by Shey Stahl
Except for when someone has pissed me off.
I pass the exam, practice for two hours and it’s when I’m back in the locker room that shit really hits the fan. Hypothetically speaking.
The guys are talking about their day off and how excited they are for our first game this weekend, living it up on the high, and I’m pissed. Not only at the media, but Alessa for blowing this up and that motherfucker for taking pictures of the kids.
Komonde approaches me. “Feelin’ all right, LC?”
I acknowledge him with a nod, but that’s about it.
“You screwing the help now too, LC?” Justice asks with a grin. “What happened to the model?”
There’s laughter behind Justice’s words, and it makes me see red. Anger washes through me like I’m having a hot flash. I’m not in the mood for this shit. “None of your fucking business.” I put my pads in my locker and hang up my knee pads on the cooler and push the shelf up out of my way before I knock my head on it like I do every other time when I reach for my shoes.
Naturally, as you can imagine, I stopped getting along with Justice when he started fucking Ember.
“Hey, don’t get bent, man.” Justice laughs, removing his jersey and pads. “I was just thinking of callin’ her up for another run, ya know. But if she’s off the market now.”
I drop my shoes on the floor and turn around to face him. “Listen to me, motherfucker!” I slam him up against the wall. “You know nothing about Ember. Nothing. You know a girl who sucked your dick once or twice. I can guarantee you she doesn’t remember your dick so keep your fucking mouth shut!”
“That’s all I need to know about her. She gives good head. What else is worth knowing?”
He’s laughing. The motherfucker is laughing. I pummel his ass right with as much force as I can muster. Our bodies slam against the lockers. Guys start breaking us apart, and I’m so pissed that I can’t even think straight. I want to kill him for speaking shit about Ember.
“Both of you fuckin’ relax.” Kumonde stands between us with his hand against my chest. He puts pressure on it with his massive hand. “Enough.”
He’s an intimidating motherfucker when he wants to be, but it does nothing to stop me. It’s not enough. I can’t even tell you why I’m so pissed off now, just that I am. I knock his arms away, and it fucking pisses me off to no end. What the fuck would Justice have to laugh about right now?
Adrenaline courses through my veins, my hands shaking as I grab his jersey he’s yet to take off. “It’s not even about you just being an all-around dick anymore,” I say, watching his reaction to my every word. “It’s about you being a fucking drunk.” I shove him backward into Quinn, who catches him by his shoulders. “You not only let me down last week by your lack of attention, you let the whole fucking team down, you piece of shit!”
Justice says nothing. He’s hesitating. Only he doesn’t back down as his body tenses. He’s pissed because I’ve called him out on his own shit. Not many know about his alcohol abuse because the league doesn’t test for it. They want to know if we’re on steroids or human growth hormone—we’re constantly testing on that, even in the off-season. Most players on the team go out maybe one night a week, Thursdays or Fridays before the light practice days. Playing in the NFL is so physically demanding you don’t have time for that bullshit.
I shove him roughly against the wall. He catches himself against the lockers, the metal rattling as he eyes me carefully. “You’re the goddamn reason I’ve spent the last three days in a fog. Were you drunk at the game and forgot your motherfucking job is to protect me in the pocket?”
“Not everything’s about you, Slade.” Justice’s smile is gone. “How about I break that million-dollar arm and show you what you’re really worth here?” He rights himself and shoves me away.
It’s my turn to laugh at him. “I’d like to see you try, asshole.” I’m shaking my head as he watches me, testing and provoking.
He shoves me. “How long have you been fucking Ember?”
I admire his bluntness. There’s nothing funny about it, but I smile. Maybe that’s why he smiled. “Don’t ask unless you want an honest answer.” I’m making his head spin and feeding him lies without even saying the words. They dated for a while, and the entire time he thought I was fucking her too. It makes him see red. It’s not technically my fault if he’s misconstruing what I’m saying as the truth. I didn’t lie. He just isn’t gathering the truth from my cryptic words.
It’s by design, and if he knew me at all, he’d know that.
He waits. His eyes scan my face like he’s studying me. He’s looking for the lie. And he doesn’t see it because he knows I don’t lie. I don’t need to.
I shove, harder than he does, but not nearly hard enough. I want to rip his fucking head off. I don’t like where this is going, and he doesn’t either. But then he says something that really sets me off, a deeper darker part of my life I never talk about. “You know where all this started.”
I do know where it started between us and it wasn’t Ember. It wasn’t even Alessa.
It started with Jenna.
Whether I wanted to continue that fight or not with Justice, I didn’t. It would have ended in a mandatory suspension. With our first game coming up this weekend, I didn’t need that, so I manned up and walked away, despite my pride.
