Wide Open

by Tracey Ward

  I look away, unravelling myself from his gaze and focusing on the words on my clipboard. They swim aimlessly in my vision. They mean nothing. How can they when he’s here? How can anything compete for my attention when he’s so close? When he’s so, so far away.

  “What’s up, Coach?” his voice vibrates deeply.

  “I want you to talk to Ramsey. Throw some passes with him. Get him comfortable if you can.”

  “Shouldn’t Domata be doing that?”

  “Domata has done it. He’s tried. Ramsey isn’t clicking with him. See if you can calm him down. The kid is like a puppy who keeps pissing the floor every time there’s a loud noise.”

  “He wasn’t like that in college, was he?”

  “If he had been I wouldn’t have picked him up. No, this is new. It’s the pressure, it’s getting to him. See what you can do with him.”

  Kurtis searches the field. “Where is he?”

  “Probably in the locker room with his head in a trash can. That’s his ritual. He vomits before every game.” Coach Allen glances at me. “You haven’t gotten that on camera have you?”

  I wince apologetically. “Once. Yeah.”

  “Perfect.”

  “You want me to go look for him?” Kurtis asks, already sidestepping away.

  Coach Allen grabs his arm. “No, no. I’ll find him. I’ll send him out to meet up with you. Wait here.”

  “I can run in and—”

  “Keep Ms. White company. I have it.”

  I shake my head. “He really doesn’t have to do that.”

  Allen waves over his shoulder, no longer listening. He heads toward the tunnel, his thin body so small in the crowd of athletes. It makes me nervous, like any one of them could knock him over and break him.

  “I can go if you want,” Kurtis offers quietly.

  I shake myself, turning my attention to him. To his eyes that are watching me attentively. I force a smile. “No, it’s alright. Better do as he says.”

  “Right.”

  He stands in front of me looking over my head, surveying the crowd. He doesn’t speak and neither do I because, seriously, what is there to say?

  “New car?” I ask conversationally, feeling like an idiot.

  He looks down at me with a shake of his head. “Old car. I bought it when I first signed up with the NFL. It’s been in storage since I left.”

  “I saw you pull into the parking lot with it. I like it. It’s shiny. And loud.”

  “And fast.”

  “I bet,” I chuckle nervously. “Do you do a lot of racing in it?”

  “I used to.”

  I falter, surprised. “Really? I was kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You really race it? Like street racing?”

  “Yeah, exactly like that.”

  “That’s illegal.”

  “So is betting on it, but that never stopped me.”

  His words throw a wrench in my gears, gumming up my brain. This is a new puzzle piece, one I can’t find a way to make fit with the picture I’ve been building of him. It seems like it should. It fits almost all the criteria for the piece I’m missing about his past, but it doesn’t quite work. It refuses to lie down and be good.

  “The racing has nothing to do with why I left California,” he tells me, putting me out of my misery.

  “Of course it doesn’t,” I reply blandly.

  “I was trying to make conversation. I wasn’t trying to bait you.”

  “Your Blazer is still in front of my apartment,” I tell him quickly, escaping the subject.

  He clears his throat. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m not asking you to apologize. I was just… I guess I don’t know what I was trying to do. Pointing it out, is all. Reminding you.”

  “I remember,” he says, his voice full of meaning. Strangely full of emotion, and suddenly I’m in that moment again. I’m there where he left me. It’s dark and it’s late and it’s lonely. And he’s not coming back.

  “Me too,” I mumble. My lips feel thick, my tongue heavy. My eyes hot and stinging. I take a deep breath, mustering another smile for him. For us. “Thank you for the flowers.”

  Kurtis frowns. It’s not the reaction I expected. “I didn’t give you flowers.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. When would I have given you flowers?”

  “On my birthday there was a bouquet on the hood of my car. Your car, the green car, it was there when I found them. You’re saying that wasn’t you?”

  “I don’t know when your birthday is.”

