Pain & Redemption

by Kat Kenyon

  I get back into position to restart. I’m going through this at least a couple more times before I leave. Maybe if my body is rundown enough, I can sleep tonight.

  • • • •

  Sunday rolls around and while campus turned its attention to the Blood and Iron Warriors’ performance on the field yesterday, I run errands and work.

  I don’t watch the football games anymore, but I can’t escape them completely. This is a sports school, and football is the unrivaled king of all the teams. There’s no way to miss that they won.

  They came from behind at the last minute with a throw to Ty. I know, because it’s on every screen in the cafeteria where I’m sitting for lunch with Bay, Tate, and Tegs. ESPN is running the key plays and the big catch is being replayed on every screen as the commentators fall over themselves to compliment Dylan and Tyler, and I have to give it to him, it was a great play.

  We’re sitting at a table near the windows, with the late Sunday afternoon sun lighting up the whole room, warming us so much we’re all down to short sleeves. The place is packed full of student-athletes comparing abs and party notes. There are other teams who are working on their seasons, but today is all about opinions on the game.

  People come up and congratulate Bay on the game, several waving at me because they know me from Dixon. I’m nice and say hi, though I struggle to keep up a happy face. Even surrounded by friends, I try to keep my head down to avoid attention.

  “Are you gonna eat that?” Bay smirks and points at my abandoned wrap.

  I glare at him, thinking back to the pickle he already stole, and give up. “No, you big mooch. Have at it.”

  His silly grin and happy chomping break through, making me laugh. The shaking of my chest feels good, my fake glare versus his smug happiness.

  As we eat, the program flicks to the next spot, yesterday’s CU Warriors’ press conference following the game.

  Usually, it’s Dylan, Garrett, or Randy talking. As leaders of the team and some of the most high-profile team members, they tend to handle student relations, but this time, it’s Ty. He only gets up there when he’s the standout player of the game and the coaches think he’ll keep his mouth under control.

  Seeing him on screen makes my eyes burn, and I clench my teeth to lock it all down. Seeing him in person or on television hurts.

  Even as I try to pretend that I’m fine, Bay stands and grabs my stuff, the food forgotten, trying to cram it in my bag, saying, “Rayne, it’s time to go.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t need to stay and watch this.

  From multiple screens, the interviewer’s questions sound like a boom through the room.

  “So, Cyborg, how do you feel things are going for you this year? It seems things are going well.”

  “You mean, how well football is going?” His eyes darken for a moment before he wipes his face blank.

  “Of course! Unless you have something else to say? Rumor has it you’re a free man now, is it true?”

  Ty’s face pales, and it looks like it was an effort to drag in air.

  “Rayne, we need to go. Now.” Bay moves to block my view of the TV, brows pinched, as his hand comes to my shoulder to guide me out of the room, nearly shoving me to get me going.

  That’s not like him, and it dawns on me: he doesn’t want me to see the screen. Whatever it is, must be important or he wouldn’t be acting like this. But he doesn’t get to decide what I see, or what I know.

  “Stop it!”

  Shoving him out of my way, I look up at the screen. I’m not the only one in the room transfixed, but they aren’t looking at the screen.

  “…want to say, Mike. I’m proud of my team. I’m proud to be on it and really lucky. How many walk-ons get to play? So many guys help us at home and don’t see the field. So many.” He blinks hard, saying, “So, thanks to the black team. I’m grateful to my mom for standing by me when I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

  I can see him.

  He’s sad. Part of me inside screams it’s a lie, but I know it’s not. Something is happening with him, but whatever it is, I can’t help. He severed that bond. He didn’t want me, which sucks, because he looks like he wants to cry. He’s hurting and reaching out and it kills me.

  “Well, she’s your mom, I’m sure she’s really proud of you right now.” The interviewer hesitates but looks almost gleeful. It’s disgusting.

  “My mom wants me happy. She doesn’t care about touchdowns. And I’m not happy, because I hurt the only person I give a damn about.” Ty’s eyes squeeze tight while he takes a breath and my heart stops.

