by M. E. Carter
Even though he’s never mentioned it, though, doesn’t mean it’s not in the back of his mind these days. I know him well enough to know he’s wondering what a reoccurrence would look like and if he needs to make that all-important phone call now. Honestly, I don’t know if I’d rather him think my health is at risk or to know that it’s more likely my sanity falling apart.
I thought when I dropped Annika off, I wouldn’t feel angry and upset. She’s not dead. In fact, her injuries seemed pretty minor. I only spent a small amount of time with her, but she came off as strong and resilient. Hell, she kicked the social worker out of the room and had no qualms about getting into a car with me. Annika is fine.
But I’m not. I hate sleep because as soon as I doze off, the nightmares begin. Sometimes I relive that night over and over for hours. Sometimes it changes up and I’m too late, and Annika is dead. Sometimes I let my rage take over, and I kill her attacker in cold blood. Sometimes I can see her, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get to her. That’s the worst version because when I can’t get to her, I have to stand there and watch her be violated.
I never know what I’m going to see when I close my eyes, but it’s never good. I tried going for a run before bed to exhaust myself, but it didn’t work. So I stopped going to bed at all. Now, I stay up studying for as long as I physically can until I fall asleep with my head on my desk. Doesn’t make a difference if I’m sitting up or lying down, though. The nightmares still come.
Somehow, I’ve made it through the last week of practices, but the longer I go without real sleep, the worse it’s getting.
I shuffle into the locker room once we’re finally dismissed. Everyone else jogged, knowing the last guy to make it to the showers is going to have his balls shrivel up from lack of hot water. I want to care, but I don’t. I’m actually hoping a cold shower will do me some good. I have more studying to do, and I need something to wake me up before I go to the clinic and ask for a caffeine IV.
I barely make it through the doors when a deep voice calls my name.
“Hart! My office.”
Germaine gives me a pointed look, and we both know Coach is calling me in because my practice has been off for days. If he’s not even giving me time to strip down and shower off the funk, he’s really not happy about my performance. No one wants to be in a closed room with an athlete before he’s showered the body odor off. This must be really bad.
“Shut the door behind you,” Coach Newsome instructs, tossing his clipboard on his desk.
As coaches go, Coach Newsome is tough but fair. When my dad first found out he was going to be my coach, he expressed approval in his training style and ability to pick a lineup. I’m not worried about him dropping the hammer unnecessarily. But reality is, I’ve been off for the last week. I’d be stupid not to be slightly concerned about what the repercussions are going to be. I worked hard to even get to third string, and I really don’t want to be cut at this point. Not when I only have a couple more seasons left to play competitive football for the rest of my life.
“What’s up, Coach?” I ask with more confidence than I actually feel.
He stands with his hands on his hips, not even bothering to have me sit down. “I got a call from the counseling department today.”
Shit.
I rub a hand down my face. That’s not at all what I was expecting him to say, and I think I’d rather be getting my ass chewed right now. I finally look at him, schooling my emotions. “Uh huh.”
He looks around the room and breathes through his nose before saying anything else. When he finally speaks, it’s clear he’s concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me, son?”
All I can do is stare at the floor while I try and put my answer into words, but what can I say? Because I didn’t want him to know how ashamed I feel? Because I didn’t want him to know that I’m not handling it as well as I thought I would? Because I’m still fucking angry at this guy, I look at every single person on campus, trying to decide if it’s him so I can bash his face in before calling the cops?
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I settle on, “Because it’s not my story to tell, Sir. It’s her story.”
He nods once. “I can respect that, son, but you’re part of that story. And from what I can see, you’re not handling this all that well.”
I can’t deny it. I’m not doing well. But I sure as hell am not going to admit the truth either. This is something I need to deal with on my own. Without all these people looking over my shoulder, trying to get me to sing “Kumbaya.”
When he realizes I’m not going to reply, he gets more forceful. “I expect you to answer their call, Hart. And I expect you to go to that appointment. I have more respect for you than for most of the guys on that field, and I like you being on this team. But you’re starting to crumble, and I’m not going to run the risk of you getting injured because you think you’re too much of a man to get the help you need.”
“What? What do you mean—?”
“Don’t even try, son,” he interrupts, not buying my bullshit. “Your push off is too slow. You’re practically jogging down the field. And don’t get me started on how exhausted you look. Make. The. Appointment,” he commands, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
Nostrils flaring and jaw tight, I nod in resignation, because I’m not getting out of this, no matter how much I don’t want to talk to a shrink. Coach will follow up to make sure I go, and if I don’t, well, I guess he can’t really bench me since I’m not playing anyway. But he could kick me off the team, and I don’t want that.
“Yes sir,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Good. Get out of here. You probably have a voicemail to answer, and you need to take a fucking nap.”
By the time I get back in the locker room and peel off my sweaty pads, everyone else is done showering. My teammates lob playful insults my way about how small my balls are about to be and how they might call me “Jackie” since my penis is going to shrivel into a vagina. I laugh with them halfheartedly, my mind still not really into all of this.