  My shoulders slump, my chest deflating. “That’s right, you don’t.”

  “When was it?”

  “What?”

  I’m barely paying attention. I’m doing the math, running the numbers. The dates. The times. The odds.

  “Your birthday,” Kurtis repeats. “When was it?”

  “The thirteenth. The day after we… It was the thirteenth.”

  His face contorts in irritation. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “Please, stop apologizing,” I implore, my attention snapping back to him. “I don’t really celebrate them. I barely remember them. Travis and the guys had to remind me. They bought me a cake. It was nice. I had a good day.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Are you…” I hate what I’m thinking, but I have to know. I have to ask. “Are you having good days?”

  He looks at me for a long time, his face blank. But then he clears it, he opens it to me, and I see the pain there. The fatigue that I feel. The sorrow I can taste on my tongue that sours everything I eat. The loss that took more from me than I imagined possible.

  “No, not really,” Kurtis answers reluctantly, his voice so low I can barely hear it.

  My chest pinches painfully and I regret the question. I wanted to know but I didn’t. I wanted him to hurt like I do, but now that I know he does it kills me. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I wish—“

  “Let’s not do that,” he interrupts, shuttering his expression. Closing himself off again. “It’s better if we don’t.”

  “Right.” I chastise myself for reopening the wound. “You’re right. It doesn’t change anything.”

  My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, frowning at the screen before silencing it.

  “Is that him?” Kurtis asks cautiously.

  “Who? Derrick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. It’s not him. It’s Sean. He’s on Derrick’s crew. I’ll call him back later.”

  “Is Derrick still harassing you?”

  “It’s under control.”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  I cast him a sharp look, feeling my vanity kick in. I refuse to look weak. I will not show fear. “Yes, he’s still calling.”

  “You told him to stop and he hasn’t. What he’s doing is the definition of harassment, Harper. I know you’re smart enough to know that.”

  “And you’re smart enough to know when something concerns you and when it doesn’t.”

  He doesn’t respond. He’s silent as the stars. I lick my lips, tasting salt and sweat that’s as bitter as my words, and I wish I could take it back. I wish I could take it all back, everything, but I can’t. I can’t ever undo what’s been done the same way I can’t turn off how I feel about him. How badly I want to touch him. To kiss him. I can’t escape how badly I want him to hold me. How desperately I want him to chase the pain away.

  “If you ever needed me, I’d be there,” he vows deeply, his eyes on mine. “I’d cross oceans. I’d move mountains. Tomorrow or ten years from now, if you call, I’ll answer.”

  My heart trips erratically. It falls at my feet and it weeps. It swells until it aches, until it bursts, and tears are trailing my cheeks.

  I inhale sharply, gathering myself. My fingers swipe at my eyes to clear them as I cough roughly. “Thank you.”

  “Harper.”

&nb
sp; “I heard you, Kurtis.”

  “But are you listening to me?”

  I blink, sending a fresh tear down my cheek. Kurtis sees it, his eyes tracking it, and I catch his hand twitch at his side. He thinks about wiping it away. He thinks about touching me. But then he thinks better of it and I’m grateful.

  “I’m listening,” I whisper.

  “Matthews!” Josh Ramsey calls from the thirty yard line. He waves to him impatiently. “You ready, man?”

  Kurtis holds my eyes for a second longer before tearing his away. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  I turn away, heading for the other side of the stadium where Les and Alec are setting up camp. I walk quickly with my head down and my heart in my throat. I feel it when Kurtis turns back to me. I feel him watch me walk away. I feel him fade farther and farther from me, and the thread between us twists tightly. Painfully.

  And still it refuses to break.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  KURTIS

  This game has been brutal. Even with time running out, it feels like it will never end. When it’s over, it will be a game won and lost by field goals. Not a single touchdown has crossed the boards and Andreas is looking a little tired. Understandable considering we’ve had to tap him six times already, asking him to kick outside the thirty each time. We just can’t advance. Their defense is crushing us, keeping us firmly at bay.