  This was yesterday while I was so desperate to call him. While I lay in bed trying to study with my head pounding from the attack. He was telling everyone. This.

  “I hurt my girl. Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I see his eyes well up. And so do mine.

  Fuck him. Damn it!

  An image of me on the sidelines at one of the games flashes on the screen. It flips quickly to an image of us kissing on the field when he grabbed me after a game. Memories rush me, leaving me with tears pouring down my face.

  Snatching my bag, I turn my back on his picture, our picture, and sprint for the exit, Tate catching me before I get to the second set of doors. She knows now isn’t the time to talk. I can’t talk, can’t even think right now, but she stays next to me all the way back to our room, her presence keeping me moving. Through the lobby, up the stairs, through the door, and into the shower under a boiling spray, trying to burn away tears that won’t stop.

  Why would he do that?

  Chapter Seven

  Tyler Blackman

  I knew it was a long shot. Deep down, I knew she wouldn’t call, but I had to try. Bay’s head shake told me what I needed to know when we walked into class. It didn’t change anything.

  I deserve it.

  How many times did I have the power to change everything before?

  My therapy sessions aren’t helping the way everyone said they would, and the stupid exercises just make things worse. Not one “homework assignment” has led to anything that improves a damn thing. The last two calls she demanded I make back to my dad ended with us getting into screaming arguments. It’s made things worse, not better.

  I walk through my days now fully aware of everything going on inside and out, slightly better at talking, but I don’t feel better, I’m not smarter, and I certainly don’t have answers. Everything hurts.

  I’m not a machine anymore.

  I power through classes and practice just to get through the day. And today feels like a major marker. She’s performing.

  Getting dressed feels like getting ready for war. I’m putting on armor to protect myself and her because it’s a battle to balance being there and not making tonight about me. I need to stay under the radar. It needs to be about her.

  Her performances are a big deal to her scholarship and I’m the asshole who wasn’t supportive last time, so this is just me watching. If she catches a glimpse, hopefully, it won’t be until after she dances, and she’ll know I didn’t come at the last minute, that I planned to support her.

  When I get to the auditorium, my palms are sweaty and I feel like I’ve been running for miles. The Performing Arts Center is a beautiful building housing two huge theaters and three small ones, and tonight it’s a sold-out crowd. A variety of decked-out older groups and a younger crowd in various stages of dress swarm the outside of the lobby, streaming in from the parking lot.

  My team is well represented, and looking good as a big group at the top of the three-tiered stairs. We have to dress up for travel, and they’ve put in the same effort for her tonight, looking as Gucci-fine as they can, drawing attention from the older and younger crowds as only athletes in their prime can.

  They’ve had enough of her ignoring them and instead of getting mad, they decided to show up to her event and make a point. They aren’t giving up on her, and instead of a handful of guys like the last few times, it’s the entire morning c
rew and more.

  I get it. No one’s taking it out on me anymore, even though they’re still upset. Pathetic misery has a way of making itself obvious, so they’ve decided they can't do more to me than I’m doing to myself. We’ve all come to an understanding; they aren’t happy and I’m not stable. Regardless, I don’t want to be near them tonight. I don’t want the attention they’ll attract, and I can’t watch her with anyone watching me, so my seat is several sections away. Besides, I know she won’t talk to them if I’m there.

  Heading up a small side staircase away from the main grand entrance in an effort to sneak in, I’m almost through the second set of glass doors when I get punched in my shoulder.

  “How are ya, man?” Mike asks.

  He’s dressed in a charcoal jacket with a dress shirt, over black jeans, and it almost gives him the illusion of a neck. Almost.

  “Same.” The sound of my own jacket rubbing together as I shrug feels loud in the warm, muggy air already saturated with sounds.

  Mike took it harder than most that she’s ghosted on everyone. The two of them were bonding, and he doesn’t do that with many people.

