by Shae Ross
Thanks for watching mom. I’ll call you when I’m back at my dorm.
“Preston.” I look up to see Darren leaning back from the row of lockers with a grin, pointing toward the exit. “Duffy McCray’s here to see you.” My brows shoot high, and I feel my jaw drop. The wave of adrenaline I’ve been riding ignites again.
Duffy McCray is the big deal of all big deal makers in the NFL. We met over lunch in the summer, and he mentioned he was interested in representing me when my college season is over. The fact that he’s come to my game is a huge honor.
I pull my shirt over my head and finger comb my hair, wiping my suddenly sweaty hands on my thighs and walking out of the locker room. He’s smiling and chatting with a small crowd, sporting a custom suit and steel-toed cowboy boots. “Hey, hey,” he sings, pumping my hand and gripping my bicep. “What a game, son. You’re a real talent.”
“I’ve got a great team behind me.” I nod to Coach Cannon, who’s part of the circle. “And even better coaches.”
McCray points a thick finger my way. “That’s what I like about you. You’re always the first to give the credit to someone else. You don’t see kids coming into the NFL as clean as you are. These days everyone’s got problems, and the teams are starting to realize it’s not worth it. You’re going to make my job easy.”
“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to have your support.”
“You bet. My pleasure. Coach Cannon was just filling me in on the talent coming up the pipeline.” I stand and chat, listening to the opinions fly. The conversation ping-pongs from NFL teams, to recruiting, to bowl games, when Carson taps me on the shoulder and leans to my ear.
“Sorry to bother you, bro, but there’s a girl waiting for you at the end of the hallway. Says her name is Little Bo Peep.” My body straightens to full alert and I lean to look.
She’s facing me, resting a shoulder against the wall. Blonde hair streams from the ball cap she’s wearing. It’s pulled low, shadowing half her face, but I recognize her instantly, and my pulse kicks up at the prospect of seeing her. She must have seen my game and come down to congratulate me. “Tell her I’ll be with her in one minute,” I say, and I rejoin the conversation, waiting for an opportunity to excuse myself.
I sent her a text message earlier today. The athletic department sponsors group events for all SEU athletes, and the annual Gladiator Minute to Win It Games are tomorrow. I’d asked her if she wanted to have coffee with me after, and told her I wanted to make sure she was all right. My message showed as delivered but I hadn’t heard back.
I glance down the hall at Carson as he’s speaking to her. Even from a distance I can tell she’s annoyed. Yep, that’s her all right. I smile to myself as Coach Cannon asks me another question, but the sight of her, shaking her head and walking away, distracts me. Oh, come on. Can she seriously not wait a few minutes for me? I’m talking to the big guy here—not that she would know that. Carson signals me with empty hands and shrugs. Damn it. I’ve thought about her every day this week, and I don’t want to miss her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, interrupting. “I’ve just got to catch someone really quick.”
McCray smiles and nods. “Oh, sure, sure. Go ahead, son.”
I walk fast, shouldering past the people gathered outside the locker room.
“Great game, Rush,” a voice calls.
“Thanks,” I respond, moving farther down the hall. “Hey,” I call, just as she’s about to round the corner. She stops, standing stone still, then does an about face. I close the ten-foot distance with cautious steps.
She’s wearing a dark gray T-shirt with the words, “That’s what,” written across the front, and a flannel shirt is tied around the waist of her faded jeans. I stop in front of her, an anxious feeling swirling in my stomach. “Hi,” I say, tilting my head under the brim of her hat. But when she raises her eyes, fury smacks me in the face. It’s like the sight of me up close and personal has tripped a trigger.
She moves into my personal space but other than angling my head down to maintain eye contact, I don’t move. “Have you ever shown up for anyone?” She sneers. “Anyone other than yourself?”
I pause. Where the hell is this coming from? “What?”
“Have you ever shown up for anyone in your life?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about?”