  Luckily, our defense is doing the same.

  Kodiaks 18. Chiefs 18.

  Welcome to overtime.

  Colt and I go to the fifty yard line with Trey for the coin toss. We win, choosing to receive.

  As I line up for the kickoff return, my body screaming for a break, I pass Coach Allen talking excitedly to Ramsey.

  “You stay in the end zone, do you hear me?” he demands rapidly. “You do not take the ball out of the end zone. They’ll pummel you. Stay safe. Stay in the backfield.”

  “I got it!” Ramsey shouts back angrily. He walks away muttering under his breath.

  I lock eyes with Coach. His mouth is a grim line of irritation and it reminds me of the look he used to get watching Duncan Walker play. He can’t stand players that don’t listen. I don’t blame him.

  “You ready, baby?” Colt asks, running past me and slapping me on the ass as he goes.

  I fall in line behind him, tapping every energy reserve I’ve got. “I’m always ready!”

  The return is high. It’s got wings on it, sailing over our heads and into the backfield. But the whistles don’t blow. I glance back over my shoulder just in time to see Ramsey making a dash out of the end zone. He has the ball tucked in tight under his arm, his legs pumping hard and fast. He’s a speed machine, built to run like Tyus, but he doesn’t have the brains to drive it. He gets sideswiped by a Chief. He goes down hard, the ball popping out of his arms.

  It’s live.

  It’s on the ground.

  It’s fifteen yards from our end zone.

  I turn on my heel, changing direction. I run for the ball, diving on top of it just as a defensive lineman takes a shot at it. We collide, our helmets connecting hard in a jarring hit that rattles my brain inside my skull. My eyes close instinctively, but my hands are still online. They’ve got the ball and I’m able to curl my body around it before the other guy can get his hands on it.

  The whistle blows. The play is dead and we still have possession, but the ball is on the fifteen instead of the twenty-five where it would have been if Ramsey had stayed in the motherfucking end zone like he was told. He just cost us ten yards in a game where we don’t have the luxury of giving up an inch.

  Sam puts his hand out for me, offering to help me up. I toss the ball to the nearest ref and take his hand, grunting as I come up off the turf. My neck is screaming, my right shoulder numb down to my elbow. I’m alright, though. Everything will come back to me in a minute when my body gets its bearings again.

  “You alright?” Sam asks. “That was a hell of a hit.”

  “I’m golden. Where the hell is Ramsey?”

  “On the sidelines getting benched.” He takes off running in that direction, the defense clearing the field. “Hopefully Coach is reaming him for that shit.”

  “Yeah, hopefully,” I grumble angrily, heading for the huddle.

  Sam runs to the sidelines but Coach Allen stops him, sending him back out. He joins us at the huddle where Trey nods a welcome to him. He takes up next to Tyus.

  “We’re heavy on wide receivers, aren’t we?” Tyus asks dryly.

  Trey ignores his tone. “We’re running Green eighty-nine. Ramsey is having trouble hearing so Sam is stepping in for us as the second wide receiver in the play. On three. Break!”

  We run to the line to take the unusual formation for the play. It’s a little bit of a rope a dope move, bringing out two wide receivers, but it’s a good idea considering Tyus is now an option and the Chiefs don’t know anything about Sam. Maybe he can catch, maybe he can’t. Better cover him just to be safe. It spreads the defense out, getting them off my back a little.

  The ball is snapped. Tyus runs a few yards beyond the line of scrimmage, drawing coverage. Sam goes up the top and runs about ten yards, then cuts in hard, shaking his defender. Trey is waiting for him, sending a perfect spiral dead into Sam’s waiting hands.

  It’s the easiest down we’ve made all day.

  After that Colt picks up four yards on a run.

  On the second down Trey spots a blitz and calls for a screen. We let the defensive line through, drawing them to Trey who hands off to Colt at the last second. Colt bolts down the side, but they’re ready for him. A linebacker takes him out after just a two yard gain.

