The Last First Game

by Gina Azzi

  Sam turns and his face is pale, his eyes worried. He pushes his glasses up higher on his nose and his characteristic movement suddenly seems forced. As if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands so he’s relying on habit. I’ve never seen him look so serious.

  Something is wrong.

  Sam shakes his head once, his eyes darting back to the ambulance, indecision playing out over his features. And I know. I know without knowing that Lila is lying inside the ambulance. That seconds later, when the ambulance backs out of the driveway, blares its sirens, and heads in the direction of the hospital, I know that it’s carrying Lila to the emergency room. It’s Lila inside the ambulance and not some random freshman that drank too much and needs to get her stomach pumped.

  Something is wrong.

  Miers walks quickly to Sam’s side and they confer. Sam shoots a few looks in my direction. I’m glued to the spot, my eyes following the ambulance as it stops at the end of Elm Street and turns right, disappearing behind houses, although I can still hear the sirens. The ambulance is carrying Lila away from me.

  I know without knowing.

  Miers shouts my name, shaking my shoulder gently, bringing me back to the present moment. “Cade.”

  “Where is she?” I answer.

  “Cade.” His voice is strange, strained and quiet.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Where?”

  “She was in the ambulance.”

  I nod. I know this. Of course I know this. I know this without knowing anything. My mind starts to race with all the possibilities. She was in a fight. She was raped. She was drugged. She was hurt.

  She is hurt.

  “What happened?” My voice is quiet, monotone, dead. I know something is wrong, but I can’t seem to react with any type of real emotion.

  Miers sighs heavily. “We need to get to the hospital, okay?”

  I nod. My feet are already moving, pulling me back to Miers’s car, taking me one step closer to Lila. The word ambulance pings around my mind. She’s hurt. That thought alone plays on a loop in my head, keeps my hands steady as I pull open the door to Miers’s car, has me wanting to rush to her side. I need to see her. I need to be with her. And I need to be strong for her.

  * * *

  Miers drives quickly to the hospital. The air in the car is tense, strained, and it tastes stale when I breathe it in. Sam sits in the backseat, his elbows propped on his knees as he leans through the center console.

  “I don’t know. Kristen found her,” he’s saying in response to the rapid questions that Miers fires at him. My mind is too slow to think of anything to ask. All I know is that she’s hurt.

  “Did you see anything? Is she hurt?” Miers asks.

  “Maybe a broken wrist. She has a cut on her forehead, through her eyebrow. And the left side of her face is starting to bruise,” Sam continues.

  “Did he …” Miers meets Sam’s gaze in the rearview mirror, trailing off. But I know what he’s asking. Did the guy, some random asshole, rape Lila? Did he take advantage of her.

  “I don’t know,” Sam says quietly.

  And suddenly I come back to the moment and react, punching my fist against Miers’s glove box as hard as I can. The glove box dents and my hand throbs. Tense silence resumes and no one comments on my reaction. Sam leans back and Miers keeps his eyes on the road.

  We arrive at the hospital moments later and Miers drops us off at the emergency entrance. Sam and I push through the doors and stumble up to reception.

  “Lila Avers,” Sam snaps at the receptionist.

  “One moment please. If you could just have a seat over there…” the receptionist points at the waiting area “…someone will be with you shortly.”

  I want to punch the counter, but I hold back, turning sharply toward the waiting area and then continuing down the hallway. Sam lets me go.

  I’m pacing the halls of the hospital. I need to know she’s okay. I need to see her. Hold her. Comfort her. Apologize to her. Beg for her forgiveness.

  Kristen went with her in the ambulance. When I see Kristen sitting with Miers and Sam in the waiting room, I join them all and we sit together, waiting for news.

  Knowing but not knowing.

  I overhear Kristen mutter “rape kit” and my insides twist. Rape. Fuck, what if Lila was raped?

  The doctors are checking her for trauma. They’re also testing her urine to see if she was drugged. I don’t know what else they’re doing. Setting her wrist? Pumping her stomach? I just need to see her.

