Covering the Quarterback

by Amber Thielman

  “Yo,” Jackson said. He opened the door a little bit wider, and I caught a whiff of what could only be stale laundry and old food.

  “Dude, I can smell you from here.”

  “That’s not me, just the apartment,” Jackson said, but I was pretty sure it was him. He dropped his hand from the door and turned and walked away. I assumed that was the best invitation I’d get since he’d left the door hanging open, so I stepped inside, resisting the urge to cover my nose and mouth.

  Jackson’s apartment was dark as if he’d been sleeping, but he looked wide awake. I shut the door behind me and fumbled against the wall for a light switch. As soon as I found one to turn on, I saw that Jackson had already sat back down on the couch. He was staring at the TV, which was off, and his expression was blank.

  “Um. What are you doing?” I asked. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, and I wondered if he’d heard me.

  “Chilling,” he said, finally. He didn’t look at me.

  “Have you left the apartment since you got discharged yesterday?” I asked. This time, he didn’t answer at all. I crossed the floor, maneuvering my way around football gear strewn carelessly across the living room. I hesitated before taking a seat next to him on the couch. He didn’t look over. For a moment, we sat in silence, staring straight ahead. He was sitting so still that I had to look over once or twice to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep.

  “Jackson,” I said finally. “Are you okay?”

  Silence. I took a deep breath and looked away. The offensive smell was becoming less noticeable, but I still didn’t know how he’d managed to be there for so much time with it smelling like a hooker’s locker room. The coffee table in front of us was covered entirely in junk, but as I let my eyes roam over the top of the table, I spotted an open bottle of prescription pills. I reached forward to look at the label; pain pills, and the container was almost empty. I capped the bottle and set them back down.

  “How many of those have you taken?” I asked. After what seemed like an eternity, Jackson looked at me.

  “Some,” he said. “They’re the only thing that helps.”

  “Helps what?”

  “The pain.”

  “Your back?”

  “All of the pain,” he said. Before I could ask him what he meant, he stood up and went to the kitchen for a beer. He grabbed two of them and came back to hand me one.

  “Should you be drinking while you’re taking those?” I asked without opening mine. Again, he didn’t answer. I was so used to Jackson never shutting up that his new demeanor of silence was rattling me. I didn’t open the beer but set it aside. Jackson didn’t sit back down, just sipped at his drink while he stared at the blank TV again. The silence was deafening. I didn’t know what to say or do.

  “Jackson,” I said finally. I stood up to look him in the face. “Are you okay? I mean, are you really okay?”

  “I’ve never been better,” he said. He forced a smile. It was fake, full of pain and anguish.

  “Look,” I said. I took the bottle of beer from him. He didn’t object. “I know we’re not best friends . . . I mean, we’re barely friends. But I’m worried. What’s going on?”

  Silence. Another silence so nerve-rattling that it took everything I had not to lean in and hug him, just to put him and myself at ease. Even though I was standing directly in front of him, he wasn’t looking at me. It was like I wasn’t even there. After another few minutes of nothing but quiet, his eyes finally focused on me, as if just noticing that I was standing there.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Grace,” he said. “I should probably get to bed.”

  “Jackson, I don’t think—” I started to argue, but he was already opening the front door for me. I stood there, debating on whether it was a good idea to leave him alone. I realized after a moment, however, that I didn’t have much choice. Jackson would sooner physically push me out the front door than he would admit to being hurt, and while I didn’t think he would harm me, I wasn’t about to test him. He wasn’t Jackson tonight; he was some shell of a man I didn’t recognize, and it terrified me.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” I said, and headed out the door. I turned around to face him as he started to close the door behind me. “Call me tomorrow, yeah?” I asked hopefully. Jackson nodded, but I wasn’t sure he’d heard what I’d said.

  By the time I got home, I was too sober for my own good, and I found myself wallowing in Jackson’s depression. The moon outside was full and glowing, casting beautiful, dancing shadows on my bedroom wall. I couldn’t sleep. I felt exhausted and drained, but even then, when I closed my eyes I could see Jackson’s pale face, the emotionless void in his eyes, and I couldn’t keep them closed for long. My cell phone was charging next to my head in case he decided to call or text, but there was nothing from him. I was worried. No, terrified. A part of me knew I shouldn’t have left him in that state, but he had given me no choice when he practically shut the door in my face. He was obviously upset, depressed even, about his injury, but what could I do? I couldn’t fix it; I couldn’t tell him that everything would be okay and life would go on. Only he could try and understand that. No one could do it for him.

  Chapter 34

  Jackson

  Two thirty in the morning came and went, and I couldn’t bring myself to get off the couch and crawl into bed. My head was foggy because of the pills I’d taken, and my legs didn’t seem to want to work like they once had. The blanket I had draped over my lap was dirty, old, and smelled a bit like vomit, but I didn’t care, not even a little bit.