“Well, let me help you out,” she says, crossing her arms. “I see Chewbacca getting beat up in a parking lot and, despite the fact that I don’t know you, I jump in and help you. When the police come, instead of taking off, I crawl over to make sure you’re not dead. I get thrown in the drunk tank at the police station, charged with disorderly conduct and a minor in possession offense, and all I asked in my letter was for twenty minutes of your time…”
“Hey, hey,” I say, instantly conscious of how loud she is. More than a few heads are turning, and I check to see if McCray is watching. Thankfully, he appears to be engaged in conversation. I raise my hands to touch the sides of her arms and speak low.
“Letter? What letter?”
She jerks away, and we stare, our minds trying to connect the dots. “What letter?” I ask again.
“I came to see you,” she says, enunciating each word. “Right here after your practice on Wednesday. The guy I talked to said he was an assistant coach. He promised me he’d give you my letter.”
“I never got any letter,” I respond, and this time when I glance at McCray, he’s looking our way. I nod to an open room, touch her elbow, and guide her in, shutting the door. I opt to leave the lights off, hoping for a few minutes of privacy. She moves further into the training room, and when I follow, she positions herself on the other side of a chest press machine.
I stop, watching her through the long cables, contemplating the disgusted look on her face. Less than a week after our run in, she tracks me down in this rage. I’m missing something. “Look, I’m sorry, but I never got any letter from you on Wednesday. I sent you a text this morning to check on you. Did you get that?”
She raises a skeptical look as if she doubts my sincerity.
“Yeah, I got it,” she says, her tone making it sound more like “Yeah, you’re worthless.”
What the fuck?
“Priscilla, wait.” I step toward her, reaching out. “I told you I’d help, whatever you need.”
Her hand is a stop sign in my face. “Conveniently for you, your chance to help me has come and gone. I really didn’t come here to ask for your help.”
I spread my arms, stammering, “Then…why’d you come?”
She cocks her head, and her eyes tighten, intensifying the heated look she is boring into me. “I wanted to see the real you.” She pauses. “And then I wanted to tell you to fuck off.” Her hand drops to the door, she yanks it open and walks out.
What the hell was that? The sharp edge of guilt gnaws at my insides, which is ridiculous because I don’t even know what I did. All I know is that she believes I did it, and watching her look at me with disgust makes me disgusted with myself. Here I was excited to see her, and she chews my ass over something I don’t even understand. Some damn letter?
I’ve got to find that letter and figure out what’s going on. I return to McCray and my coach, easing back into their conversation, but all I can think about are her words running through my head. Have you ever shown up for anyone?
All I do is show up for other people—football, my team, my coaches, my mom, and my aunt.
“Everything okay there?” Duffy asks, nodding to where Priscilla and I had been standing.
“Yeah, just some old business.” I force a chuckle, but in my head I’m bracing my hands on my knees, trying to shake it off.
When I had texted her earlier, about getting together after the Gladiator Minute to Win It Games, I thought we could commiserate over our unfortunate stint in jail, chalk it up as one of those out of control college nights that you laugh about when you’re older, then say our good-byes. Something’s not right here.
Coach Cannon leaves with McCray to have a late dinner, so I can’t ask him about the letter, and when I step back into the locker room the only one that hasn’t left is Dante, our offensive line coach, and he has no clue. I grab my bag and meet Carson, who’s waiting for me in the hallway.
“Little Bo Peep?” he asks, grinning. “Can’t wait to hear this.”
He pushes the door open and a rush of air hits me. “Her name’s Priscilla Winslow. She’s the girl I was telling you I got thrown in jail with.”
“The soccer player?”
“Yeah, she was dressed as Little Bo Peep at the bar party. She just told me she delivered a letter here on Wednesday—someone took it and never gave it to me. I don’t know exactly, but I think she’s in trouble.”
His eyes pop. “Did you tap her in the jail cell?”
“No.” I smirk. “Not that kind of trouble. I mean in trouble with her coach.”
“Seven hours in a cell with Little Bo Peep sounds like a wet dream to me.”
I let out a laughing breath. “Yeah, well, press pause on that fantasy. I’m going to corner her at the event tomorrow and figure it out.”
Carson pops the trunk of his BMW, and we dump our bags and load in. “Do you still have time to swing by Moses’s house before we head to the dorm?” he asks, rolling out of the lot.
