Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  Maybe he can tell who I am? Do I broadcast it? Is that why the things that have happened to me seem to always repeat? Is it the reason Irus never came back to see me?

  Sometimes, I don’t want to be this person.

  With the Pirates, I was always isolated, but I was used to it. Now, I’m with a team that has a lot a fun. We work and play together. Coach doesn’t scream at me or spit in my face.

  I guess I’m afraid to lose it all.

  Time to shut my brain down. I grab my duffel off the carousel and dump it in the wheelchair. “There, now it will do some good.”

  The man shrugs. “Whatever you want, sir.”

  We get outside into the bright sunshine. A big, black car waits for me. The backseat swallows me up, hides me from the sunlight, and whisks me away. My phone buzzes. I look down at the text message.

  You down yet?

  I don’t recognize the number.

  Who is this?

  Irus.

  What the fuck? Why’s he texting me? How’d he get my number?

  What do you want?

  A few minutes go by and my phone buzzes again. I debate looking down at it, afraid to see something I don’t want or need to see.

  I want to know if you safely landed. Want to know if you awright.

  Am I all right? Is this his conscience needing absolution?

  Planes landed. In a car heading to facility.

  I shift to make my leg more comfortable. My phone buzzes.

  Wish you rehabbed here.

  Why?

  Buzz.

  Then I could harass your ass.

  Isn’t that what you’re doing now, Iris?

  Buzz.

  Why you gotta treat me like that, boy?

  What, like you’re the asshole who broke my leg and put me out of the game?

  My phone doesn’t buzz for a few minutes. It takes a second to realize the silence disappoints me.

  Buzz.

  Teach you to call me Iris.

  I smile. Yeah, you taught me good. You know, all you needed to do was spank me.

  Fuck, I can’t believe I just hit Send on that shit. I groan, flopping my head back on the leather headrest, watching the shiny highway slip by in the window. I’m horny. I adjust myself. So not used to being abstinent. After Branson left that last night together, I needed to give my soul some relief. I need to feel less used, I guess.

  I don’t think that’s all it’d take. You got a hard nugget.

  I didn’t say hit me in the head.

  A few minutes later. Trying to think about your ass. Don’t need that image in my head.

  Buzz.

  I meant, not think about your ass.

  I laugh. Homophobe.

  Buzz.

  Just sayin’. Not a homophobe. Got my own thing. To each his own.

  I want to ask what that means, but we are too far away for a serious conversation. Plus, this is just too weird. I can’t take a chance outing myself to Irus Beaumont simply because I’m lusting after him and feeling insecure about my career. So I change the subject. How’s Haines doing?

  Buzz.

  He’s good. Went up just like you in the game.

  Came down with the ball?

  Yeah, got punished. Did awright tho. Scored TD on next drive.

  A touchdown, nice. Kid’s gonna be great.

  The car stops in front of a huge glass-and-cement building. The glass glitters in the sunshine. The blue sky is a halo behind gleaming white concrete. Shit. There’s stairs. I don’t mind the stairs. They just hurt. Not going to stop me, though. I’m a glutton for punishment. One look at the conversation I’m having with Irus, and anyone would be able to tell I’m a masochist.

  The fact I’ve only got a few more years left to play just now hits me. All of it depends on this rehab. Coach is taking a big risk with me, putting me on the “injured reserve, designated to return” list. I mean, I know I’m under contract, but they could just release me, pay me my money, and get someone else. Of course, it’d have to be someone cheap. After they pay me, it’d be all they could afford. It’s a gamble. It’s also all they have, really. Still doesn’t make me feel secure. I don’t want to just get paid. I want to play. Fuck, I’ll play for free.

  My phone buzzes again. Yeah, but he’s not there yet. Need you back ASAP.

  Missing me already, Iris?

  Buzz.

  Rus! I-rus! Shit, boy, you a pain in my ass.

  So now we’re talking about your ass?

  God, don’t get me started thinking about his ass. What the hell am I doing? This is insane. Time to put an end to this conversation.

