Covering the Quarterback

by Amber Thielman

  For what seemed like an eternity, the world stopped turning. Movement, sense, logic, sight; everything felt like it no longer existed. All I knew in the deepest chambers of my soul was terror; pure and unfeigned terror which gripped my chest in steel vices and squeezed . . . squeezed the air from my lungs and the confidence from my mind. I couldn’t think, couldn’t even breath. I was certain he was dead; lying there on the couch, motionless, pale . . . deathly white. He was dead. He was dead. He had to be dead.

  As I stood there, willing my legs to move but knowing damn well that I was on the verge of collapsing, my mind began to swim. Suddenly, I saw Jackson as more than just a guy I’d met through football. I saw him as my friend, my confidant. He was someone I never knew could make me care so deeply. That was why I was there, wasn’t it? That was why I’d shown up in the middle of the night to check on him, because I cared. I cared about him so profoundly and vehemently that when I finally willed myself to move across the room and to his side, I didn’t know what I would do without him. I wouldn’t survive. Not without him, not anymore. And why that was, I wondered, I had no idea.

  I fell to my knees in front of him, one hand reaching out to feel for a pulse. The dull, light beating of his heart sent a shock of relief through me, and my hands were shaking as I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. He was alive, but barely. As I spoke in a shaky voice to the dispatcher, trying not to lose it, I continued to shake him, expecting his eyes would flutter open and he’d look up at me with that cocky look.

  “I have an ambulance coming to you,” the dispatcher said.

  “Please hurry,” I begged, and dropped the phone.

  Whatever happened next was mostly a blur. The Paramedics arrived shortly, checking his pulse before loading him up onto the gurney. It was a horrible flashback of the football accident, and it took everything I had in me not to fall to my knees and sob into my hands.

  Somehow, I managed to find my phone and call Alex, who came over straight away to pick me up. I didn’t remember much after that; not the car ride to the hospital, the tension in the air, the worry, the terror. I couldn’t speak, even when Alex took my hand and didn’t let go. We were about to enter the ER when I realized I had a hold of Jackson’s phone. Alex took it for me, and she must have called Tyler, because he showed up after twenty or so minutes, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed with a raging hangover. He saw Alex and me in the waiting room, and he came over. I barely registered that he was even there.

  “You found him?” Tyler asked. I nodded my head, wrapping my arms around my torso to try and bring in some comforting warmth. Tyler opened his mouth as if he was about to say something more, and then shut it again. We stared each other down for a long moment, neither of us looking away. Finally, he spoke.

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea that you’re here,” he said. “But thanks for, you know, calling 911.”

  “Why can’t she be here?” Alex demanded, before I could respond to him. “They’re friends, asshole.”

  “No, I’m his friend,” Tyler said. “I always have been. Jackson has been in a fragile state, and I’m not sure Grace helps matters.”

  “Are you fucking kidding—?” Alex started to shout, but I cut her off mid-sentence.

  “That’s fine,” I said. I felt so defeated that I didn’t even have the energy to argue with him. Maybe Tyler was right. Maybe I was even the reason Jackson overdosed in the first place.

  “Grace, don’t let this prick push you around,” Alex said. “I called him so he could be here with Jackson, not so he could stomp all over you.”

  Ignoring her, Tyler nodded once at me and then turned and walked away. I closed my eyes and leaned back in the waiting room chair, wondering what exactly was happening. Was Jackson alive? Was he dead? Was he going to be okay? Did I reach him in time?

  The questions were swirling around in my mind, pestering me, hurting me, demanding an answer that I didn’t have.

  “Let’s go,” I said after a moment of silence. “Tyler has this handled.” I could tell Alex wanted to argue with me, but as she opened her mouth to say something she seemed to think better of it and closed it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” I said. I stood up. My legs were shaking, and Alex steadied me.

  “You probably saved his life,” she said.

