by Tracey Ward
“Tyus and I are—” I lick my lips, looking away. “We’re not talking anymore. I haven’t seen him in a week. I probably won’t ever see him again.”
Daddy nods once with satisfaction. “Good.”
I bite down on my lip, drawing blood as I stifle a cry that rises up in my throat. Daddy’s back is turned as he puts his plate in the microwave. He mutters about the touchscreen, complaining about how much he misses real buttons as I double over against the island. The cold quartz is soothing against my feverish cheek that fills with a scream I can hear in my skull but my mouth can never release it. My pain is a dragon trapped in a cave. Destined to die alone in the dark.
I struggle to breath slowly. My mind is racing, my hands twitching, but I fight for calm. I have to hold myself together because if I let go, if I explode, it’ll be spectacular. My most impressive fuck up ever, and I don’t know if I’ll survive this one.
There are moments where I seriously wonder why I want to.
I rise up slowly, straightening my spine. Steeling it. “What am I going to do?” I ask shakily.
Daddy looks at me over his shoulder. He frowns when he sees the tears in my eyes. He thinks they’re for the team. For my dream. “You’ll finish school,” he tells me tenderly. “You’ll quit your job at the agency and go back to what you’re good at – modeling. It’s in your blood, Mila. It’s what your mama did. It’s what you’ll do, and you’ll be great at it. Better than she was, though you can’t tell her that.”
He chuckles at his own joke.
I smile wanly. “I’ll call my agent in the morning.”
“I already did.”
“What?”
“I called him yesterday. He was excited to hear from us. He’s already found you a gig with that woman you like. The French designer. What’s her name?”
“Jeanne Ledoyen?”
“That’s her. She’s having a runway show in Paris in a couple of weeks. She says she has a spot for you if you want it.” Daddy pulls his plate from the microwave with hesitant fingers. “I told Marc of course you’d want it.”
“In two weeks?”
“February fourth.”
I shake my head weakly. “No, Daddy, I can’t. The fifth is the Super Bowl. I’m going with you to the game. I can’t go to France.”
“No. You’re not going to the game with me.” He turns to face me. His eyes are gentle but his mouth is set firmly. “The team is all but sold, Mila. That’s not your life anymore. It’s time for you to start fresh.”
“I already did and look where it got me. I’m right back where I started.”
“You chose the wrong path. It brought you back around again, but the beauty of that mistake is that you have a chance to try again. You’ll try a new path, one better suited for you, and this time you’ll go for miles. You’ll see. You’ll land on your feet. Greene’s always do.”
I nod in agreement. Of course I will. Because no matter how many times I’ve jumped out of planes chasing the rush, the ride, I always had a golden parachute strapped to my back. From the moment I learned to walk, I knew Mama and Daddy would be there to catch me if I fell. Ready and willing to right my ship and put me back on course, no matter how hard I tried to chase every stray star in the sky.
I spent my whole life thinking I was fearless, but I wasn’t. I never have been. I feel weak and spineless as a jellyfish, and it’s too familiar to be real. Like déjà vu. I’ve time traveled back a year and suddenly I’m right back where I started the night Daddy snuck me out of Dubai. I’m shivering afraid and ready for him to tell me where to go and who to be because no matter how hard I try, I cannot figure that one out.
And I’m just too tired to keep trying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TYUS
January 29th
Camping World Stadium
Orlando, FL
The Pro Bowl is one of my favorite events of the year. It’s also one of the most hated. Some players love it because it’s a no-stakes game for fun and bragging rights. Fans love it because they have the chance to see some of their favorite players from all different teams playing together. It’s like if your Fantasy Football roster came true.
But the league hates it because it’s expensive. Hosting it is expensive. The payouts are expensive. They moved it from Hawaii to Orland to try to make it cheaper and more accessible to the fans, but it hasn’t done much to save it because players aren’t showing up like they used to. A lot of them hate the Pro Bowl because they just finished an entire season of ground-and-pound labor, and one more game – especially one without any real value – doesn’t sound exciting. It sounds like they’re going to get injured for nothing. Most of the real stars decline their invitations to play because they’re just too damn tired to do it. Every player voted in from the Kodiaks and the Steelers declined, including me, because we can’t risk getting hurt before the Super Bowl next week. After all that, by the time the roster is actually filled, you’re lucky to have a few real ‘stars’ willing to play. That’s why the fans hate it. It’s like watching a second-string scrimmage, not an actual Pro Bowl.
You gotta build your brand, though, and that doesn’t just apply to my own. It means the Kodiak brand too. We’re looking at winning our first Super Bowl and people are excited. They want to see us, and if we can’t play, we need to at least make an appearance. That’s why we’re here. A few guys from the D-Line are signing autographs in a booth the team set up. Trey, Colt, Lowery, and me just finished our shift and are headed into the stadium to watch the game, wave at fans, and fuck around like we’re having the time of our lives. Like the NFL is the greatest gift the world has ever received and not a machine that chews you up, spits you out, and gives you no clue what you’re going to do with your life when it’s done with you.
“Tyus! Are you injured?!”