  The pain in my body was astounding; I never knew recovery could hurt quite like this. I wouldn’t call myself a wuss; I’d taken some hard hits in my life. The constant sensation of pain, tingling, and the occasional numbness in my legs, however, was relentlessly agonizing and unforgiving. I wondered if I’d ever feel normal again

  I was doing everything in my power to not think about football. Had life still been normal, I’d be asleep and resting before practice tomorrow. I’d lay in bed and dream about another impressive win, imagine the look on coach’s face when I scored that last, winning touchdown. In my head, I could hear the crowd cheering and hollering, see the faces decorated with paint and colored clothes. School pride, that’s what college was all about. I’d been a star and an athlete. All my life had led up to this very moment: the kid on the full-ride football scholarship who had the world in his hands. And now it was over.

  Next to my head, my phone buzzed, and then beeped to alert me that it was dying. For a moment, I made no move to look at it because I didn’t give a shit who it was. But when it beeped again, I groaned and reached for it, not terribly surprised to see that it was Grace texting me this late at night.

  R u ok?

  I stared at the message on the screen, wondering if and how I could answer that. She was concerned for me, I knew that, but I was in such a shitty place her concern meant nothing to me. I wanted to be happy that I had her by my side, but I wasn’t happy. It had nothing to do with her, of course, but what could she possibly do to make this all okay? The answer was simple: she couldn’t. No one could. So, was I okay? Really? Should I be okay after something like this? Maybe. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be okay again.

  Yea, I answered, and when I went to hit send my phone beeped again and the screen shut down, losing my response and all communication to the outside world. I didn’t care enough to get up and find my charger, so I tossed the phone aside and sunk even further into the couch cushions, reaching for the bottle of pills to take another. I could only hope that at some point they’d help me sleep.

  Chapter 35

  Grace

  As the days dragged on, things didn’t get better, not for anybody. In fact, they seemed only to get worse. I no longer saw Jackson flaunting his stuff around campus. From what I could tell he wasn’t even going to class. He didn’t answer his phone, and he very rarely even bothered to open his door. It was exhausting worrying about him, and no matter how
much Alex told me to leave it alone and let go, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew without a doubt in my mind that Jackson needed people by his side now more than ever.

  I could only assume that Tyler had been checking in on him occasionally, and that made me feel a tad bit better, but I couldn’t bring myself to sever all ties and move on. Jackson was hurting, he was depressed, and I wasn’t the kind of person to turn my back on him just because he’d made a mean comment about us dating. Had I forgotten about it completely? Hell, no. Just thinking about that day in the library made my heart hurt and my skin flush with mild humiliation, but now wasn’t the time to bring it up to him. Whether he treasured my friendship was irrelevant. Someone needed to be there, even if it had to be me.

  Part of Jackson’s recovery was physical therapy, and his surgeon had managed to send an in-home therapist to him so Jackson wouldn’t have to find a way to the clinic twice a week. With the way he reacted to the poor therapist, you’d think the guy was just there to inflict all the pain in the world on him intentionally. The third time I met Jackson’s PT, I’d stopped by to drop off a few cheap groceries and a case of toilet paper for him. (I’d learned very quickly while sitting on the pot unable to hold my bladder until I got home that he was down to one roll, and there didn’t seem to be any more of it anywhere in the house.)

  “I want you to bend your knees and do a squat,” his therapist said as I put the half-gallon of milk in Jackson’s refrigerator. “Get down as far as you can without falling.”

  I straightened up to peer over the counter and into the living-room. Jackson and his PT—Jake, I think—were standing in the middle of the floor facing each other. The look on Jackson’s face made it clear that he was a mere squat away from punching the guy in the face.

  “I am squatting,” Jackson said.

  “Get down lower,” Jake the PT told him. I filled up a cup of water and brought it to Jackson, hoping he wouldn’t throw it in the guy’s face, or something.

  “You’re doing well,” I said, and Jackson scowled. Jake looked at me and smiled. He was a handsome guy; I’d be blind not to notice. Tall and blond with a kind smile and a relaxed stature.

  “Having a support system is wonderful,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, well, someone’s got to bring him food so he doesn’t starve to death, right?” I joked. Jake laughed, but now Jackson was looking at me, eyes narrowed, and I made sure to keep the glass of water in sight in case he threw it at me instead.

  “Jackson is lucky to have you,” Jake said. “Significant others are always the best ones to have around.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” I said, a little too quickly. “We’re just friends.”

  “Oh, okay,” Jake said. He chuckled but didn’t look away from me. “I wish I had more friends like you; where do I sign up?” He grinned again, then looked at Jackson as though seeking some sort of manly high five, or something. Every muscle in Jackson’s body was visibly rigid now, and he stared at Jake with a look I didn’t even want to attempt to decipher.

  “I better leave you guys to it,” I said, flustered. I reached for the glass of water Jackson was holding in a white-fisted grip. I had to wrestle it from his hand, but I wasn’t comfortable leaving Jake open and vulnerable when Jackson had a ready-to-use weapon. I turned to rinse the cup out in the kitchen sink, but Jake stopped me.

  “I hate to be so forward, but since you’re not involved with anyone, maybe—”

  “Get out,” Jackson said. Jake and I turned to look at him, and my jaw fell about to the floor.

  “Jackson,” I said. “Knock it off.” The physical therapist put his hands in the air.

