had their mouths on every inch of my body, trying their best to get a rise out of me. As far as I'm concerned, that's what she gets for flirting with every guy on the team. Yeah, payback's a bitch.

  And that's why I did a line before the game.

  But it wasn't enough, so I did another after my first at-bat.

  And another between the fourth and fifth innings.

  Until I was lit up.

  I cut line after line on the back of my arm, sniffing hard through the funnel of the dollar bill I was using as a makeshift straw. A nice, peaceful sensation flowed through me, and I just wanted to hold on to it.

  I don't remember much of the game, if we were winning or losing, or what I did at the plate. I was so high—all jacked up and buzzing, my eyes shining back at me when I looked in the restroom mirror after every rail I snorted. I was wired.

  But it didn't last…and I crashed, soaked in sweat, without any sense of time or place.

  For a while, it kept me up, but it also severely impaired my judgment. My two floundering errors proved that.

  It's just that I was a pro at beating the drug tests for so long that I thought I was invincible. But, admittedly, I was better at scamming the urine analysis. All players know the ins and outs. Stay away from drugs for a couple of days then whiz into a little, plastic container and hand it over as a clean sample. Sure, we're supposed to be closely monitored when our piss is collected, but I've run much more elaborate cons than that in my lifetime. It's not that hard to make the old switcheroo. Sure, the cup has a thermometer on it, so I'd warm it up nice and good before turning it over. I'd step out, initial the lid, and sign on the dotted line and it was in the bag.

  But blood tests that can track what I've done over a two-week span? That's a whole different story. Because I can't stay off the stuff for that long. No way, no how.

  And yesterday, I figured why not snort a line at the stadium? Once my PED results came back, I knew I'd need something to ease my guilty conscience once my panic attack set in. It's not like I had anything left to lose.

  But the way Eva's looking at me now makes me think I do. She's not avoiding my gaze anymore, and now, I kind of wish that she were. There's too much going on in those warm, tender eyes of hers, emotions I don't want to have to deal with.

  "You want to tell me about the gorilla with the badge on the other side of the door?" I grab the paper bag out of her hand and stomp toward the kitchen, anything to get her to stop looking at me like that.

  "He's security. Diane hired him."

  I hear her take her jacket off before she follows me.

  "Yeah, I already figured that out." I intentionally make a lot of noise while removing a clear container filled with chicken noodle soup.

  All day, I've had no appetite even though I've had nothing to eat, but something about the kindness of her gesture makes me want to try to get some of it down. I take a seat at the table and pry the lid off. The delicious aroma hits me, and for the first time since yesterday, I don't feel like I'm going to puke my guts out. When she doesn't sit down and join me, I realize there's only enough for one.

  "Where's yours?" I ask probably a little too gruffly.

  "I'm not hungry," she says, crossing her arms in front of her.

  "So, you're just going to stand there and watch me eat?" I toss the plastic spoon aside, sick to death of being watched.

  Somehow, I don't think her reticence is a result of the negative headlines I must already be generating. I've been avoiding the TV and Internet all day, but the Kings are going to have to explain my absence when I don't show up for tonight's game. Or the commissioner most certainly will.

  Eva moves toward me, resting her hip against the edge of the table. She's close enough now that I can see how worn out she is, and I have a feeling I'm the reason why.

  "Drake, you need to keep up your strength because the next few days are going to be difficult."

  "And why's that?" I glare up at her, daring her to say what's really on her mind.

  "You know why," she says simply.

  "No, I don't." I push away from the table and stand up, spilling some of the soup in the process. "Why don't you tell me?"

  "Because I need to hear it from you." She gazes up at me, urging me to do the right thing. "Or this isn't going to work. I can't help you unless you admit that you need help."

  "What?" I bristle. "I took PEDs. There. I said it."

  "That's not what I mean, and you know it." She wearily shifts away from the table, twisting her hair off her face. "I'll wait here all night if I have to, but you're going to be honest with me. There's nowhere left to run, D
rake. I called Diane. She already knows."

  "You did what?" I yell, feeling my hands start to shake.

  She couldn't have found my stash. There's no way.

