The Last First Game

by Gina Azzi

  I chuckle to myself. While I’ve never been cocky, well, not too cocky anyway, I’ve always been confident. I dreamed of sitting up here, talking football with these men, commenting and offering my opinion. I always thought it would happen as an NFL prospect. Or a player. Or after I retired.

  Not as a nobody.

  Yet, somehow, sitting up here on my current mission, to talk about delicate but important issues, somehow this seems more significant, more worthwhile. A pride I thought I’d never experience again swells in my chest, and I feel like my old self.

  The makeup girl dusts powder over my face and I smile up at her. “Not much to work with, huh?” I joke.

  She smiles back, but it’s tight. She averts her gaze. Ah, too soon, Cade. I’m still adjusting to people not knowing how to act around me.

  When the cameras start rolling, Simmons and Palmer introduce me to the show. We chat about Astor’s performance as of late, the projections of the Mustangs making it to the Rose Bowl, NFL draft prospects. I’m living my childhood dream and I smile brightly. Jared would have fucking loved this. Maybe even more than me. Dad was practically giddy when I told him I was interviewing on ESPN.

  The conversation turns more serious. “So, Cade, I understand there are some things you would like to share with us today?” Palmer asks, leaning forward in his seat.

  This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The speech I’ve been practicing, repeating over and over in my mind.

  Stay hungry. Stay focused.

  Victory is ours.

  I fold my hands on top of the table and smile lightly. “Yeah, Bobby. Lately there has been a lot of speculation about me, the end of my football career, my diagnosis. And why I haven’t made a public statement. The truth is that I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it all. Anyone who is diagnosed with cancer will tell you that the feeling is completely surreal, one of utter disbelief. I couldn’t believe I was sick, especially when I looked in the mirror and still looked completely healthy, looked like myself.” I chuckle. “I even felt fine for the most part. But when I went down in September’s game against Stanford, well, that was a blessing in disguise because the stress fracture in my tibia alerted the doctors to my illness. I have Type IIB Osteosarcoma.” I pause.

  “Bone cancer,” Simmons clarifies.

  I nod. “Bone cancer. Man, that was tough to accept. I was hoping, praying to be a NFL draft pick, and suddenly I was hoping, praying not to die, not to lose my leg, to be able to walk in the future. My focus shifted quickly, my priorities changed overnight. And that’s a lot for someone to handle, but also a lot to manage for my team, for my friends, for my family.” I pause, allowing my words to sink in. “The good news is that my prognosis is quite favorable. I’m nearly finished with ten weeks of chemotherapy.” I point to my bald head. “I’m scheduled for limb-salvage surgery in mid-December. It looks like I’ll live, I won’t lose my leg, and I’ll walk again. So while losing football has been devastating, not losing my life has been an absolute blessing and something I’m incredibly grateful for.”

  Simmons and Palmer nod in agreement. “It seems you’ve learned a lot, grown a lot from this experience, as devastating as it is,” Palmer comments.

  I chuckle again. “That’s true. I have. I’ve also learned some other things.” I pause again.

  Simmons waves his hand at me, encouraging me to continue.

  “I’ve learned that the outpouring of support from friends, teammates, acquaintances, fans, strangers, has been incredible. It’s amazing to feel part of a community, to feel support and acceptance from so many people, especially when you’re dealing with something that you didn’t ask for, didn’t expect. But that’s not the case for everyone. There are issues occurring every day where people are the victims of situations they never asked for, never expected. And yet, they don’t receive a tenth of the support, the understanding, the compassion that I have. They don’t receive any of the reassurance and acceptance that I have. Maybe they’re even doubted, questioned, and blamed.”

  “What are you getting at, Cade?” Simmons asks, raising his eyebrows at me.

  “It’s no secret that rape and sexual assault allegations have been increasing on college campuses in recent years,” I state boldly.

  Palmer lets out a whistle.