What I should not be doing are interviews.
“Days away from the Seahawks first game of the season against the Miami Dolphins, we’re lucky enough to sit down with Slade and the upcoming season.” Tia, the reporter interviewing me crosses her legs and smiles like we’re old friends. I’ve never met her before today, and if I had, I wouldn’t remember. I’m self-diagnosed with prosopagnosia. You’re wondering what the fuck that is, aren’t you?
It’s a neurological disorder where you have the inability to recognize faces. Like face blindness. I can meet you and immediately I don’t remember your name or what you look like. It’s sometimes a blessing, and more often than not, a curse.
“LC, you’ve had a busy off-season,” Tia goes on to say, trying to engage me when really, she’s staring at the cut below my eye and dying to ask what it’s from. “As you’re preparing for your fifth NFL season, you’re adjusting to being a new father. Your brother, Grant, recently passed away and now you’re raising his kids, right?”
I nod. What else am I going to do? Break down and Barbara Walters this shit with water works? Truth is, I haven’t cried since Grant died. And I know that might make me out to be a total douche, but I wasn’t close with him.
“That has to be life-changing for you transitioning from the most eligible bachelor in Seattle to life as a dad?”
“Yeah, it has been something for sure. I’m lucky enough to have my best friend there for me and helping out with them. They’re great kids though.” This isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned Ember in interviews, and it won’t be the last.
Tia smiles, adjusting her posture as she delves into her next question. “Do you think all this change will affect your performance?”
Toying with the bottle of water in my hand, I don’t look at her. “I think it’s affected me a little bit, but not drastically. But I feel 100 percent healthy and ready to roll.”
“As you head into the season and evaluate yourself, do you still see any areas where you need to improve?”
Thankful the questions are about the team, I draw in a deep breath and relax into my chair. “There’s always room for improvement.” And I leave it at that.
Tia’s lips purse, like she can’t believe I’m being so difficult. I don’t know why she expected anything less. I’m known for shunning the media. I don’t like interviews. “The Seahawks have been Super Bowl contenders pretty much every season you’ve been there, but you guys have only the one ring to show for it so far. You know as well as I do, championship windows do not stay open for very long in the NFL, so I have to ask, is there a growing sense of urgency to get another one, or has the ment
ality remained the same since your first Bowl win?”
Leaning forward, I catch her eyes. “You know, I’ll go ahead and ignore your dig with the questions, but just so you know, the goal is always to win. You start every season with that intention. I think there’s always been a sense of urgency because we’re so competitive. We always want to be the best in the world. That’s just how we think.”
Tia doesn’t back down, and I gotta hand it to her. Women reporters constantly have to prove their worth in the sports industry, and she can certainly handle herself. “What do you think holds you guys back from getting back to where you want to be and winning another Super Bowl?”
“It’s just one or two plays here or there. It’s always going to be the little things and continuing to find ways to win. We’ve been close every year. The past four years we’ve won more games and been in a lot of playoff games and won a lot of them. I think we’re going to have a great team this year. We can’t look back into the past.”
“Speaking of your past…”
Do you notice the way my breathing accelerates? The way it feels like a tidal wave crashes over me? And that’s when the interview stumbles into a part of my life I don’t like to talk about. All you have to do is some clever Google searches, and you’ll discover a past I’d like to forget. Most don’t bring it up because what the hell does it matter? Any reporter interviewing me wants to ask questions about passing yard and touchdowns. There are the occasional pries into my ongoing feud with Justice, but usually, never about my personal past. Probably because I’ve been known to get up and walk out on them. Until now. I saw it coming too. It’s always the female reporters.
“Your twin sister, Jenna, she died your rookie season.” I nod, tightly. “Do you think with your brother dying, the emotions are surfacing again? Do you think it will affect your season?”
I’ve never once shared what happened to Jenna, and I can’t even tell you why what comes out of my mouth next does. The story never gets easier because not a day goes by that I don’t think of Jenna and what she could have become. “It’s different. I wasn’t close with my brother Grant. I hadn’t seen him in years… not since Jenna’s funeral. With Jenna, she was my twin. There was a bond there nothing could break, so yeah, it’s completely different.” Just saying her name is like ripping off a scab and waiting for the pain to hit and when it does, you immediately regret picking at the festering wound and the scar you know is there to stay. It’s the kind of pain where you end up on your knees and are slowly bleeding to death.
“She overdosed, didn’t she?”