  “Then he can thank me later,” I said. We walked together out to the car, unable to speak, neither of us knowing what to say. As I reached for the handle on the door, I froze. My hands and face were tingling, an unfamiliar sensation washed over my body and held onto me in an iron grip. On the other side of the car, Alex noticed my hesitation and she looked at me, waiting to see what was about to happen.

  My fingers dropped from the door handle and fell to my side. A sudden ringing appeared in my head; high pitched and aggravating. My stomach hurt as a wave of nausea overcame me. My body was numb now, and I couldn’t breathe. No matter how desperately I tried to pull myself together, I couldn’t move.

  “Grace?” Alex said. Her voice was so far away like we were in different dimensions. She was standing next to me in a moment, her hand reaching out to take my arm. My breathing became sporadic, fast, panicky.

  “I can’t breathe,” I said, and Alex took me into her arms to hold me close to her.

  “You’re having a panic attack,” she said, and I started to hyperventilate. My knees went weak and I sunk to the ground with Alex still holding onto me. I was sobbing, wet tears streaming down my face, staining the tingling, numb sensation of my skin.

  “It’s okay,” Alex murmured. “He’s going to be okay, Grace.”

  As we sat together on our knees in the parking lot, cold, wet, and crying, I realized for the first time since I’d known Jackson Tate that there was no reason to deny the motive for my breakdown. Could I deny it anymore? No. Not to her, and certainly not to myself.

  Chapter 42

  Jackson

  It was a familiar scene indeed. A hospital bed, bright lights, the annoying beep of the machine next to my head, the one pumping fluids into my arm. My head hurt, my stomach hurt, my throat hurt. Worst of all, my pride hurt.

  Sitting in the corner of the hospital room in a guest chair was Tyler. He was awake, staring at me, but he didn’t say anything as I came to.

  “Is Grace here?” My voice was cracking, throat dry, and it hurt to speak and even whisper. I could remember bits and pieces of what had happened . . . Grace crying in my ear, shouting my name, and then darkness.

  “No,” Tyler said. He didn’t look at me when he said this. “I think she left.”

  For a moment, I was hurt, and I wanted to ask why she left without seeing me, but I didn’t want to give Tyler any reason to mock me, so I didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask about the pills, didn’t ask about any of it, and for that I was relieved. I was too tired to talk about it. I wasn’t even sure there was anything to say. I was still debating internally if taking those pills had been an accident. I wanted it to be because an accident was almost okay. It was forgivable, something that happened to people who didn’t read the dosage before taking their prescription or took too many of something that they thought was something else. I wanted it to be an accident, but I wasn’t sure if it had been. The worst part was that even in my drunken, sad haze of self-pity and regret, I’d taken those pills knowing damn well what I was doing.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyler said, and then he said nothing more. Even in the silence, with both of us staring at the muted TV screen, having him here was enough. At least somebody was here.

  Apparently, I passed my psych evaluation with flying colors because they seemed content to release me after a mandatory 24-hour hold for observation. You know, just to make sure I wouldn’t go home and try to kill myself again, or something. I told the counselor what I was telling myself: that I’d come home drunk and taken too many pills without thinking about it. Whether or not it was true seemed irrelevant, because she decided that it was, i
ndeed, an accident, and I was released shortly after that.

  I hadn’t heard from Grace since the night she’d found me, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I wanted to call her, but I knew I wouldn’t, mostly because I felt ashamed. I was humiliated that she’d seen me like that, some pathetic lump passed out on the couch after OD-ing on pain pills. I was a mess, and she saw right through it. I had to stop dragging her through my drama, I know I did because if I didn’t, she’d end up hurt too. I couldn’t be responsible for that.

  Tyler took me home the day I got discharged. It seemed that we didn’t have much to talk about anymore, especially after this. We were in two different worlds now; him still a popular guy on the football team and me his loser friend who couldn’t keep his shit together longer than a week. I think he hated it as much as I did, but he didn’t talk much about it; he didn’t care to. It was too deep for him, and I knew it. Things were getting rocky, and he was getting nervous. This was quickly becoming an issue that sex and the bottom of a bottle wouldn’t fix.