  "Just so you know, what you took will still be in your system for at least another forty-eight hours. I could subject you to another blood test, but I'd rather not have to. So just say it, Drake. No matter how much you're trying to resist. Just say it," she whispers, utterly composed in the face of my anger.

  And that sends me right over the edge. I grab the container of soup off the table and dump it all over her.

  She doesn't gasp. She doesn't even flinch. She just closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. I think she's going to let me have it, but instead, she turns around and slowly walks toward her side of the suite, leaving me standing there, holding the empty container. I fling it aside, and it clatters loudly across the floor.

  She told Diane. Fuck.

  But if she's going to be my lifeline back to the team, then I have no other choice. I need her on my side. She knows my secret. I want to lie and say that what she found isn't mine, but she'll never buy my line of bullshit.

  I grab the roll of paper towel above the sink and bend down to start cleaning up the mess I made. I'm preoccupied, so I don't hear her return until she says, "All right. Let's try this again."

  I glance over my shoulder, and she's standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of sweats, her hair haphazardly pulled back in a ponytail.

  Her sensible reaction to my childishness gives me hope. I'm pushing her to the limit, and she's not cracking. She's nothing like my ex-wife. God, Karolina would be ranting and raving if I had done anything like that to her. She'd be carrying on, shedding a stream of crocodile tears while gouging my eyes out with her red, pointed fingernails. Eva's mentally tough, and I've always admired a show of strength in a woman. She's not whining and complaining, causing a scene, blaming me for everything. She's ready to take me on, on her own terms, and I find that unbelievably sexy.

  She's an adversary but undeniably an equal.

  Maybe she can bring me back from the beyond. If anyone can do it, I'm beginning to realize that it might be her. Like she said, all I have to do is try.

  I rise to my feet and look her straight in the eye.

  "I was high during last night's game."

  She nods at me, but I'm not done.

  "I've been getting high since I was thirteen." I release the breath I've been holding. "And I don't know how to stop."

  "Go on," she encourages.

  "What can I say?" I roughly rake my hands through my hair. "I hate my life."

  "And why do you think that is?"

  "Because it's a smoke screen." I throw my hands up. "I'm this big-time ballplayer with millions in the bank and nothing to show for it."

  "So, the money's not important to you?" She raises an eyebrow like she doesn't believe me.

  "Sure, it is." I tilt my head to the side, agitated. "But what difference does it make when you get into the serious dough, huh? Two hundred million doesn't feel any different from three hundred million. Even if I never earned another dime, I'd be set for life. My children would be set for life, and their children after them," I state, watching her eyes widen slightly at my admission.

  "Providing for your family… That's important to you?" she asks, hitting on a subject that's a little too close to home.

  "I didn't have much growing up. I worked my way out of a bad situation, and I was determined that my kids would never have to experience what it feels like to go without. I was never away from home until I got signed, and when I saw all the platters of free food waiting after each and every game, it blew me away." I rub my forehead, realizing I'm saying a lot more than I intended to say. "But I wanted to make it to the top the right way by earning it, not taking any shortcuts. But, sometimes, life doesn't go according to plan."

  "You're angry with yourself for taking those PEDs, aren't you?"

  "Yes! All right?" I scowl at her. "I hate myself for taking them, but it's too late now. There's no way to undo what's already been done." I bend my head, lowering my voice to a whisper. "I wouldn't even know where to begin." I flex my jaw, unsure of myself. I've never admitted that to anyone, but she got me to say it to her.

  After what seems like a never-ending pause, she says softly, "I lost a dear friend of mine to an overdose because he couldn't face reality. And you…you just proved to me that you can."

  I pick my head up at that and see the pain reflected in her eyes.

  "Drake, you were able to say the words he could never say. You admitted you have a problem, and whether you know it or not, that's the first step on the road to recovery. I believe in you… I believe you still have a fighting chance to beat this. So please don't waste this opportunity to get clean. Use it."

  I fumble for the right words, unsure of whether or not I should tell her that I am willing to try.

  But before I can say anything, she exits the room just as quietly as she came in, leaving me somewhere between hope and despair.

