The Last First Game

by Gina Azzi

  “Why don’t y’all go out front?” Johnson suggests.

  I nod toward the door, and Gilly blows out a loud breath, turning to step outside. I follow him and close the front door firmly behind me.

  “What’s up?” he asks, facing me, bunching his shoulders up. His fists are clenched at his sides. He’s nervous.

  “Did you talk to Lila?” I ask. Better hear what he has to say before I spout off accusations.

  “So what?” he confirms.

  “What’d you say?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “She is my business.”

  “You guys broke up.” He shrugs.

  “Answer the damn question.”

  He laughs grimly. “Dude, your girl most likely fucked another guy. And then cried assault to deny it. Are you seriously going to step to my face and defend her?”

  I feel my arm tightening, my fist forming. I picture myself cocking back my arm and hitting him squarely in the face, knocking his front teeth down his throat. The blood splattering across his chin.

  I take a deep breath. Lila flashes through my mind. Her full lips curving into a smile, the way she tugs on the cuffs of her sweater when she’s nervous, her long eyelashes. Her image reminds me of my purpose, ensures I keep my cool. “She was sexually assaulted,” I whisper, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I saw her. I was at the hospital.” I pound my fist against my chest. “You don’t know what happened. You didn’t see her. You weren’t there. Where do you get off saying anything to her?” I’m inches from his face, staring directly into his eyes.

  Gilly shakes his head, taking a step back. “I know Tom. I’ve known him for three years. He would never do something like that. Lila, you’ve known her for like a hot minute, man. She was riding a high, dating you, the next big NFL star. Now what? You get sick and the bitch cries assault? Looking for what? Sympathy? Attention? Open your eyes, Wilkins, you’re getting played.”

  My hands are trembling. I look at Gilly and can’t believe we were ever really friends. But then again, what do I know about the guy other than his football capabilities?

  “We’re done. Don’t ever talk to Lila again. Don’t even look at her.” I tell him.

  He steps back, raising his hands in a surrender position. “Whatever, man. I could give a fuck about the girl.”

  “Fuck you,” I tell him. And before I can stop myself, my arm cocks back, and hits him squarely in the face. Disappointingly, his teeth stay firmly attached to his mouth. But I do take a moment of pleasure watching the blood splatter against his chin.

  Or a hot minute.

  Chapter Forty

  Lila

  I’m standing in the shower, letting the hot water run over my body, crying. For a moment I almost laugh at myself. How cliché: sexual assault victim crying in the bathtub like on one of those Lifetime movies. But really, I don’t want Kristen to hear me so the shower seemed like the safest place. No one to see, no one to hear. Of course, the puffiness of my eyelids and the red of my eyes will give me away later, but no one will call me out on it.

  In fact, I’m sure Kristen and Sam will be relieved that I cried. She’s healing, they’ll think. She’s feeling. Tears are healthy.

  What a crock. I’ll never feel whole again.

  The entire time Gilly spat angry words and heavy accusations at me, all I could think was: Is this what Cade thinks of me? Does he think I made it up? Invented the story because I wanted attention? Because I felt guilty for flirting with Tom? Because I wanted to get a reaction out of him?

  Thinking about Cade causes a pulse in my chest, a flicker around my heart. It causes me to feel, which is something I haven’t done lately. Thinking about what Cade thinks of me sinks my stomach to my toes. The air catches in my throat. I can’t breathe. Does he think I made it up? Does he think I’m an attention whore like Gilly?

  And that’s why I’m crying.

  Not because Tom Lawrence drugged me. And then sexually assaulted me. And tried to rape me.

  Not because Morgan Harris and a ton of other girls don’t believe me.

  Not because Gilly hurt my feelings.

  Nope. I’m crying because I miss Cade, and I hate the thought that he may think poorly of me, that he’s disappointed in me, that he doesn’t believe me. That hurts worse than all the rest combined. Because if I need something to believe in, some good to come from this situation, some sign that I may heal and be whole again, then I need Cade.