  I’m here. Gotta go.

  Buzz.

  TTYL. Bye

  I stare at my phone. The whole conversation has me bewildered, but I save him as a contact anyway. Sounds like he plans on talking to me again. Why, I still don’t know. The driver stands on the sidewalk, holding the door open, my duffel bag in his hand as I fight my way out of the backseat. I get the crutches under me and sling my bag over my shoulder. He starts to protest, but I ignore him, walking to the wide steps leading to the front door.

  With a deep breath, I ascend slowly, moving in a way that doesn’t put too much pressure on my leg or cause me to twist. By the time I get to the top, I’m a sweaty mess, and my T-shirt sticks to me. Who the hell put all those stairs in front of a rehab facility? I glance to my right and notice the ramp. God, I feel like an idiot.

  With my crutch, I push the panel to open the door. An athletic woman with an overly bright smile bounds toward me with way too much enthusiasm. I glare at her, pissed off and hurting.

  “Jackson McCoy?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Follow me to your room.”

  She hops off but slows down when it’s clear I can’t keep up with her pace. This place feels like a substance abuse center or what I’d imagine one to look like. I expect to see twelve-step signs scattered around. Instead there are a few inspirational posters of athletes doing amazing things. Still, this feels more like a hospital than an athletic center.

  I hate hospitals. I hate the antiseptic, institutional feel of the place.

  As we walk through the lobby, we come to a huge wall of glass that looks down into a gym. It’s the most amazing gym I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m like a little kid. I press my hands to the glass and lean in to look at it all. They have every conceivable machine, along with ropes, free weights, and gadgets. We have a good gym at the facility, but this is amazing. This even rivals the gym at the Pirates center.

  “Mister McCoy.”

  “Huh?”

  “The glass. You’re leaving fingerprints on the glass.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  I’m really not. I like the idea of mussing up this overly clean space. The starkness of this place is in direct contrast to the heaven below in the weight room. People are working out. Some folks are spotting, and you can tell the patients from the physical therapists and sports medicine guys by the different sweat suits. I want to get down there, but Bouncy over here insists on taking me to my prison.

  I mean, room.

  Just when I don’t want to walk anymore, we come to my room. Bouncy opens the door on a white void. A double bed dominates the room, covered in white bedding and an assortment of white pillows. The bed tables are white. The walls are white. There’s no art. No color. I feel cold walking inside. The only saving grace is the huge window looking out over a manicured lawn, and in the distance, I can see the track and field. There’s a small pond. The track circles both the pond and field.

  “George will meet with you at one o’clock. The white board keeps your schedule and the names of the therapists you’ll be working with each hour of every day.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Is there something wrong, Mister McCoy?”

  “Yeah, can you get me some flowers? Something with color.”

  “I’m sorry. Flowers are against policy, sir. Allergens.”

  “This i
s a sports rehab, right? Sweaty, smelly guys getting back in shape?”

  “This is an inpatient and outpatient facility. We cater to the needs of a variety of individuals. Not all our clients are professionals.”

  “For this kind of money, they’d have to be,” I mutter. I hate this shit. I hate being sent away. I hate being alone, even though this was partly my choice.

  After my mini-mental tantrum, I drop my black duffel bag on the white bed.

  For some reason I think of Irus.

  “I’ll give you a chance to settle in and rest. Would you like something sent up to eat?”

  She’s still here? God. My leg throbs. Wish she’d leave so I can collapse.

  “Yeah, I want a big, juicy cheeseburger. You got that?”

  “Yes. Would you like a watercress salad on the side?”

  “Shit, no.” Is she insane? “I want steak fries with ranch and a beer.”

  “We don’t have beer.”

  “Then go get me a six-pack.” I take out my wallet and shove some bills at her, thinking about how easy it is to channel Terry Branson. Can’t even count how many times he was a dick to some clerk or waiter. Bouncy frowns but jettisons herself from my room. Maybe I should be a douchebag more often. If she weren’t so annoying—if this place weren’t so sterile or my leg didn’t hurt so much, I could contain my frustration. As it is, this place makes my skin crawl. I want to run. Like when I was kid. Run when things are out of my control.