Germaine is the only one who looks at me with real question in his eyes. I nod that I’m fine and thankfully he lets it go. I’m sure he’ll interrogate me later, but for now, I can keep going through the motions.
After taking the world’s quickest shower, I finally grab my phone out of my locker. I have one missed call and a voicemail. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s definitely from one of the campus administration offices. Coach wasn’t kidding when he said I could expect a phone call soon.
I could return it right away, but I don’t. I’m intent on putting this off as long as I can get away with. Instead, a text catches my eye. I don’t recognize that number either. Opening it, it’s the last thing I expected to see, but the only thing I was hoping for all week.
Hi. This is Annika. I finally got my phone replaced. Here’s my number. This may sound forward, and there’s no pressure, but would you like to meet up for coffee?
I blow out a relieved breath then look around, making sure no one saw my reaction. Quickly typing out a response, I suggest a time and place. I want to meet up with her more than anything.
Coffee and Annika are the only two things that might be able to get me through this hell I’m stuck in.
Chapter Twelve
Annika
Keeping my head down, I cross the main quad to the coffee shop. Kampus Koffee is a staple for college life. Most students spend at least a few hours here every week. If they aren’t standing in line to get a shot of caffeine, it’s because they have a nice variety of couches to lounge on and tables to study at. It’s also open later than the cafeteria and the snack bar. To top it off, they have the most amazing pastries. Perfect for a late-night carb load if you don’t have a car to leave campus.
But getting here has been harder than I anticipated. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder every time I hear someone behind me. Whenever I hear footsteps, I have to see who is behind me. Is he coming for me?
Or is someone late for class and hoofing it?
I hate that I feel unsafe walking across campus. I’ve never felt this way before. But in the last week, it seems to be getting worse. I can’t seem to shake the fear. It’s to the point now where I only shower every couple of days, not because I don’t need it. But because I can’t. The thought of undressing in a public bathroom is damn near debilitating. Hell, I’m not sure I’d be able to get naked in a private bathroom with the doors locked and a panic alarm. It’s so bad that the last time I had to wash my hair, I finally gave up the fight and showered in my clothes, which of course made me feel even more humiliated. And then angry for feeling humiliated.
I’m stronger than this. I’m more logical than this. I’m not a weak person. I was raised to be a fighter, but dammit, I feel like I’m losing this battle. I don’t even remember what happened that night, but for some reason, I’m still shaken all the way to my core.
I’m sure part of my emotional state is my lack of sleep. Whenever I close my eyes, I have nightmares. Sometimes, it’s that Ron guy following me out of the club. When I look at him, he smiles, and the wider he smiles the more distorted his face becomes, until finally I’m looking into the eyes of the devil himself.
Then there’s the version of me being assaulted over and over. I’m not unconscious this time, I’m awake and aware. I feel every touch and every whisper of his breath. It’s a continual loop until I finally wake up, not knowing if those are actual memories or my imagination at play.
And sometimes I see Jaxon in the distance trying to rescue me. But the more he runs and tries to get to me, the farther away he gets. All the while, I hear a sinister laugh in my ear as Jaxon gets smaller and smaller before he disappears completely.
To say I’m not doing well is an understatement. And if Jaxon is as observant as he was last time I saw him, he’s going to pick up on it, which I don’t want him to do. I don’t want anyone to know.
Swinging the door open to the coffee shop, the bell above me rings. Not that anyone can hear it. The place is packed. Glancing around the room, I see Jaxon sitting in the corner, playing on his phone. As I wait in line, I take the chance to get a good look at him.
He’s not big for a football player. In fact, he’s not big for any kind of athlete. His dark hair is cut short enough to run his fingers through it, but not long enough to be in his face. He rubs the back of his neck as he reads something on his phone. He doesn’t have an imposing presence. He just looks like every other guy on campus. Yet for some reason, my whole body relaxes when I see him. It’s almost an automatic response. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs that were trained to associate food with the sounds of a bell. I associate safety with him.
“A salted caramel mocha, please. Medium.” The barista writes my name on a cup before taking my money and moving my order down the line. It takes a few more minutes to get my drink, and I see Jaxon look up a couple more times, but he doesn’t notice me. Why would he? The giant hoodie sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants I’m wearing are designed to keep me as invisible as possible. A fact I’m proud to remember from last year’s psych class, but not proud to be living.
Lauren keeps harassing me to go to this on-campus clinic because I won’t get dressed in anything other than the comfiest clothes I can find in my drawers. She’s sure I have the flu. I got so sick of her nagging, one day when I came back from class, I finally lied and told her I went and sure enough, I was positive for influenza. I don’t know what she thinks the symptoms actually look like since I had no fever, no body aches, and no vomiting. But I guess considering I’ve been lethargic lately and I have huge dark circles under my eyes, I can pass for someone with a serious illness. The room carries the overwhelming odor of Lysol now from her “disinfecting.”