  “Are you going to be alright, man?” Tyler asked as he walked with me up to my apartment. As I stepped inside an overwhelming sense of doom embraced me, and I almost turned around and walked away. But I didn’t, because I had nowhere else to go. This place had gone from my blissful bachelor pad to nothing more than a haunted box of memories I sure as hell had no intention of mulling over. It no longer seemed happy and welcoming, but now lonely and desolate. Depressing.

  “I’m good,” I said. Tyler hesitated in the doorway for a moment. I could tell he wasn’t sure about leaving me, but he finally nodded, just once, and reached out to punch my shoulder. Ouch.

  “I’ll call you, later, yeah?” he said. I nodded, but both of us knew that wasn’t going to happen. As I was closing the door behind Tyler, my phone started to ring. I glanced at it, surprised that anyone was calling, let alone Grace.

  “Hello?” I tried not to sound too thrilled she had called. I could only imagine what was going through her head right now: disgust, anger, annoyance. Or worse, pity.

  “How are you?” she asked. Although I could tell that she still had her guard up, she sounded like Grace, and her voice was a sound I’d desperately missed.

  “I don’t know how to answer that question without pissing you off or feeling sorry for myself,” I said honestly. Grace was silent on the other end of the line, and I closed my eyes, listening to her breathe softly.

  “What happened, Jackson?” she asked finally.

  “You were there,” I said. “You know what happened.”

  “Now isn’t the time for your shit,” she said sharply, and for the first time since I’d met her, I was glad we weren’t together because I had no doubt that at this point she would have punched me in the face ... and I wouldn’t have blamed her one bit.

  “I don’t know, Grace,” I said. “I was drunk and took some pills. It was an accident.”

  “Was it?” she asked. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t be responsible for you,” Grace said. I hadn’t expected those words to come from her, even though she had every right in the world to say them. “I can barely take care of myself, Jackson, let alone you, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you, though?” she asked. “Because it seems like I’ve been holding you up a bit more than I probably should be.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “And you don’t have to. So, why did you?”

  “What do you mean,” she said, but it wasn’t a question. She knew the answer as well as I did but she was going to make me say it first.

  “I didn’t ask you to come over that night,” I said. “I didn’t call you; I didn’t text you. When you told me to leave, I left. You chose to come over; I didn’t make you do anything.”

  There was silence as Grace mulled this over. She seemed, for the first time, at a loss for words. I waited patiently for an answer, not pressuring her but not about to let her avoid the question, either.

  “I guess I was worried,” she said. “After you left my house I got a bad feeling. You were in a dangerous place, and apparently, my gut was right.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean you had to come over, right?”

  “Jackson,” Grace said. Her tone was sharp again, annoyed, angry. “Do you want me to say it? Really?”

  “Say what?”

  “You know what.”

  “Sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I leaned back in the couch cushion and ran my hand through my hair, blissfully aware that I was forcing her to say what she didn’t want to say, but that we both needed to hear.

  “I care about you, okay?” she said finally. “I care about your well-being.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I have no fucking idea why.” She took a deep, rattling breath on the other end of the line. “I care about you, Jackson, unlike I’ve ever cared about anyone in the world, and it kills me because I know you don’t care about me.”

  “Grace,” I said. I closed my eyes and put my hand over my face, feeling a migraine coming on. “Will you just . . . can you meet me in ten minutes on the Quad? I want to see you.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said. “We should cut ties.”

  “Please,” I said. “Just meet me there. We need to talk.”

  I wasn’t sure if she would show or not, and I tried to convince myself on the way down that if she wasn’t there, it was time to move on and forget about it. I couldn’t keep depending on another person. It was becoming clear that the person I had to be there for was myself, and if Grace wanted to cut ties once and for all, I couldn’t keep stopping her. I wouldn’t be that person, no matter how much I felt I needed her.