“Yeah. I’d rather do it tonight so I can study tomorrow.”
Moses plays left tackle on our defensive line, and apparently his mom is having some serious financial problems. He put in a “Hail Mary” call to Carson yesterday. It’s a code our team adopted, along with the agreement that we reach out to each other when we’re about to do some stupid shit because were desperate. We’re meeting him at his mom’s house in Detroit to see if we can help.
The steering wheel spins as we turn onto Gratiot Avenue. The hallmark billboards of a struggling neighborhood whizz by, lining the sky with messages that carry the subtle serenade of desperation: Check Cashing, Top Dollar for Junk Cars, and We Buy Go_d. The missing letter L converts it to a whole new kind of desperate message. We buy God.
After a quick trip to Foodtown for groceries, we arrive in front of the brick bungalow and head up the split path drive, carrying grocery bags and stalked by a husky and a pit bull, barking from behind the neighbor’s chain link fence. The door opens and a six foot six, three-hundred plus frame consumes the space.
“Holy Moses,” Carson sings.
Moses grips his hand, then mine, and thanks us for coming. “Step back now, Carlos,” he says, lowering his palm to the head of a little boy clinging to his thigh. The small living room is lined with plum carpet, empty of all furniture except a long brown sofa that’s loaded with three more kids. With comatose expressions, their eyes are glued to a small television as SpongeBob’s jolly voice fills the room. Moses introduces us to his half-siblings, Jayden, Miguel, Mya, and Carlos, who all look to be in elementary school. Then he points to the kitchen, and we follow him through the living room.
I dig my hand into one of the grocery bags as I’m passing the kids. “Hey you guys like fruit snacks?” Their heads turn. Mya stands on the couch and bounces, stretching her arms. She takes the handoff, and her brothers promptly tackle her into the cushions.
“Leave me alone, you filthy dogs,” she shrieks, kicking out at them.
“Hey, get off of her,” Moses growls, and he turns into the kitchen. He lifts an armload of papers off a small table to clear space. As he’s swinging the stack, a brown object flickers down. “Damn,” he mutters, lunging toward the shiny shell that’s crawling fast. He drops an arm, squashing the cockroach under his elbow.
“Nice block,” Carson says.
Moses grunts, swirling toilet paper around his hand and wiping his skin. “That sucker’s just one of my problems.” He whips the wadded tissue at the garbage can and collapses in a chair. We pile the grocery bags on the counter and join him at the table.
“I gotta do something to help my mom.” His head shakes, frustration evident in the long frown lines on his face. “She works at Long John Silvers up the road—walks to and from work. Her boyfriend left her a month ago, and she took a second job at the Payless.” He motions with a big hand toward the living room. “We don’t have anyone to watch the kids. We can’t afford to hire help…” He laughs, but it sounds more like an overwhelmed loss of breath. “I gave my mom every dime of the small stipend the athletic department gives us, but we still can’t afford groceries. One of the dorm cafeteria ladies busted me sneaking cereal out in my backpack last week. That was a proud moment,” he says wryly. “I’m not asking y’all for a handout. I know you ain’t got it much better at your house.” He nods my way, and I note the bloodshot lines cracking the whites of his eyes. Poor guy.
“I feel your pain, my friend. It’s going to get better. You just have to hang in there, finish school.” I just hope I’m right. This is reality for a lot of college athletes. Whether or not you’re good at sports doesn’t depend on your parents’ financial status, and a lot of college athletes come from poor families. Between practice, games, and classes, there’s no time to work, and we can’t take money from anyone involved with the university—even if it’s a loan, it’s a violation of NCAA rules. As if he’s read my mind, Moses continues.
“I already took one loan from Martin Todd freshman year, for two thousand dollars. I’m not proud of it, but my mom needed the money to pay her taxes. It was either that or lose her house. I don’t want to go to Todd again. I know it could mean trouble for me, for our team, but I can’t keep lacing up my new Nikes and trotting out on the field while my family goes hungry.”