  He’s also one of the few who seems to understand how deep this cuts me though. He was there when we broke. When we were bleeding out. He’s been watching me trying to drown myself but failing.

  Scratching the back of his head, he grimaces. “She hasn’t said anything to you yet?”

  That’s the running question from the whole team since my comments on national television during the press conference. Hell, even Coach Mills asked.

  “No.”

  The thick lump in my throat isn’t going anywhere. Every time I have to answer, it reminds me of the hole in my chest.

  “Are you sure she saw?”

  “Yeah.”

  She saw. I don’t have a right to expect anything from her. It needed to be said, regardless. I owed her a public apology. Not only for what I did but because those fucking online fans are my fault.

  “I’m sorry, man. It’ll get better.”

  I nod. There’s nothing to say.

  “You with us tonight?”

  I shake my head. “No. I got my ticket late.”

  An excuse, but useful. I’m afraid of watching her, and of breaking down.

  “Ty, man…”

  “Mike, I can’t talk about this.” My skin itches, blood’s pumping through my veins so hard it should bust a vessel and escape through my skin.

  He nods, claps a hand on my shoulder, and heads back to the group, leaving me to try to breathe.

  The moisture in the air makes it feel like I’m dying so I duck inside. Desperate to catch my breath, hoping the cool, dark interior of the lobby will help, the struggle to get oxygen through the pain of the proverbial golf ball in my throat forces me against the wall, head down.

  I stay in my little corner of the lobby until the lights flicker for people to take their seats, causing me to pull out my ticket and head inside to search for my single seat.

  Each brush past people already in their seats makes me feel the need to run out, and the crowded seats are worse for someone my size. My legs are cramped as I sit, and the width of my shoulders makes me over-fill the space, brushing the people on either side of me. The tight fit sends my anxiety through the roof.

  A couple of deep breaths to steady myself, and I force my attention forward, not letting the crawling sensation force me to run. As I do, I’m not surprised when I see Tate and Tegs a couple rows in front of me in the front row. They’re with the wrestlers from class, who shove, laugh, and smack one another.

  I don’t want to see anyone, so I try to keep my head down. Tate can’t see me. We’ve always gotten along, but she hates me right now. The last thing I want to do is explain why I’m here, and I can’t take the interrogation I’d get from her. Tate is worse than a CIA counter-terrorism agent.

  “Someone has to be with her!” Tate announces, her voice rising above the din, as she waves her hands at the guys.

  “I know that, you know that, but she’s not thinking clearly. She’s not coping.” Tegs’ sigh is barely audible but clear as he pulls her under his arm. His voice isn’t loud, but his expression sets me on edge.

  What happened?

  “Of course she’s not coping, he attacked her again! Fucking school!” Tate’s voice carries back to me, piercing me like a knife.

  There’s a flicker of her hands as she curses the administration, Tate’s shaking with rage. I don’t need a letter or an outline to get what they’re talking about. Gabe-fucking-Stevens. He got to her!

  And she hasn’t reached out. No one told me.

  I’m out. There is no more us.

  Tate doesn’t stop until the lights go out as the stage lights rise. Her panic tells me what I need to know; it was bad.

  I’m supposed to be a man, but moisture rises in my eyes. He hurt her again, and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there because I ruined us.

  Men don’t cry…right? Shit!

  I can’t move as the performance begins.

  Where the fuck are these tears coming from?

  Chapter Eight

  Rayne Mathews

  The stage lights are working hard on the performances before us. The colors and movement of the different lights are beautiful and make me want to move through the shifting light and dark spaces created onstage.

  “How’s your headache?” Marcus wraps his arms around me as we wait backstage and gives me a kiss on the head.

  “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

  He feels guilty because he left, and no matter how many times I tell him not to feel bad, he doesn’t listen. But it’s not his fault. He couldn’t know it was going to happen. Regardless, he’s been hyper-vigilant since my attack, and it’s like having a babysitter—a really hot babysitter, but a babysitter, nonetheless.