  I found her sitting on the fountain near a park bench on the Quad. It was nearing dark, and she was dressed in jeans and a tank top, holding a denim jacket over her lap. She looked up at me as I approached, and I couldn’t read her expression.

  “I’m glad you came,” I said, and sat down next to her. She took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air and nodded, not looking at me. Instead, she was gazing at the moon sneaking in behind the clouds. She was leaning back, supporting herself with the palms of her hands, watching the sky. She was wearing her favorite scent, I could tell, the one called Cashmere Glow I’d seen sitting on her nightstand the night I’d walked her home. Her hair smelled like lavender shampoo with a hint of vanilla. Without saying anything else, I reached out and rested one hand on her arm. Her skin was warm to the touch, and her eyes flickered over to meet mine. She said nothing. Neither of us did.

  In the moonlight, her eyes seemed more vibrant somehow, as if she saw right through me. They were more green than blue tonight, and I’d come to the conclusion that they tended to change color with her mood. I wasn’t sure what green represented; hopefully something other than passionate hatred for me. Under my fingertips, goosebumps were rising on her skin. I leaned in, slowly at first, waiting for her to meet me halfway, but she didn’t. Since she didn’t pull away either, I came in further until my lips met hers. She didn’t react at first, so I parted my lips slightly, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she did the same.

  “Jackson—” she breathed, but I shushed her, taking her chin between the fingertips of my free hand. She closed her eyes and allowed me to kiss her. A slight groan escaped her throat, and in a moment of desperation, I slipped my tongue between her lips. I was hungry for her, ravenous, and as I pulled Grace in to hold her body to mine, she tensed up and pulled away, shattering the moment.

  “What’s wrong?” I was breathless, and so was she, but in the light of the moon, I could see the wariness in her eyes.

  “This whole thing is wrong,” she said. When I tried to reach out to touch her again, she pulled away.

  “Which part?” I asked. “Because this feels nothing but right to me.”

  “You’re not attracted to me, Jackson,” she said. That surprised me because a few seconds ago I had my tongue down he
r throat, but even that hadn’t convinced her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re lonely,” she said. “You’ve been through a traumatic event, and you’ve lost a lot of close people in the process. You’re not attracted to me, you don’t even like me, you’re just desperate for the attention, and I’m the only one who stuck around when the rest of the world bailed.”

  “That’s not tr—”

  “It is true.” Grace wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “I won’t be one of your flings, Jackson. I can’t fall for you, and I won’t, because I know you won’t return my feelings.”

  “You’re overthinking this,” I insisted, and Grace nodded.

  “I know,” she said. “I overthink everything, but that’s what keeps me out of trouble.” She stopped and took a deep breath, fogging up the frigid air. “We can be friends, Jackson, but that’s it.”

  “I have enough friends.” It was a horrible thing to say, I know, but she had struck a nerve, and my irritation was growing. And not only was it a mean thing to say, but it was also untrue, and we both knew it.

  “That’s up to you then,” she murmured. That also surprised me, as I had expected her to apologize or beg or something. Instead, she only looked at me, her eyes sad, and finally, she shrugged. “Call me when you figure it out.”

  I watched her go. I watched her walk away with my mouth hanging slightly agape and my brain reeling to process what in the hell had just happened. Never in my entire twenty-two years had I been rejected like that. For the first time in my life, I was the one on the other end of the spectrum, and I wasn’t sure how to go about handling it.

  I sat by myself for a while in the dark, wondering what to do next. I was at a loss, and that was mainly because I’d never been in this position before. Kissing Grace had been something I didn’t believe either of us had expected, most definitely not me. It came from nowhere, simply seeing her sitting under the moonlight was the driving force I’d needed to make my move. And now I felt a shit storm of confusion envelope me, and I had no idea what to do.