  Kristen calls Lila’s brother Brandon and the litany of swear words that pour out of the phone is impressive. He’s already booking a flight. Kristen debates calling Mr. and Mrs. Avers, but Brandon assures her that he will contact his parents.

  These are the things that I should be doing. But I don’t know where I stand with Lila. Would she want me to call her family? To deal with her brother? To pace the halls of the hospital waiting to see her?

  I’m so sick to my stomach, I don’t know if I could even have a coherent conversation. Sam shoots me a look of sympathy mixed with pity. He presses a coffee into my hand. “Here.”

  I drink it. It scalds my throat and I’m grateful to feel something. Anything.

  Lila’s hurt.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lila

  “Lila?”

  My eyelids flutter open and the light momentarily blinds me. Ugh. I feel sick. Like never-drinking-again sick.

  Worst. Hangover. Ever.

  “Lila?”

  I turn my head and lock eyes with Brandon.

  What the fuck?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him. My voice sounds rough, raspy. A raspy voice replays in my thoughts for a moment, but I shake my head, clearing it, and focus on my brother. “Did something happen to Mom?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Brandon leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s half hunched over my bed. Except this isn’t my bed. I take in the beeping machine to my right. I’m in the hospital.

  A look of horror crosses my face. Brandon takes my hand in his. “You’re okay. Breathe.” The beeping accelerates on the machine. “Try to relax. You’re okay,” Bran repeats.

  “What happened?”

  He swallows and looks toward the door, briefly closing his eyes. “What do you remember?”

  Remember? I think back to yesterday. I left Cade’s house. I was angry. I took a nap in the car. I told Kristen and Sam I would meet them at a party. I wore Kristen’s short blue dress. I changed in the car. I took tequila shots. I danced with Kristen. I tried to touch a star.

  “I went to a party.”

  Brandon nods encouragingly.

  A red flannel shirt.

  A tribal tattoo.

  A raspy voice.

  A black void.

  Starless.

  Oh God.

  “Oh God.”

  Brandon stands up, shifting to the edge of my bed. He wraps his strong arms around me and I cry.

  “Shh.” He comforts me, his hand running over my hair. “You’re okay. You were drugged. Some dick roofied you and tried to rape you.”

  I pull back from his embrace and look up.

  “Kristen found you. She got to you before anything could happen. Well…” he grimaces, his eyes studying my face “…you sustained some cuts and bruises.” Brandon nods toward my hand. “And your wrist is sprained.”

  I wince, suddenly feeling the injuries to my face and wrist that he’s referencing. The left side of my face feels stiff and my wrist throbs.

  “But you weren’t raped. It was attempted rape. When Kristen found you, he was trying to force himself on you, ripping your dress.” Brandon averts his gaze, trying to control the anger filling his eyes. His jaw pulses with fury.

  “But I’m okay?” I ask.

  “You’re okay,” he repeats, pulling me close again.

  Lost in my brother’s embrace, the tears come again. I cry. Except my tears feel frozen and my insides fee
l dead. I cry tears of blackness and feel icicles form in my veins.

  I cry detachment.

  Then I shut down completely.

  * * *

  The next few days must pass. I can’t tell if they pass quickly or slowly or at all. I feel numb. I know I go to my classes. I write an exam. I smile at Sam’s jokes and compliment Kristen as she dresses for a date with Miers. I eat lunch when I’m supposed to and order skinny lattes during breakfast hours. I do all of these things and yet, I do nothing at all.

  Brandon handled my parents, fielding their calls, managing Dad’s outrage, soothing Mom’s cries. Dad wants to press charges immediately. Mom wants me to fly home. I don’t speak to either of them, grateful to Brandon for stepping in and shielding me, being my big brother.

  I feel grateful that the situation wasn’t worse. Grateful that I wasn’t raped. And yet, I still feel broken. I still feel dirty. I still feel completely detached.