  And I can’t have him.

  Because now I don’t deserve him.

  I sob against the shower wall, pressing the tiles hard under my palm. My hair hangs in wet clumps down my back. The water runs into my eyes, mingling with my tears, falling together off my chin and circling the drain. I cry out everything I have inside me: the sadness, the betrayal, the loneliness, the emptiness, the bitterness, the hate. I cry until there’s nothing left but dry heaving sobs of pain and anger.

  Then I turn the water to scalding hot and scrub my skin clean, relieved when red marks streak across my body.

  I will deserve him again.

  I have to.

  * * *

  I’m dancing through the center of a meadow streaked with wildflowers, my arms stretched out, feeling the gentle breeze through my fingers. I spin in lazy circles. The stars ahead wink merrily, shooting in patterns and delicate designs across the night sky. They look like the weeping willow fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  A hand touches my arm and slides to the small of my back. Moments later, a body presses into me, pushing me down into the grass, hovering over me. I see red everywhere and the peace I felt moments earlier is replaced by fear. I smell sweat and salt and bite my tongue as I try to scream. Nothing comes out. Blood floods my mouth and it tastes like I’ve swallowed a penny. The stars above swirl quickly and nausea rolls in my stomach.

  “Shh,” a voice whispers right before an intricate tribal pattern presses into my eyelids and turns everything black.

  I wake with a start, sitting straight up in bed. The sheets are tangled between my legs and my comforter is on the floor. Beads of sweat trail down my neck and chest, and my T-shirt is wet, clinging to my frame. I take a deep breath, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and sucking in air sharply as the nightmare recedes, and I remind myself that I’m in my dorm room, safe. After a moment, I look over to Kristen’s bed, relieved that it’s empty. Thank God she’s been sleeping at Miers’s or I would die of embarrassment.

  This is the third nightmare I’ve had this week. I always wake up right as Tom’s tribal tattoo presses hard against my eyes.

  I breathe deep, reaching next to my bed for a bottle of water. After taking several sips and a few deep breaths, I stand up and turn on the lights. Then I strip my bed and stuff my damp sheets in the hamper. I remake the bed with fresh sheets and change quickly into a new T-shirt. I climb back into bed, folding my comforter over the lower portion of my body. I pick up my Kindle and begin to read Harry Potter.

  I can’t fall back to sleep just yet.

  After three pages, I’m restless. Checking the time on my phone, I note that it’s 2:00 AM. I know Maura will be waking up for practice right about now so I dial her number.

  “Hello?” Maura’s voice is thick with sleep.

  “Hi,” I say. My voice sounds small and unsure.

  “Lila?” Maura asks.

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Hey. You okay?”

  I sigh. “Not really.”

  “I know.” She pauses. “I’m sorry about everything that happened, Li. I hate that you’re hurting. I know this has been devastating for you.” Her words become more coherent as she gradually wakes up.

  I sniffle, no words come out.

  “It will take awhile for you to feel like yourself again. Don’t push yourself. Just focus on one day at a time, okay?” Maura continues.

  “Okay.”

  “Want to just hang out on the phone for a bit? You don’t have to say anything. Why don’t you try
and go back to sleep and I’ll get ready for practice.”

  “That would be nice,” I agree. “Can you keep talking?”

  “Sure.” I hear a rustle of blankets as Maura gets up. “I’m really enjoying having a single this semester. I don’t accidently wake anyone up this early. Practice has been intense but the boat is looking really good. I think we’ll have a solid season. I met someone. His name is Zack. I can’t really tell what’s going on between us, but he knew Adrian. They rowed together. I think I like him because he makes me feel close to my brother. He has a lot of stories about Adrian, and I like hearing them. We went to dinner last weekend,” Maura chatters, filling me in on details of her life that I don’t know about.

  I want to ask questions, participate in the conversation, but her voice is so soothing, so familiar. She lulls me back to sleep.