  “Victims of sexual assault never ask for the situation they experience, never expect it to happen to them. And yet, many times, they are shamed, humiliated, made to feel guilty, when they should receive our support, our love, our empathy.” I look directly at the camera. “Issues like illness, issues like sexual assault, they are devastating and debilitating, and yet they are handled so differently.” I look back at Palmer and Simmons. “I was encouraged to come to your show today, to talk about the loss of my football dream, to discuss my diagnosis, to explain how I’ve been coping with cancer. Maybe it’s because I once was a projected NFL draft pick. Maybe it’s because it’s a story people can rally behind. Whatever the reason, it’s truly a pleasure.” I smile at Palmer and Simmons. “But how many young women or men who are victims of rape or sexual assault at the hands of other students on colleges across America are encouraged to come forward and share their stories, to discuss their feelings, to explain how they’re coping with having something stolen away from them? Something much larger than a football dream? And to do so without judgment, blame, and shame? Without universities trying to silence them?” I raise my eyebrows. “I’ve learned a lot from my cancer diagnosis, but the most important thing I’ve learned is that I am more than football. And if I can utilize this lesson to help others realize the same, then my diagnosis suddenly doesn’t seem like the end of a dream but the beginning of a new passion.” I turn back to the camera and smile before looking at Palmer and Simmons. “Thank you for having me today.”

  Simmons comments briefly on my monologue. He reiterates the importance of community in sports and how it should extend to other issues including women’s empowerment. He closes the show. When he shakes my hand, he winks. “You did a good thing.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  At least someone thinks so.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Lila

  Maura and I are huddled on the living room couch, staring with our mouths hanging open, watching Cade on ESPN. My mom sits in the armchair to my right. Tears fall down her face silently.

  Maura reaches for a handful of popcorn, chewing it thoughtfully, her eyes never leaving Cade’s face. “Holy shit.” She breathes. “He loves you.”

  My mom nods in agreement, taking a sip of her wine.

  I’m too shocked to respond, so I watch Cade, mesmerized by his smile, his stormy gray eyes, the lines of his face. I trace his jawline in my memory, feel his shoulders bunch under my hands, feel his kiss on my lips.

  “That boy is in love with you.” Mom states, echoing Maura.

  Maura takes my hand and squeezes. “What are you going to do?”

  I take a sip of my mom’s wine, too shocked to say anything, much less think about what I’m going to do.

  Does this mean Cade loves me?

  It definitely means he doesn’t think of me the way Gilly does. That alone calms my heart and makes it easier to breathe. Cade believes me. Cade supports me. Cade doesn’t blame me.

  But does he still want me?

  Could he really love me?

  * * *

  I’m glad I came home. I practically forgot it was Thanksgiving, but it was nice to spend the holiday with Mom. In fact, the whole visit has been an opportunity for Mom and me to reconnect, strengthen our relationship. I expected her to crumble when she saw me, to cry and sob about the assault. Instead, she showed me her true strength and spirit by taking me in her arms, soothing my fears, and speaking to me as an adult, as a woman.

  We spent a quiet Thanksgiving dinner together, just the two of us. But we talked, and laughed, and shared a bottle of wine. We confided in each other and told each other stories we’ve never shared before. Before bed, Mo
m made us tea and we ate cookies and huddled under a blanket on the couch, watching reruns of I Love Lucy. On Friday, Maura surprised me by taking the train to New York and showing up for the weekend. It’s been a perfect homecoming.

  Now, it’s Saturday night. Maura and I are getting ready for bed after sipping wine and rehashing everything Cade said on ESPN with Mom. Maura has an early train ride back to Philadelphia in the morning, and I’m catching my return flight to LA after lunch with Mom. Dad tried to see me, but I ignored his phone calls, knowing he would never come to the house.

  Maura is lying next to me in bed, her dark curls piled on top of her head. “Li?” she whispers. “Are you sleeping?”

  I laugh. Then I stop, realizing it’s the first time I’ve really laughed since the assault. “No,” I say instead.

  “Are you okay?” It’s another whisper.

  “I don’t know.” It’s honest.

  “Yeah. Do you feel empty? Kind of like a shell of yourself? Like you can go out and act normal and do everything the way you’re supposed to, but not really feel any of it at all? It’s like going through the motions of your life without feeling any connection to it. Do you feel like that?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, closing my eyes for a moment. “That’s exactly how I feel. I’m numb inside. And yet, everything aches at the same time.”