  My internship is suddenly a safe haven and a living hell. I’m happy to lose myself in the work, eager to stack files and organize charts, run errands for doctors, volunteer to take coffee orders. But I notice the whispers tucked behind curved hands in the hallways, the averted glances students dart in my direction, the concerned looks nurses bestow on my bent head. I can feel eyes on me like two pinpricks glued to my back, tracking my every move. Except there are thousands of them. My skin crawls with the unwanted attention.

  When Kristen and Sam are with me, each flanking one side of my body, Kristen shoots out dirty looks and Sam snarls, once even barking at a passerby to keep their eyes off me. But most of the time, I’m alone. And I prefer it that way.

  A week after the “incident” as people are calling it, the news breaks that the person who drugged me, attacked me, sexually assaulted me is none other than Thomas Lawrence, president of the junior class, Astor legacy, and a generally well-liked and respected guy. His father’s recent five million dollar endowment to the university has improved his image, spotlighting his family’s connections and commitment to the Astor community.

  I want to throw up.

  Like all the time.

  After my last shift of the week, I’m heading out of the hospital to the bus stop when a girl in my program approaches me boldly.

  “Hey. Lila Avers,” she calls out.

  I take a deep breath and turn around to greet the girl, raising my eyes slowly. She’s taller and thinner than I am. Navy blue glasses frame her eyes and a birthmark in the shape of a strawberry marks her chin.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Look, I know you don’t know me. I’m Morgan Harris.” She pauses, waiting for me to recognize her name, admit that I do in fact know her, or know of her. Which I don’t. I just know that she’s in the same program as me.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say instead.

  She huffs, hitching her purse up on her shoulder. “Whatever went down between you and Tom last weekend, I know it’s none of my business, but he’s a really good guy. And your accusations could ruin his life. I mean, unless you have evidence, you can’t deny that you were laughing and flirting and drinking with him.” She eyes me. Her eyes are like steel. Blue and hard. “Sometimes we drink too much and forget what we say, you know?”

  Is she kidding me?

  “Not really.”

  She huffs again. “All I’m saying is don’t be so hasty to make a scandal out of things. You’re not from here. That’s obvious.” Her eyes flick over my body and a smirk forms on her thin lips. “But just because you’re no longer the girl of the hour, dating hotshot Cade Wilkins, football legend, doesn’t mean you need to stir up trouble for the good guys either.”

  I stare at her for a few seconds, tracing her strawberry birthmark with my eyes. I wonder if I could draw it? It’s almost perfectly shaped. I love to eat strawberries in summer. I tilt my head to the side. The birthmark transforms into a Christmas bell. I sigh. I love Christmas even more than summer strawberries.

  The girl, Morgan Harris, clears her throat.

  I blink and bring my eyes back up to meet hers. Her eyebrows are scrunched together, waiting for me to say something.

  “I have to go,” I tell her, turning back around and walking to the bus stop.

  I’m relieved when the bus pulls up moments later and the doors swish closed behind me, effectively severing my connection with Morgan Harris.

  I slump down into a seat near the window and close my eyes. I should be crying, shouldn’t I? But I’m too numb to form tears, so I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window instead. I’ll pretend that the chill of the glass is an icy tear.

  Yeah, I’ll just pretend.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Cade

  I haven’t spoken to Lila in a week. Seven long, agonizing days. I’m nearly finished with my chemotherapy. My head is smooth and bald. In an act of solidarity, Hendrix and Miers shaved their own heads. Hendrix can really pull it off and his stock among the ladies has increased dramatically. Miers doesn’t look much better than me, but Kristen called his gesture “sweet and thoughtful” so he’s scoring nonetheless.

  I’ve called Lila several times, sent her text messages, even waited outside the hospital a few times, peeping a glimpse of her as she hurries to the bus stop after her shift. Her eyes are always down, her shoulders hunched over, her hair shielding her face from view. She’s hurting. It’s obvious. And yet, she won’t let anyone in, preferring to suffer alone and in silence.

  I miss my bright-eyed beauty that sparkled with energy and shone with happiness. I miss my Lila. I can still smell her skin on my sheets, find a strand or two of her hair stuck to my pillowcase or a hoodie. I sense her everywhere but feel like she’s nowhere at all, lost to me.