  I open my duffel bag and dump all my clothes on the bed. A white desk and chair sit in the corner by the window. By the closet is one of those round, artsy-type chairs. I throw my clothes on it and sit on the bed. Actually, stretching out on the bed sounds like a great idea. The remote for the TV is on the bedside table. I click it on and settle the channel on sports news.

  They’re showing highlights from the preseason games. Irus has some great picks. One of them he runs back for a touchdown. I like watching him run. His legs are so long. He looks like he gets longer as he runs. Guy’s got some great stems for sure. The dreads make him look like Predator. He runs like a fucking gazelle but takes you down like a lion on the hunt.

  When we’re in the locker room, he laughs and jokes, rapping and dancing. I’m drawn to him. I’ve been doing a good job of ignoring the attraction. Now, with so much time on my hands, I can’t get him out of my mind.

  He’s on the screen right now. One of those slo-mo shots. He’s up in the air, hollering out his aggression to the opponent, and Els is smacking that perfect ass as Irus comes down. The whole scene is so erotic. Irus slides down Els’s body, his arms coming to rest on Els’s shoulder pads while Els still has a handful of ass. Just as I start to stroke my hardening cock, there’s a knock at the door.

  Fuck.

  I sit up. “Come in,” I holler, hoping to hide my erection by remaining seated.

  “Jackson? Hello, I’m George.”

  I start to stand, but he shakes his head. He’s got a plate in his hand and a cold bottle of beer in his other. The condensation drips from the label.

  “Bless you,” I say, taking the plate, setting it on the bedside table. The burger looks all right. Done too quickly to be fresh, but it’s food. He hands me the beer. I look at it, remembering my true aversion to drinking. The taste of beer brings back painful memories.

  “Officially, we don’t condone drinking here, Jackson. This one is from my personal stash. I use it as motivation for certain players. Are you going to be one of them?”

  I hand the beer back to him. “I’m good with water. Bouncy was just irritating me.”

  George laughs. “Bouncy, huh? Yeah, she can be a bit much sometimes.”

  A wad of bills lands next to my plate. The money I gave Bouncy to run to the store.

  “Thanks, man.”

  George looks at the pile of clothes in the chair. He shifts direction to drag over the one from the desk. He twists off the top on his beer as I dig into my steak fries and then my burger.

  “This is going to be intense, Jackson. Are you ready for it?”

  I nod, my mouth full of cheeseburger. I love the feel of the warm grease on my lips. God, I love meat. Steak, burgers, anything.

  “It will hurt. There will be a lot of anger. Eventually, I’ll push you to your limits. We’ll start out small. Work on strengthening your muscles. Anytime you are in a hospital bed, even for just two days, your muscles lose substance. It’s like getting back in shape at camp or the organized team activities.”

  “I love the OTAs, man. I work out year-round, though. I’m good. Work me hard.”

  “First we have to do our own assessment of your injury and develop a care plan. I’ve been looking at your latest MRI. Even if they didn’t put you on injured reserve, you definitely wouldn’t be playing any time before week six, eight at the latest.”

  The thought makes my burger taste like shit. I put it down and wipe my lips. He hands me the beer, and I pound the foul-tasting thing down.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll have you ready and back with your team probably by week four. Practice for a few weeks and see how it goes. I can see you back in the week eight game, fully recovered.”

  “I’ll be in at week six.”

  “Don’t push too hard, Jackson. You only have a few more great years and few good ones after that. Don’t fuck it up by pushing too hard too soon.” George stands. “You get to rest tonight. Shake off the jet lag, and we’ll start early in the morning. Five o’clock sound good to you?”

  “Let’s make it four. I like dark mornings. I’m usually up by two thirty and running by three.”

  “Sounds good. See you then. Nice to meet you, Jackson.”