  “You looked great in rehearsal.”

  He’s being nice. I’m doing the job. Thanks to lots of practice, I know the routine, even though it’s only been a short time since I joined the group, but I’d hardly call my grasp on it “great.” I’m merely doing the choreography, I’m not truly performing it like I would if I had more time and fewer injuries.

  “Thanks.”

  “Marcus, can you come help with this?” Katie calls from farther back as she struggles with part of her costume. Her voice is layered in innuendo and a sultry husk that’s clearly lost on Marcus. It’s so like her to interrupt any time she can, and I’m almost surprised she doesn’t strip out of the costume just to make sure she gets his attention. She’s been more careful since Marcus got pissed, but she’s still targeting me whenever she can.

  He touches me during practice, and she comes up with something to call him away. She sees him talk to me, she finds a reason to butt in. She hasn’t figured out he’s not hitting on me. He never has.

  “Sure.”

  As he steps away, I’m left standing in the wings, watching the performance onstage. It’s good choreography, but it leaves me cold. Most things do now. The only pleasure I get anymore is when I’m alone dancing and I feel every ounce of pleasure and pain in the music, the floor, my muscles. When people are around, not so much.

  Glancing out into the audience, I see a block of seats filled with a mass of blocky man-children and men, dressed in suits and jackets. For the most part, they’re quietly watching the performance, though a few are laughing quietly and slapping each other.

  The football team showed up and look idiotic and kinda sweet. I don’t know if I want them here or not, but I love that they came. I know some of them genuinely care and haven’t done anything wrong, they just represent the big red button of loss and hurt I can’t get past.

  Tearing my eyes away, I look for Tate. Tate and Tegs have been my safe place lately, and when I find them in the front row, I relax a little.

  They brought Matty and Hatch, who look as awkward as the ballers, making me giggle a little. Their knees are bouncing as they stare wide-eyed at the dancers, whispe
ring back and forth to one another. They’ll never understand the performances tonight. Most of the time, those two just think I do splits.

  Proving my point, I watch Tate slap at them to get them to shut up, causing them to duck their heads before excitedly whispering to each other again. Laughter bursts out of me, forcing me to cover my mouth to keep quiet.

  The house lights brighten in time with the performance and I catch more of the crowd behind Tate’s group. And two rows back from them, the beautiful boy who broke my heart is unmistakable. He’s sitting alone and staring straight at the stage, looking so haunted and so beautiful he tears the hole in my chest wide open.

  What are you doing here?

  Minutes before my first performance with the Satellites, my heart stays locked on the third row.

  “Time, newbie,” Marcus says, tapping my shoulder, unfreezing my body enough to move to our starting position as our music is cued. When the curtain rises and the sound fills the auditorium, I dance.

  Muscle memory and training move the muscle, and pain supplies everything else. I bleed my pain on the stage as tears track down my face. Love knows no mercy as it strips my soul bare of lies.

  I’m still yours.

  Rising in a toe pointe, Marcus’s arms envelop me. His face breaks for a moment with a soft smile before he spins me to the audience where my eyes lock on my beautiful boy. Our eyes catch for a moment that strips me bare, leaving me struggling to catch my breath.

  Please, I want to breathe again.

  The disconnection from him as Marcus tosses me into the air is like losing a limb. And just like my life, I’m spinning out of control, with my feet off solid ground. There’s no one to catch my heart the way Marcus catches me. When the music ends, I’m dying on stage with no air, frozen in place in Marcus’ arms as the crowd stands.

  Ty’s so tall, I can see him over the crowd, his eyes on me, matching glassy eyes. He’s crystal clear, even with the lights, and I can’t watch him. It’s too much. Too real.

  “Go.”

  Marcus’s whisper and gentle nudge off stage get me in motion with the group. The darkness of the side stage is a welcome hideout from the hot lights of the stage. I’m drained and need to get myself together where there are no hazel eyes to remind me.