“Why didn’t you play in the Conference game?! We coulda used you against the Falcon’s, dude!”
“I brought you some Midol! Now you can get your ass back on the field and earn that paycheck! Bitch!”
I pass through the alley between the stands out onto the field with Colt, Trey, and Lowery on both sides of me. They flank me, protecting me, and I want to say I don’t need it but I’m not exactly myself lately. I had serious doubts about whether or not I was even going to fly out here for the Pro Bowl this year, but there are a lot of charities involved and it’s good publicity for the team. If I can’t help them on the field I have to at least help them everywhere else that I can.
The shouting from the stands is a pretty even mix of curious and asshole. People want to know what’s up and they think I’m going to share it with them instead of a reporter from ESPN. I ignore it all, even the nice ones. You can’t engage. Not even one guy because in a crowd like this, one guy becomes ten or twenty and thirty, and suddenly you’ve got a brawl going. All because somebody thinks they deserve access to all my medical shit. They think I owe it to them because of how high I get paid, but I don’t owe anybody shit.
“Tyus! Will you sign my football?!”
Not even little dude hanging over the railing from the stands, screaming at the top of his lungs trying to be heard over all the adults losing their minds. I don’t owe him anything, but I’ll still stop for him because I want to.
I meet his eyes, reaching for the Sharpie in my back pocket. “What’s your name, little man?”
He immediately tosses me his football. It’s a wild, wobbly throw but I catch it like it was a tight spiral right out of Trey’s hands.
“Evan,” he says excitedly. He’s probably about twelve years old. Rail thin. His body is buried in an oversized Kodiaks jersey with my number pressed on the front.
“Who are you rootin’ for in the Super Bowl, Evan?” I scribble my name across the front of the ball near the laces where it looks the best in a display case. My signature is almost unreadable, but I make sure to keep his name clear.
“The Steelers.”
I laugh, pulling the ball
in against my chest. “Are you for real, man?”
He smiles. “My dad loves the Steelers.”
“Yeah, but who do you love?”
“You,” he gushes. “You’re my favorite player. You’re so fast.”
“Hey!” Colt protests. “Where’s my love, huh?”
Evan hesitates. “I don’t know you.”
I double over laughing. Everyone within earshot does the same. When I stand back up, Evan’s face is beet red but he’s smiling ear to ear.
“Alright, I’ll tell you what, Evan,” I gasp, still laughing. “I’ll give you this ball on one condition.”
“Anything!”
I hold the ball up high, just out of his reach. “You can root for the Steelers, but anytime I got a ball in my hand, you’re cheering for me. You hear?”
“Yes! I always do anyway.”
“We got ourselves a deal then.” I toss him the ball. He catches it easily and when I offer up my knuckles, he bumps them hard without hesitation. “Tell your dad ‘hey’ for me, okay?”
“I totally will,” he laughs.
He disappears into the crowd clutching the football to his chest like he thinks someone is going to steal it. They swallow him up immediately, and once he’s gone, the chaos comes rushing back.
“So you’re playing in the Super Bowl?!”
“You’re on the roster for the game?!”
“How much are you getting paid to sit on your ass?!”
“Do you really think you can beat the Steelers?!”
My boys and I move on, pushing through the bullshit. I’m not the only one being shouted at. My fans/haters are just shouting the loudest. There are cries for Trey and Colt in there too. Even Lowery, that walking STD. The guys don’t bother with him, but the women do. They’d fuck with him all day if they could get their hands on him, and I just don’t get it. Dude’s good looking, I guess. If you like big, goofy morons.
The game is already going down when we get onto the field. It’s Red versus Blue. NFC against the AFC, and right now it’s a zero point game. Players and coaching staff from all across the country line the outside of the field cheering for their Conference. We spot Coach Bailey quick in his orange hat and bright yellow shirt screaming ‘Go Kodiaks!’.
“What took you boys so long?” he asks.
I nod to the alley. “We stopped to sign some shit.”
“I thought that’s what you were doing in the booth.”
“We went the extra mile.”
“Very charitable of you.” He grimaces, shaking his head. “This is just painful to watch.”
I nod in agreement, scanning the field. It’s not much of a game. Men who are used to hitting each other with everything they’ve got are going soft. They’re playing at half speed like they’re at practice on their home field, and while I get why they don’t hit hard, it’s still not exciting to see. Every once in a while they throw in a trick play or two to spice it up, but it’s not like they’re the Globetrotters or something. It’s not that much fun and the crowd is letting us know. They’re barely watching. Most of them are drinking and heckling the players more than cheering for their favorites. Probably because the favorites aren’t even on the field.
“Tyus! Trey!”
Trey and I turn to look up into the stands. Two women are calling down to us with big smiles and even bigger breasts. They’re leaning over the railing, practically falling out of their shirts.
The brunette holds out a Sharpie. “Will you sign something for us?”
“What do you want me to sign?” I ask.
She giggles. “I don’t know. I don’t have anything.”
“She wants you to sign her tits,” Lowery tells me loudly.
“Thanks, man. I got that.”
“If you can’t hand it to us, we can’t sign it. Sorry,” Trey tells her. He turns away without interest, acting like the game is more entertaining.