  When he’s gone, I get up to lock the door. I strip off the leg brace. My clothes are next. In the shower is a bench with rails. The tiles are expansive. In the corner is the toilet. The sink is by the door. The rest is shower.

  I’m surprised to find the bathroom done in more soothing colors. Beige and green river rocks rest in the bottom of the sink, creating a nice sound when I turn on the faucet. The shower tiles are the colors of the creek bed running through my property back home. Reddish browns, umbers, golds, and beiges streak through the room. Pot lighting creates a soothing glow. Reminds me of my bathroom, which helps a lot, or I’d be AWOL about now.

  I turn on the shower. Several sprays shoot out toward the bench. I waste no time in climbing in to settle down in the hot streams of water. I groan. My body melts onto the bench. If this had been as institutional as the room—hell, the rest of this place—I would’ve left. I can’t stand showers as it is, but a stark white one would’ve killed me.

  * * * *

  A Week Later

  Christ, I’m exhausted and amped up at the same time. I rip the brace off as soon as I get to my room. Been going hard since this morning. Sweat makes my clothes cling. I fall with a dead-man drop, landing on my bed face-first, and I dream of being lifeless. My leg is better. I want to take the brace off for good, but the fuckers rehabbing me are holding back. “Let me run hard,” I tell them. I know I can do it. They’re afraid I’ll reinjure myself.

  My hamstring seizes up. I bury my face in the pillow. I don’t want anyone to hear me crying. The knot in my thigh is huge, and all I can do is squeeze it in my fist. It hurts too bad to even try to rub it out.

  Fuck.

  This has been going on for weeks. They’re giving me magnesium and potassium. I still cramp. I drink water by the gallon. Still, I cramp. I’ve started to keep my mouth shut about it, but I’m afraid something is really wrong. I want to go home in three weeks. I need to make it happen.

  My phone rings. I grab for it, desperate to take my mind off the cramp fading at a slug’s pace. It’s Irus. I hit the button.

  “Yeah,” I say, a mean growl in my voice.

  Silence a moment, and then he speaks, the sound of his voice is a relief in my ear. He’s been calling me or texting me every night. A relief but also a torture. His long-distance encouragement is great f
or my ego, but wreaks havoc on my libido.

  “What’s wrong? Another cramp?”

  Christ, how does he know me so well? I guess over the phone. Long talks at night. My lifeline. Irus Beaumont has kept me afloat. “Yes,” I hiss through the pain, the cramp hitching up again.

  “Breathe, Jacks. Relax and stretch your leg.”

  “Ugh.” I can only grunt as I do what he says, standing to stretch my leg as far as I can, despite the excruciating knot in my thigh. “God, I wish I could rub this shit out.” I wish Irus was here to rub this shit out. He’s the only one who knows the extent of the pain. The only one I’m telling.

  “You been drinking enough water?”

  “Pissing like a racehorse. What do you think?”

  “Tell someone. Let them stick an IV in you, boy.”

  “Got this. Change the subject,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You watch the game last night?”

  The preseason game with the Pirates. Anderson put the hurt on our quarterback. “How’s Mal?”

  “He could use you back, Jacks. Need someone who can separate quickly.”

  “Physically, how is he?”

  “He’s fine. Anderson knocked the wind out of him. That’s all.” Irus is silent for a moment. When he does speak, his voice is different. He sounds serious. “Jackson, he’s shit-talking.”

  “Who?” My stomach knots like my leg. Branson?

  “Anderson.”

  I should’ve known. “Anderson always shit-talks. It’s his game. He’s just trying to get in your head.”

  “Yeah, I figured, but—”

  “But what?”

  “He’s saying you’re a fag. I defended you. Just so you know.”

  My throat’s gone dry. I clear it, trying to sound nonchalant. “Yeah, he pretty much calls everyone a fag. He’s not an inventive type. Instead of hey, stone hands, he’s all you faggot. It is what it is, Irus. Tell Haines to not let him in his head.”