  Chapter Eight

  Eva

  Step Three

  Surrender.

  The days go by, and I steel myself against the worst of guiding him through the withdrawal process.

  For two weeks, I concentrate on completely detoxing his system. We don't go out. We never leave the suite. I stay by his side no matter how tough it gets.

  The sweating, the chills, the body aches, the delirium.

  I know he loves to feel clean, so I change his sheets whenever I can, usually when he's able to crawl to the bathroom and grip the toilet while a spasm of dry heaves racks his body.

  It's hard not having a break, an outlet, a release—except for Chase knocking on the door every once in a while to make sure I'm still alive.

  Dad knows not to disturb me when I'm in the thick of it. It's how I work, shutting everything else out and focusing only on the needs of my client. But this time, it feels different, like I have a sort of kinship with number thirty-three of the New York Kings.

  I use every tool I have in my arsenal to make him feel better. I give him acupuncture sessions. I massage his muscles with holistic oils. I keep candles burning instead of turning any lights on. I'm glad there's an aquarium in the room he chose as his bedroom because it gives him something to look at while he's lying in bed for hours on end, shaking and groaning.

  No matter how physically uncomfortable this part of the process is—the smell of his unwashed body, the moaning, the sweat-soaked bed linens—it's by far not the worst part of it for me. I've dealt with filth and squalor and ear-piercing screams before. Vomit, feces, urine, you name it. The body doesn't scare me. It's only rejecting the foreign substances that were put into it.

  It's the mind that frightens me more.

  The tricks it's able to play, the manipulations it concocts to get what it wants. Even if it means destroying itself from the inside out.

  Because, for addicts, their addiction always comes first. They have no room in their lives for friendship or love since their secrets and lies tend to get in the way of forming any type of lasting connection to another human being.

  The hardest part will be afterwards, when he'll have to fight his cravings for the rest of his life.

  I sigh, capping my highlighter, my worries for him getting the best of me. I'm sitting in a chair next to his bed, trying and failing to read an article I need to cite in my thesis.

  So I'm startled when he says out of the blue, "Talk to me, Eva," effectively breaking the silence.

  I had hoped he was asleep, resting peacefully, but his red-rimmed eyes tell me otherwise.

  "What do you want to talk about?" I lean forward and slide the blanket over his shoulder when he starts to shiver uncontrollably.

  "Tell me a story," he begs, flinching against even the slightest pressure the puffy down comforter is placing on his body. "Tell me…about you."

  I'll do anything to take his mind off his physical discomfort, but the last
thing I want to do is talk about myself.

  "Please," he whispers, trembling like he can't get warm. "Why do you want to be around this? Why do you do what you do?"

  I bite my lip and look away, at the beautiful spring sunset on the other side of the window. If this were an ordinary day, he'd be in his baseball uniform right now, on the field with the rest of the team. But he's not. He's here with me, in agony. An agony I never want to see him relive. Maybe he needs to know how personal this is for me, why I never want to see him hit rock bottom again.

  I force myself to look in his eyes. "Because of my mom."

  His brows come together as he holds my gaze. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, he turns his head toward the aquarium and lets his eyes follow the fish inside. He's upset by what I told him, but I can't take it back now. I can only keep going.

  "She was a junkie." I watch his eyelids flutter as he surrenders to the sound of my voice, powerless to stop me. "I was the crack baby she abandoned."

  He probably doesn't want to hear the obvious traits he shares with the woman who gave birth to me, but I know he's listening to every word when his eyes snap to mine at certain points. He doesn't interrupt or ask questions since he doesn't have the strength to.

  When I'm done, he gives me a look I'll never forget.

  It goes well beyond the boundaries of the therapist-client bond. It's like, for the first time, he truly understands the pain he's inflicted on the ones he loves, what his behavior is doing to his two little girls. Addicts live in a selfish bubble. They think they're only harming themselves by their actions, but they couldn't be more wrong. They hurt everyone around them.

  It's dark out now, the only illumination coming from the light inside the aquarium. I must've talked for over an hour. That's enough for one night. I don't want to overburden his mind with guilt. It's something that will have to be dealt with in stages.