“Martin Todd’s already got his hooks into a half dozen players,” I remind him. “You ask him for a thousand bucks, and he’ll put that in an envelope in the glove compartment of your new truck—then you’ll be on his payroll, expected to repay him with favors. If the NCAA finds out about what he’s been doing, we’re toast.”
Carlos wanders into the room, and Moses lifts him onto his lap. “Eat Mosey,” he says, pinching a yellow fruit snack between his fingers, and raising it.
“My cousin works with social services in Wayne County,” Carson explains. “She’s a resource for finding programs. We can start there. We have a fund the players have contributed to. It’s not a lot, but we can help with the groceries for awhile.”
After my problems freshman year with Martin Todd, Carson and I started making a conscious effort to help our teammates avoid the booster trap. We started talking about financial problems in the locker room instead of pretending they didn’t exist, and players began coming to us before getting desperate enough to start taking booster money. Over the last two years we’ve helped a dozen players or so.
“Eat,” Carlos says, rolling another fruit snack over Moses cheek, then stopping to scratch at a rash of red bumps just to the side of his own mouth. My stomach sinks as I look closer. I remember the cockroach problems I saw in some of the houses in my neighborhood growing up. I’m pretty sure those bumps are bites—especially the way he’s itching them.
I recall a homemade pest remedy and head out to the BMW. I grab two beers from the six-pack Carson bought at the grocery store, bring them in, and mix up a concoction of half beer, half vegetable oil. Swirling the amber liquid and holding the bottles up to Moses, I give him the instructions. “Leave this out until it’s full of roaches. It’s the poor man’s answer to Orkin. The roaches climb in and die in a drunken orgy with their friends.”
“Thanks man,” he says as I cross the kitchen.
Grabbing the handle of the stove for balance, I kneel to place the bottle. A glint from the heat register catches my attention. I lean in, focusing on the gray vent as a feeling of dread crawls up the back of my neck. Antennae poke out of the slats, waving in front of the amber shells of the roaches—they’re lined up like spectators in a football stadium. My stomach turns. Not good. This sucks. Those poor kids. I blink hard, knock the register with the bottle, and set it di
rectly underneath. Come and get it, planktons.
Sadness and frustration churn in my gut as I unload the rest of the groceries. “I’m going to put everything in the fridge,” I mention to Moses. “Helps keep the roaches out.” He nods, and as he and Carson review his mom’s budget, I grab a bag of carrots and head to the living room. “So who’s everybody’s favorite SpongeBob character?” I ask, flopping on to the sofa between Mya and the two boys.
“I like Sandy cause she knows karate,” Miguel says, leaning over the armrest. I rip the plastic bag and hold it out to Miguel, then Jayden.
“I like Patrick,” Jayden says, withdrawing a clutch of tiny orange spears as I inspect the red bumps between his thumb and index fingers.
“Patrick?” Mya’s tone charges him with haughty offense. “Patrick is just plain dumb, Jayden. He ain’t ever gonna do nothing with his life.”
“He’s nice, Mya,” Miguel says, defending his brother.
“How about you, Mya? Who’s your favorite,” I ask, swinging the bag her way.
“I like Mr. Krabs cause he’s the boss,” she says, pointing to the TV.
Bingo. She’s my girl.
“I’ve got a job for you kids. You think you can be the leader, Mya?”
She crosses her arms and arches a brow. “How much it pay?”
I smile and reach for my wallet. “Five bucks.” I hold the wrinkled bill above my head. “Listen up, boys, cause I’m going to ask Mya for a report. If you do a good job, you each get three bucks. All you have to do is wash your faces—especially your mouths and your hands—before you go to bed. Do it after you’ve brushed your teeth—you can’t leave any toothpaste by your mouth. Now, I’m gonna know if y’all don’t do it. You know how? See those little bumps on Carlos face, and here, on Jayden’s hand. Those are from the Bubble Fairy. If the Bubble Fairy thinks you’re not using her enough, she sneaks into your room at night and pecks at you.”
They still, looking mesmerized for a moment, and I notice Carson and Moses leaning in the door jam, watching the magic.