  * * *

  The second week after the incident, I’m lagging. I haven’t been sleeping well, each night marked by a nightmare. After a week of sleepless nights, the dark circles are heavy under my eyes, and I agree with Kristen that I should meet with the therapist that the social worker from the hospital recommended. Kristen accompanies me to the office, tucked away in one of Astor’s medical services buildings. The therapist, Lisa, calls me into her office, and Kristen squeezes my hand reassuringly.

  “I’ll be right here.” She smiles, taking her Kindle out of her purse and settling back into the cushions of the couch.

  Lisa smiles at me warmly and shakes my hand. I follow her into her office and she shuts the door behind her. “Have a seat wherever you feel most comfortable.” She gestures toward the couch and armchairs in her office. I sit on the edge of a couch cushion. “Would you like some coffee, tea, or water?” Lisa offers.

  My hands feel sweaty, and I wipe them on my jeans. “Water would be great.” Lisa nods and walks over to a mini-fridge, pulling out a cold bottle of water and setting it on the table next to my elbow.

  She sits across from me and crosses her legs at her ankles. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and it wrinkles gently across her lap. “What would you like to talk about today?”

  What? I don’t know. I stare at her in silence. I thought she was going to ask me questions. I didn’t realize I was going to have to steer the conversation. “Uh, um.” I chew my lip, thinking.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about why you decided to make an appointment?” she suggests.

  “My roommate thought it would be a good idea,” I say truthfully.

  Lisa nods, the softness of her eyes encouraging. “Okay. And do you agree with her?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Why do you think your roommate wanted you to book an appointment.”

  “I think she’s worried about me. I think she and our friend Sam expect me to be a crying, blubbering mess. She’s waiting for me to crack and because I’m not, she thinks I’m fragile, weak.”

  “Do you think you’re fragile or weak?”

  I shake my head.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Angry. And alone.”

  Lisa nods in understanding. I take a sip of the water, sitting back farther on the couch.

  “Do you want to tell me about what happened?”

  I shrug, closing my eyes momentarily, recalling everything I can from that night. “I don’t remember much.”

  “What do you remember?”

  I exhale loudly, opening my eyes and staring at the coffee table in concentration.

  A raspy voice.

  A red flannel shirt.

  A tribal tattoo.

  And then it all comes pouring out. Cade’s cancer. The harsh, disappointed words from my dad. Cade’s rejection. The fight. Crying in the car. Kristen’s extra clothes in her trunk. Going to the party on Elm Street. Tequila shots. Dancing. Flirting. Laughing. Wanting to feel that free, wild, adventurous giddiness of having fun with my friends at a party. More drinks. The porch. Smoke. Stars. And a raspy voice in red flannel with a tribal tattoo on his forearm. Tom Lawrence.

  A tear trickles down my cheek.

  I don’t brush it away.

  Stumbling on the stairs and snagging my bracelet on the carpet. Freezing up. Losing my left shoe. Blackness.

  Brandon’s face in the hospital. The way his voice spoke to me gently, like a child. Cade’s eyes wild, meeting mine briefly in the hospital hallway. Sam’s anger. Kristen’s horror.

  Spraining my wrist. The rape kit. Filing the police report at the hospital.

  The phone calls and emails and text messages from Mia, Maura, and Emma. Their worry and comfort and tears.

  My dad’s outrage. My mom’s depression.

  The ugly rumors and slander circulating around Astor University.

  Morgan Harris and Gilly.

  Ugly crying in the shower.

  Feeling numb.

  Not wanting to do this anymore.

  Not wanting to be a doctor.

  Not wanting to be anything but me.

  Except I don’t even know what that means.

  When I finish speaking, my voice is hoarse and I feel tired, exhausted even. Lisa listens patiently, never interrupting, nodding encouragingly, her eyes void of any judgment or blame. Her eyes are kind and compassionate. Almost like my mom’s when I was a child and I would admit to doing something wrong, like sneaking Oreos before dinner. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to crawl in bed next to my mom and sleep for hours, my head resting on her pillow, breathing in her scent, as she runs her hand slowly over my hair.