  It’s been a week since Tom sexually assaulted her. The rumors are rampant throughout campus and the gossip mills are churning. Everyone has an opinion on what happened. Suddenly, it seems like everyone was there that night. Over fifty people saw Lila and Tom hanging out and laughing on the porch. Mentioned that she smoked a cigarette. She didn’t mind when Tom placed an arm around her. In fact, she leaned into his touch.

  If everyone saw her with Tom, how come no one could place her when Kristen was frantically searching the house looking for her?

  I’ve heard the girls with the sympathy heavy in their voices. Terrible. Tragic. Damaged. Tried to take advantage of her.

  The outraged guys spouting off at the mouth at what they would do if it was their girlfriend or sister or friend. I’d kill him. That fucker thinks he can get away with anything because his daddy’s rich. Beat the shit out of him.

  The mean girls whose eyes slide over me with slight amusement and flirtatious winks. Desperate for attention. Come on, she totally embellished. She’s a flirt, likes the attention, asked for it really. And who wouldn’t flirt with Tom anyway? He’s hot … and loaded.

  The indifferent ones who could care less either way. There are two sides to every story. Sure, they each recount the events differently. Aren’t there more important things to be talking about? Like the economy? Or the increasing tuition?

  After several days of hearing the sympathetic clucks, the snide remarks, the apathetic “whatevers,” I’ve heard it all. The anger is building up in my veins, coursing through my body like my old friend adrenaline. How dare people accuse Lila of asking for it? How dare anyone question my response to dealing with Tom? How dare anyone have an opinion on the matter when it didn’t happen to them? They’re not Lila. They’re not dating her. They’re not her family. Almost all of them aren’t even her friends. Or casual acquaintances. Or anything at all.

  When I close my eyes at night, I dream about the haunted look I saw on her face when she left the hospital. I see the detachment she cloaks herself in. I envision her hunched shoulders hurrying to the bus stop.

  I remember the day she left my house in a rush, her eyes swelling in tears. I wish I could go back to that day, take back all the harsh words I hurled at her, and kiss her thoroughly, rubbi
ng my hands over her soft skin, nuzzling my face into the crook of her neck, breathe her in, and keep her in my arms always.

  * * *

  Ten days after the assault, Miers sends me a text.

  Miers: Dude, Gilly ran his fucking mouth to Lila. She’s pretty torn up about it.

  Me: What are you talking about? What do you mean?

  Miers: He layed into her. Accused her of being an attention whore. Making the whole thing up to get you to notice.

  Me: Are you fucking serious?

  Miers: Yup.

  Fuck.

  Gilly is the last straw. Knowing that one of my teammates, one of my brothers, stepped to my girl (because broken up or not, in bro code, everyone knows she still is) and accused her of shit makes me see red. And then he brings me into it! Has he lost his mind?

  I sit on the couch in the common room, waiting for the team to come home after afternoon practice. It’s dark when the front door opens and the heavy footsteps of football players enter the foyer. I sit quietly, my hands resting in my lap, a baseball cap keeping my head warm. The lamp is on in the living room, creating a soft, but dim glow.

  Gogs jumps when he sees me sitting there. “Bro! You scared the shit out of me.”

  I look at him but say nothing, my eyes searching for my target. Ah, there he is, fourth from the front. Gilly’s eyes meet mine, and he takes a step back, preparing to turn away.

  “Gilly,” I say stepping up. My voice is quiet, but even I detect an edge that isn’t normally there.

  The room falls silent, all banter ending, all movement ceasing. I’m reminded of the night I was injured. The deafening silence of the crowd. Except now it’s in my own damn living room.

  Gilly steps forward, his eyes darting around to the other guys. No one makes eye contact. “Wilkins.” He nods.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Privately.”

  “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of the team.” Gilly looks around again. The rest of the guys keep their eyes glued to the floor, their bodies beginning to shift restlessly.

  “I’d prefer to do this just you and me,” I tell him, my teeth clenching.