“Hi,” I say as I walk up to the table. He looks up, almost startled, and it takes a full second before he recognizes me. When he does, he immediately stands up.
“Hey, Annika. Hi.” He reaches to give me a hug, but thinks better of it and backs away. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I respond, knowing I’m not telling the truth, but right now I’d rather pretend everything is fine.
“I’m glad you texted me. Have a seat.” He gestures to the chair across the table from him and we sit down.
“I’m sorry it took a while to text you,” I say as I get settled in my seat. “Lauren and I have opposite schedules, so I had to wait until she had some free time for her to take me to get a new phone since she has the car.”
“No, it’s okay,” he reassures me with a smile. “I’m just glad you got a new one. And I’m glad you used my number. I’ve been worried about you.”
He has?
“You have?”
“Yeah.” He blows out a breath like he’s finally able to relax too. I want to know why, what is he feeling? But I know where that conversation will lead, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.
Instead, I take a sip of my coffee and stick to a safer topic. “How is practice going? Ready for the game this weekend?”
He chuckles. “Uh, no.”
“No?”
“Third string players rarely get a chance to suit up. And after my shitty practices this week, I’m sure I won’t get called up.”
I can’t conceal my surprise. “Third string?”
He looks a little sheepish before he answers. “Yeah, I’m on the practice squad.”
“But,” I say, confused, “I thought it was only red-shirted freshman on the practice squad.”
He blushes this time, and I feel bad that I put him on the spot. I didn’t mean to make him feel lesser than, I’ve just never heard of a junior not being at least second string.
“Yeah well. I’m not really very good.”
“No, I’m sure you’re good,” I backpedal. “You wouldn’t be on the team if you weren’t.”
“Not really. I tell myself they keep me around because I work hard, and I like what I do. But mostly they keep me around because I have a knack for remembering statistics.”
“What do you mean?”
He shifts in his seat and stretches his legs out, obviously gauging my reaction to this information. I’m sure he’s used to girls who are no longer interested in him because he’s not one of the “good” players. But that’s not me. I love the game, not the players. Always have. And besides, that’s not why I’m here. These days, I have more important things to worry about than how “important” the guy I’m having coffee with is. Like keeping my own sanity.
When he’s finally satisfied I’m not going to run screaming, he explains. “I don’t know if it’s like a photographic memory or something, but I can remember a ridiculous amount of useless trivia facts. That includes just about everything there is to know about football. Yes, I’m third string, but part of my job is helping guys like my roommate…you know Heath Germaine?”
I nod my head. “Starting linebacker, right?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s my roommate. Anyway, I started following the opposing team’s lineup and watching highlights of their plays, including their stats each week. I would make sure to tell Germaine as much information as he could absorb to help prepare him. When the coaches found out I was doing it, and it was working, they asked me to help out several of my teammates.”
My eyes widen. “That is the coolest thing I have ever heard.”
He looks taken aback at my words. “Really?”
“Yeah,” which sounds more like “duh” as I say it. “Any meathead can throw the pigskin around. But only the really, really talented know how to put the bits and pieces of information together to create an actual strategy. You’re like the next Peter Brand,” I say excitedly, referring to the mathematical genius who helped change the way baseball teams are stacked.
Jaxon sits up and looks at me again. I can’t tell if he’s proud or embarrassed by my assessment, but I think he likes that I get it. I think he likes that I appreciate his talent. And it is a seriously cool talent.
“Well, yeah. I love the sport, ya know?” he continues. “Ever since I was a kid, I knew everything there was to know about football. It became me and my dad’s “thing.” When he was on the road, he’d call me just to ask who he was up against in the next game and how it was looking for him. I always knew the answer, so it became like a game to see if he could stump me. He never could.” I see a flash of what looks like sadness cross his face, but it’s gone quickly, making me question if it was really there.
Instead, I focus on what he told me, furrowing my eyebrows in confusion. “Wait, I don’t understand. When your dad was on the road?”
“Yeah. He’s retired from the pros now. My dad is Jason Hart. You’ve probably heard of him.”
It takes about one second before my jaw drops. “Holy. Shit. Your dad was only the best defensive lineman in the history of the game! He was fucking amazing! I mean, he wasn’t a Steeler”—an unexpected laugh bursts out of Jaxon—“but I try not to hold that against him, because he was amazing.”
“Hold on.” Jaxon holds his hands up to stop my rant. “Back up. We’re in Texas. You’re not a Cowboys fan?”
I scoff. “Never! Steelers all the way, baby. I bleed black and yellow.”
Jaxon throws his head back and laughs again, and I smile back at him, glad to have made up for my faux pas a few minutes ago and make him feel comfortable again.
“I can’t believe you said that. My dad is going to get a kick of it.”
“Why would your dad care?” I ask with a smile as I bring the now lukewarm coffee to my lips again.