  Maura’s fingers circle my wrist, and she squeezes lightly. “I know.”

  “Is that how you felt after…” I swallow “…after Adrian died?”

  I feel her nod beside me. “It’s how I still feel. Although I think spending time with Zack is helping.” She sobs suddenly. “I’m sorry, Lila. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  “I know.” I move closer to her, placing my head next to hers on her pillow. “I’m sorry too. I’m happy you met Zack, that he’s helping you heal, to feel again.”

  She nods and I feel a small patch of wetness where her tears stain the pillow.

  “Do you think you’ll ever feel whole again? Not so broken?” she asks.

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Me too.”

  We’re silent for a few moments. And I’m relieved when I hear her breath even out, her slight snoring a comfort. I follow her into sleep minutes later.

  I dream about winter and falling snowflakes.

  The cold is a comfort against the heat of my skin. The snow is refreshing, cleansing, washing away the heavy blame and guilt I carry around. Snowflakes settle on my eyelashes and dance through my hair, melting against my cheeks and on the tip of my nose.

  I scoop some snow into a cup and it transforms into cherry ice, which delights me. I taste it and laugh as the cherry flavor bursts in my mouth, staining my lips red.

  “Look!” I yell out to a figure, but I can’t see his face, just a hulking shadow standing some feet away from me. “It’s cherry ice!” I call out again.

  The frame of the man turns and a large number ten marks his chest.

  His jawline is strong.

  His eyes are like a thunderstorm.

  His smile makes my soul sing.

  * * *

  Mom drives me to the airport after lunch. She holds me tight for a moment, her hand brushing over my hair in gentle sweeps. “I’m so proud of you,” she says in my ear. “So incredibly proud. You do the best you can when you get back to LA. And then you decide what’s best for you for next semester.” She pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting mine.

  She knows I don’t want to be a doctor. When I told her, she didn’t seem fazed at all. Finally, I feel the parental acceptance I’ve been searching for. Mom squeezes my shoulders.

  “It’s your life, Lila.” She smiles gently. “Life’s too short to be anything but happy.” She reminds me, saying the motto she used to tell me when I was young. I haven’t heard her say it in years.

  I don’t think she’s felt happiness in years.

  I lean back into her embrace, kissing her cheek. Her skin is warm and smooth. I breathe her in. Lavender soap. “I love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, brave girl. Now go, you’ll miss your plane.”

  I smile at her one more time before hurrying to the security line. I take a deep breath as my flight is called for the last time. JFK to LAX, departing from Gate A24.

  I hurry to the gate, pausing briefly to stare at the bar where I met Cade three months ago. My God, how much has happened in three months. I don’t even recognize the carefree girl with the long blond hair and too much luggage that sat at that bar, ordered a Heineken, and flirted with a hot guy in a gray T-shirt.

  I shake my head at the memory. I may not recognize her, but I remember her.

  And I want her back.

  * * *

  When the plane lands at LAX, I feel relaxed and well rested. Going home, even for a long weekend, was definitely a good call. I didn’t realize how much seeing my mom would settle me, how much Maura’s presence would calm me, how much sleeping in my own bed would remind me of myself.

  The whole version.

  I collect a small suitcase from the baggage carousel and laugh at the memory of Cade and me here months earlier, him navigating the way, maneuvering my ridiculous amount of luggage with ease, offering to share a taxi.

  When I exit the airport, I begin to make my way to the same taxi line. I look up suddenly, a navy sweater catching my eye. And then my breath stops in my throat.

  Because it’s Cade.

  Standing at the airport.

  Leaning casually against a pillar just beside the taxi stand.

  His eyes are dark gray, meeting mine with a million unsaid words but shared feelings.

  He smiles at me and holds up a sprig of mistletoe, shrugging his shoulders.

  Before I can overthink, or overanalyze, or question everything, I leave my suitcase behind and bound over to him, leaping into his open arms, snuggling deep into the warmth of his embrace, his sweater pressing comfortingly against my cheek.