“Fine!” her redhead friend shouts back. “You can handle them!”
They giggle together loudly. They’re drunk. Or just slutty. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. I’m also having a hard time figuring out why I’m not signing their big ass boobs. What have I got to lose? I’m single and I’m dying. Might as well make the most of it, right?
“How you feeling, Anthony?” Coach Bailey asks. His voice is muted. Private. With that tone, I know what he’s really asking.
I try to shrug casually but the movement feels jerky to me. “I’m dealing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Bailey nods. He never takes his eyes off the field. “This isn’t what we wanted when we told you to get that MRI.”
“Not what I wanted either,” I chuckle. “Trust.”
“I do. It’s a shame we can’t have you on the field to finish the season. It won’t feel right without you.”
“You did alright without me at the start of the season.”
He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “We should have talked to you about that. I wish to God we had. If we’d talked to you then we might have got you into the hospital sooner. We could have caught this thing before…” He clears his throat. Adjusts his stance. “We should have talked to you,” he repeats gruffly.
“I appreciate that.”
“You’re a good man, Anthony. A hell of an athlete. I don’t know if it means much to you, but you’ve got my prayers.”
I feel my throat try to close up. It shortens like I might vomit. “It means a lot to me. Thanks, Coach.”
“Yep.”
“Tyus! Tyus Anthony,” the girls sing behind me.
I take a deep breath but I don’t turn around.
Coach notices my resistance. He glances behind us to the girls and grunts. “They’re pretty.”
“They’re alright.”
“But you got a girl, right?”
My throat constricts tighter. “Not anymore.”
“No,” he muses, tugging on the bill of his hat. “You’re mad at her for talking to Allen.”
“It wasn’t her business.”
“Nah, maybe not. Or maybe it was. Maybe you made it her business when you started fooling around with her.”
“She overstepped.”
“‘She overstepped’,” he laughs. “Jesus, you got a funny way of talking shit about the people trying like hell to take care of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You tell Coach Allen he’s disrespecting you for keeping you off the field when you’ve got a fucking tumor in your skull.”
I look at him hard. “Keep your voice down.”
“Why? Are you keeping it a secret? Like everything else, right? Like your girl. Like you’re not a man making real choices.”
“Listen, Coach—”
“So, then there’s the girl,” he carries on over my anger. “You let her in. You let her learn to love you. You get cozy and comfortable. Then you drop the bomb that you’re faking doctor’s appointments and you’re blind with headaches and it’s all probably killing you slowly, but you tell her to keep it to herself. You ask her to watch you die while she sits her ass on the sidelines. But get this,” he lowers his voice as he turns to face me, getting in good and close, “you pick a girl with a set of stones like a raging bull. She’s wild. She’s unpredictable. Some would say unstable even, and you ask her to keep a whopper of a secret to herself.”
“What are you getting at?” I grind out.
“I’m saying you knew she wouldn’t shut up about it. Some part of you knew what she would do because you knew what kind of girl she is and how much she loves you, and you told her anyway because maybe, just maybe, you wanted her to tell Coach Allen.”
“That’s insane.”
“Probably. Then again…”
He turns back to the game. He gives me space like nothing happened, clapping when the NFC finally gains six yards.
“Then again what?” I demand, unable to let it lie.
“Here you are
on the sidelines where we all knew a year ago you should be. Here you are with a diagnosis you should have had all along, but you didn’t get it because you were scared of losing this.” He gestures to the field stretching out like infinity in front of us. “You don’t know what you’re going to be when you get to the other side of this, and that’s a scary thing not to know. That’s your forever and it’s a big question mark. I get it. It’s rough. I went through it too when I had to stop playing because my back was toast. You’re headed into the unknown and you put it off for as long as you could but it’s here now and you have to deal with it.” He shrugs, lightening his tone but it sounds sarcastic. “But it’s not your fault. Your career didn’t end because your brain built a ticking time bomb under your skull. Your career is over because a girl betrayed your trust.”
I shake my head tightly. “I never blamed her for the tumor.”
“No, but fate doesn’t have a face. Life doesn’t let you see her coming. It’s hard to hate that. It’s easier to be angry when you’ve got someone to be angry at.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but you’re wrong. I didn’t use Mila to get kicked off the team.”
“Even if that’s true, do you really think it’s right to be mad at her? Your diagnosis kind of proves her right, doesn’t it?”
I stare at the lines running down the side of the field. I try to keep my emotions in check, my face blank, but the girls start calling my name again – loud and insistent – and I feel sick to my stomach. I feel tired and dizzy and worn the fuck out. I feel sick, really sick, and it hits me that it’s nothing new. I’ve felt like this for months but I kept telling myself it was nothing. But now that I know what it really is, it’s worse somehow. It hits me harder. It makes me realize how close to the edge I’ve pushed myself.
“Doctor Harlan said that if I don’t get the tumor removed soon, it could cause permanent damage,” I confess weakly. I lick my lips, swallowing bile. “If we didn’t catch it when we did, it could have caused a stroke or worse. One more month and I could be dead.”