  “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to overstep boundaries.”

  “I said get out,” Jackson said. “Now.”

  “But we’re not finished with our—”

  “I will throw your ass out.” Jackson stormed across the living room with impressive endurance for someone who only a moment ago could barely do a squat, and then flung open the door. Jake the PT looked at me as if waiting for me to step in and do something. I opened my mouth and closed it again. Then I did the only thing I could think of doing: I shrugged.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s his house.”

  We didn’t see the physical therapist again.

  It was Friday night when I decided I’d try and stop by again to check in on him. There was always a 50/50 chance that Jackson would even open the door to company. This time he did, but he looked no better than he had looked for two weeks now.

  “You’re going downhill pretty damn fast,” I said, walking through the open door. Jackson was staring at me with a bleary gaze. Despite how bad he looked, pale and sick, that charming expression crossed over his face and he forced a smile. I missed that smile, but it wasn’t as genuine as it had once been.

  “It’s all downhill from here, baby.” He picked up a bottle of beer and raised it to his lips. The lack of food in his apartment was astounding, but he didn’t seem to be low on alcohol. He was drunk, I could tell, but I decided to let it go and not reprimand him for it, at least not this time.

  “That’s not necessarily a good thing.” We took a seat together on the couch where I found myself suddenly tempted to reach out and hug him. However, I figured that he might withdraw if I did. Instead, we sat in silence, staring at the wall, not saying much of anything at all. This was becoming a regular thing with us, I’d come to find, and I deeply missed our conversations and witty banter.

  “How’s Shawn?” Jackson asked after a bit.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen him much lately.” Jackson didn’t say anything to this, but he almost looked pleased.

  “How’s Tyler?” I asked him. “He’s been by to see you, right?” I had no interest in Tyler or his well-being, but I couldn’t deny the fact that he was Jackson’s friend. Not even I was malicious enough to stand between that, no matter how much I disliked the jerk.

  “Tyler,” Jackson mused. I couldn’t read his expression or his tone, but I could only assume his so-called BFF hadn’t been by even once.

  “What about your coach?” I asked. “Has he been by to check on you? Or any of your teammates? Or your parents?”

  “Easy there, Harrison, you’re taking shots at what little self-esteem I have left,” Jackson said. He meant it to lighten the mood, but it didn’t help. I felt a surge of anger travel through my chest, but I kept it shoved down so I wouldn’t upset Jackson more. I wanted to scream at his friends, to remind them that Jackson was still a human being with human feelings, even if he couldn’t play for their stupid team. Without their support, he wouldn’t get better. I couldn’t hold him up myself, and I think we both knew that.

  “I have to go,” I said, and stood up from the couch. Jackson sat up, rubbing the haze from his eyes.

  “Don’t, Grace,” he warned.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Leave it be,” he told me. “Don’t go getting pissed off at people because they haven’t been over to coddle me. I don’t need them. I don’t need anybody.”

  “Nobody?” I asked him, and Jackson looked away before he could face the words he’d just said to me. This time they’d been said aloud, and not hidden in some secret conversation between library walls. “Maybe I should let you be,” I said.

  “You know I don’t want that,” he murmured. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t mean a lot of the things you say,” I said, and the irritation in my tone was clear. Before he could ask what I meant, however, I yanked the bottle of beer from his hands, poured it out in the sink, and threw the empty bottle away. Then I headed for the door. “I’ll be back,” I said, slipping on my jacket. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I found Tyler exactly where I’d expected to find him; down on the football field with his team for practice. He was sitting on the bench with a bottle of Gatorade in his hand and sweat dripping from his face as I approached him. He didn’t even glance my way at firs
t. I might as well have been invisible, which wouldn’t have been a problem had I not needed to speak with him.

  “Tyler?” I said, stepping up next to him. He looked over at me finally, shading his eyes from the bright sunlight.

  “Grace, right?” he asked, but I knew he was aware exactly who I was. He was trying to sound polite, but he was looking at me like I’d kicked his dog.

  “Right,” I stepped to the side, beckoning him to join me. He glanced back at his football friends, the ones who didn’t even notice I was standing there, then he stood up and walked a few feet with me to a quieter place.

  “What’s up?” he asked. I could tell he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. I kept my hands pinned safely to my side so I wouldn’t accidentally nut punch him, or something.

  “Have you talked to Jackson since he’s been out of the hospital?” I asked. Tyler hesitated like I’d asked him a trick question. He shook his head.

  “I tried calling once or twice, but he never answered.”

  “And that didn’t worry you?” I tried not to sound irritated, but it was useless.

  “I figured he needed his space was all,” said Tyler. “He’s probably still hurting.”

  “And it didn’t dawn on you that now would probably be an excellent time to be there for support?”

  “Jackson is a big boy,” Tyler said. The urge to slap the idiocy from him was overwhelming.

  “He’s also your best friend,” I said sharply. “And I can tell you right now that he’s not doing very well. At all. But you would know that if you gave a flying fuck, right?”

  “It sounds to me like you’ve got it under control,” Tyler said, then he turned to leave.