  “I missed you,” I tell him.

  He presses a small kiss to the side of my neck, inhaling deeply, his fingers catching the ends of my hair.

  “Me too.” He smiles against the curve of my neck.

  I pull back briefly. “I saw you on ESPN.”

  He freezes, watching me with wary eyes, hesitating briefly before pulling me back in against his chest.

  “Thank you,” I tell him sincerely.

  “For what?” he asks, confused.

  “For believing me.”

  “Oh, Lila, I never doubted you.”

  I snuggle closer and he holds me for several seconds. The whir and buzz of the airport hums around us, but for this moment it’s just Cade and me, lost in each other. And it feels reassuringly like home.

  When I pull away slightly, leaning back to catch his eye, he smiles and holds up his sprig of mistletoe. “Happy December.”

  I laugh, recalling an earlier conversation we shared, about Christmas songs, family traditions, and December. I shake my head slightly and reach up on my toes, pressing my lips against his. His lips are warm and he tastes like mint. His hands are gentle on my shoulders. I notice he’s standing stiffly, not wanting to push me or rush anything. He allows me to control the kiss and after a moment, I arch into his touch, allowing him access to my mouth, deepening our homecoming.

  His moan mingles with my sigh of relief as I finally feel clean.

  Whole.

  Me.

  December

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Cade

  “I need to tell you what happened. I need to apologize,” she whispers in the dark. And I don’t want to hear it. But deep down, I want to know. I want to know everything she feels so I can absorb all of her pain and anguish and extinguish it.

  There are so many things I wish I could do for her, give to her. Often, I feel completely helpless. But this, listening when she needs me to, I can do that for her. Even if her words tear into me like a chainsaw.

  I put my arm around her, tugging her closer, running my fingers t
hrough her hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. And you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

  She nods into my shoulder, curling closer into my body. “I know. But I, I need to.”

  I nod.

  It’s silent for several moments. The sounds of our breaths mingle together, puncturing the quiet. Cars drive down the street, their headlights making long shadows along my bedroom wall. We’re lying in my bed. The lights are turned off. Lila’s legs are tangled with mine.

  “I was angry at you,” she starts.

  “I know.”

  “But I was also angry with my dad. Really angry.” She pauses, collecting her thoughts. “I told him I don’t want to go to medical school. And he … he was so disappointed. Not angry, yelling disappointed, but quiet, detached, disbelieving disappointed. I don’t know why, but his detachment somehow hurt worse.”

  I squeeze her hand in acknowledgment.

  “That’s why I was so preoccupied that afternoon at lunch. Brandon kept messaging. And my friends. I had emailed Maura, Emma, and Mia after I spoke to my dad and they kept checking in.” She sighs heavily. “Anyway, after you and I fought, I was so angry. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to feel how terrible I felt. And suddenly, I didn’t feel good enough for anyone. Not you. Not my dad. Not my family. And I just wanted to go out and have a good time. Let loose with my friends. Be normal for one night. Just drink and dance and laugh.”

  I nod, my cheek scraping gently against hers.

  “I would never betray you like that though.” Her voice hardens and she shifts to meet my eyes. “I would never sleep with someone to get back at you. I was hurt and angry and wanted to blow off steam. Not mess around with another guy and act out like some rebellious sixteen-year-old.”

  I nod again. And I believe her. I know deep down that she would never purposely hurt me. Just like I would never intentionally hurt her.

  “I barely remember talking to Tom. I was drunk and went to the porch for air. Sure, I was laughing and dancing with guys. I was even flirting. I thought it was all innocent. But I would never act on it. After talking to Tom …” She shakes her head. “I don’t remember smoking cigarettes, although someone showed me a photo where I am. I don’t really remember much.” She raises her wrist. “I remember slipping on a stair and my bracelet catching on the carpet. I remember red flannel. And I remember Tom’s tattoo. I remember feeling frozen for a moment. Like I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how to react to it. I remember feeling the left side of my face burn and sting.” She shakes her head and looks at me. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”