  I want to go home.

  “Are you sleeping well? Having any nightmares?” Lisa asks.

  I nod. “Nightmares. Most nights.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you seen Tom at all on campus?”

  “No.”

  “Are you fearful of seeing him?”

  Terror seizes my throat at the thought. “Yes. But I haven’t really thought about it until this moment.”

  Lisa nods again. “Would you like to make an appointment to see me weekly from now on? Also, I’m going to recommend that you visit with my colleague, Dr. Abrams. I think he can prescribe something to help you sleep better.”

  “Okay.”

  When I leave Lisa’s office, Kristen springs up.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Thanks for coming with me. I actually have to do something.”

  “Okay,” she agrees, tucking her Kindle away and exiting the office with me.

  Once outside she smiles. “I’ll see you for dinner?”

  “Sure.” I walk away. “Kristen,” I call after her suddenly.

  She turns around expectantly, her hair blowing away from her face in the crisp air.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiles and waves.

  I square my shoulders and take a deep breath.

  Then I take the bus to the police station and meet with a detective to follow up on the charges I am pressing against Thomas Reginald Lawrence.

  When I get back to the dorm, I book my free airline ticket from the beginning of the semester. One return LAX-JFK.

  Home.

  Feeling settled for the first time in weeks, I smile to myself. I change into an old oversized T-shirt of Brandon’s. Then I crawl into bed and sleep soundlessly.

  No black voids.

  No nightmares.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Cade

  Lila’s in New York this weekend. Miers told me she used her free ticket to go home for Thanksgiving and is staying for the long weekend. For a moment, I feel disappointed. I imagined us using the tickets together, to visit cheesy tourist attractions in the city, to barhop around the East Village, to walk the Highline, munching on cupcakes from Crumbs Bakery.

  But then I realize how much she must need to escape from here. She must yearn for a break from the rumors, the gossip, the hateful words that have sprung up on the insides of bathroom stalls and on desktops.

  I hope she f
inds the peace she’s looking for.

  I attend Saturday’s home game. Our team is having a pretty incredible season and we’ve even got a shot at making it all the way to the Rose Bowl. I’m sitting on the bench during warm-ups, my jersey hanging limply around me, too big with all the weight I’ve lost, when Coach sits down next to me.

  “Ten.” He nods curtly.

  “Coach.” I smile.

  “A hell of a few months for you,” he comments. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he means more than my diagnosis. He means Lila.

  “That’s for sure.” I chuckle lightly.

  “You haven’t formally released a statement about your diagnosis yet.”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “ESPN and some other news channels have been contacting me about an interview.”

  “Have they?” I try to sound nonchalant because I’m not sure how I should react to this news. Do I want to publicly say anything about my diagnosis? My lost dreams?

  Coach grunts.

  “What do you think?” I ask him.

  “I think you could shed light on a lot of important issues eating at you.” He still faces the field, not looking at me, but I feel his hand curl between us, his fingers clenching.

  And suddenly, it’s crystal clear. I’m a public figure. At least, I used to be. I’m nearly old news but not quite and people are still interested in my story. I could use my situation to ease Lila’s. To help her. To set the record straight.

  I nod. “Set it up.”

  “Will do.” He nods briskly, standing suddenly and clapping his hands, yelling out to the team.

  I shake my head, smiling to myself.

  Coach really is one hell of a guy.

  * * *

  The interview is set up two days later. Coach’s connections, the Astor status, and my own story helped push up the filming. I’m a little nervous when I sit down behind the counter next to Joe Simmons and Bobby Palmer. I’m wearing one of Miers’s suits, which fits me better now than my own due to my shrinking frame. My skin is pale. I’m wearing a baseball cap to hide my baldness, but at the last minute I remove it. Now’s not the time to be ashamed of my appearance.