  We’re third and four when Trey fakes a hand off to Colt. He hesitates, waiting for me to get into position, and thanks to Tyus being back on the field, they’ve got someone to worry about other than me. I’m free from heavy coverage. I cut to the middle of the field in time to catch the pass from Trey and take off running. A linebacker tries to grab me, but I shake him off. Just two seconds later and a little guy, a free safety from the feel of him, latches onto my side, trying to drag me down. But I don’t go easily. I never have. I manage to haul his ass with me for another seven yards, gaining us eighteen total before he trips me up and we tumble down together.

  Three plays later and we’re at the Chief’s forty-four. Fourth down.

  It’s too damn far for another field goal. Even fresh, Andreas would be outside his range. We can’t risk it. We have to punt.

  I watch helplessly from the sidelines as the defense takes the field. My stomach is turning, my chest heaving from exertion. I’m toast. I’m tapped as much as every guy on this field and still we have to keep fighting. We cannot give up this win.

  I cannot take another loss right now.

  The punt is high and accurate, and our gunners are able to rush their returner. They keep it out of the end zone, pinning the Chiefs down at their own three yard line. It’s a good position for us. Now we just have to hold them to it.

  Three plays later I realize it’s not meant to be. Our defense is just as tired as the offense. They’ve been hammering away all day and when it comes time to shut the Chiefs down, they just don’t have it. Same way we didn’t have what it took to make a touchdown.

  Their quarterback drops back. He spots a wide receiver running left on the route. He’s gotten free of his defender and the QB hits him with a monster of a deep pass. He blows out of the backfield, crossing the fifty. Our forty. Our thirty. The defense can’t catch him. He’s loose and running hard.

  The twenty.

  The ten.

  I step forward, uncontrollable rage boiling up from my chest, burning in the back of my throat as I shout, “NO!” at the top of my lungs.

  The world doesn’t hear me. It doesn’t care.

  He crosses into our end zone.

  Touchdown.

  We’ve lost.

  My chest expands and deflates rapidly, the blood spilling out of it, draining to my extremities.
To my fingers and toes that tingle and swell. That ache with the flooded feeling as my heart hammers empty, desperate. Hungry for a feeling I can’t feed it. I have nothing to give. Nothing but the hollow emptiness of loss that echoes in my ears, in my veins, mocking me. Reminding me. Thumping out a rhythm with the tick of the clock as the final seconds run out.

  You lose.

  You lose.

  You lose.

  The fans go insane with anger. We’ve let them down. They wanted a win, they demanded a win, and we couldn’t deliver. They feel cheated. They feel sad and sick, and I feel it with them. I commiserate with the masses as we absorb this blow together, exhaling in exhaustion. In defeat.

  On the flip side, the Chiefs fans are cheering. They call out insults and excitements. They dance. They sing. They chant.

  You lose.

  You lose.

  You lose.

  A sea of faces surrounds me, crashing in waves of emotions that I don’t want to feel. That I can’t begin to process. I want to go home. I want to get in my Challenger and drive away as fast as I can. I need solitude. I need to recover from my loss. From the loss of all of the things I dared to dream of, all the things that were never meant to be mine.

  Across the sea I find her. She’s watching me. She’s standing next to Les and the camera. It’s pointed directly at me.

  I should be angry about that, but I’m not. I can’t even try to be. I’m anchored by her eyes, tethered to the island of her empathy, and I feel myself begin to float, to rise from the frothing waters as her lips open, exhaling a breath of air I can feel under my skin.

  I’m sorry, she mouths faintly.

  My eyes tighten at the edges, my chest filling with air. With her breath.

  Thank you, I mouth back.

  The field fills with fans and players. They swarm between us and I lose her, but I can still feel her. I can’t see her but she’s with me. She’s a part of me. The best of me.

  And I know then that she was right. That I owe her.

  I owe her the worst of me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HARPER