I swallow, my breathing heavier, my posture rigid. I try not to think of Jenna because whenever I do, whenever that memory of finding her dead takes over, the rage comes soon after. I let my mind go blank for a moment, those dark eyes, that smile… her. I don’t like to admit it but Marley… she’s the spitting image of Jenna, and that in itself makes my fucking blood boil.
The blood in my ears is a whoosh, thumping steadily. Something inside me breaks. My eyes fix on Tia, wanting to burn a fucking hole through her. Fuck her for bringing this up today.
“Why does it fucking matter how she died?” My eyes bore into hers. I rip the microphone off my shirt and throw it at her feet. “Interview’s over.”
I walk out of the room, photographs snapping and the media swarming me. I don’t look at anyone. I do stop in front of Harper, who’d been standing there watching all this. “What the fuck was that?”
She sighs. “I can’t control them trying to pry, Landon. I told them ahead of time not to ask, but I can’t stop them from doing so.”
“What the fuck do I pay you for then?”
I know, it’s harsh.
I’ve lost in my life. I’ve lost my parents, my twin sister, my brother… and the only place I’ve ever had control of anything is on the field, and even then the term control is relative, because is anyone ever in control?
I don’t need reminders of it. The memories, the nightmares, they’re bad enough. Avoidance is a blackness I can sink into. A way to forget the haunting reality that anything I love dies.
I stalk past Kumonde and Quinn in the hallway and rush out to the parking garage. Once in my car, I draw in a shaking breath and toss my cell phone in the center console.
You’re probably curious about Jenna, I know. And I suppose for the most part I’ve kept you in the dark long enough.
She died.
Satisfied?
Didn’t think so.
I’ll go back further.
She died five years ago.
Good enough?
Fuck, you’re impossible.
Okay, I’ll take you back further.
Jenna… she was a breath of fresh air. Everything about her drew you in. Beautiful, energetic, always smiling and fucking smart as hell. I was never good at school but Jenna, she was doing geometry in kindergarten. Not even joking, the girl had everything going for her.
We moved to Seattle together when I signed with the Seahawks, and she was finishing her degree at the University of Washington and interning at Harborview in the ER. She met this guy, Clay, a drug addict who came into the ER one night. I don’t know all the details, but I know Jenna, and she wanted to help everyone. Even Revel and his problems. She was constantly trying to get him to stay sober but with creativity comes obsession, and you’re never going to take the bottle away from him. Revel’s not where this story goes though. It begins and ends with Clay.
About six months after she met Clay, her personality began to change, and while I constantly questioned it, she denied anything was going on with her. Then her appearance subtly deteriorated, and I knew it was more than the guy. I saw it with Revel… and then I saw it with the other half of myself.
I tried, God, did I fucking try to get through to her, but in the end, she became addicted to the same drug as Clay. Heroin. My sister. My twin sister… the one who was working her way through University of Washington to becoming a general surgeon, had become addicted to heroin because of her boyfriend. Never would I have thought someone like her would fall victim to addiction. Wouldn’t have ever crossed my mind.
She overdosed at the age of twenty-one. I found her dead in her apartment two days after we won the Super Bowl my rookie season, and that’s the day my world changed forever. It wasn’t when my parents died.
No, it was that day, that dreary gray morning in Seattle when her bright blue eyes became gray and the life had been sucked from her body.
Tuck Rule – An incomplete pass where the football comes out of the quarterback’s hand as his arm is moving forward in a passing motion (might have been trying to pass but changed his mind, or he might have been faking a pass) and he’s not completely brought the ball back under control. The play is frequently confused with a fumble.
It takes me all evening to apply texture to the piece I’m working on and then another twenty minutes of cleaning brushes before I slip into the shower that night.
I haven’t heard from Landon all day, and I’m not surprised about that either. Not after seeing those photos and hearing from Harper and the interview…. I knew when I saw Landon tonight—if I did—his mood would be off.
Lying on the bed in one of his old T-shirts I stole from him while moving, I’m half waiting for him when I notice the lights from his car sweep across the driveway. The guest house faces the drive, and I count the seconds in my head to how long it will take him to reach the garage door, or if by chance, he skips the house and comes directly to the guest house.
There’s no knock, but the subtle creak of the door opening, followed by my bedroom door. He came to see me. In that moment, all the emotions of last night and this morning rush through me. What will he say? Will he want to talk about the interview… the pictures? How I left him hanging this morning?
He opens the door, then closes it and twists the lock. With a deep breath, Landon’s eyes sweep over the dimly lit room and the candle burning on my nightstand. I fight the urge to blow it out.
It’s too romantic, right? Candles burning hint I’m expecting romance, and that’s not something that’s going to happen here. Thank God I didn’t have some sappy music playing.
I sit up in bed, my hands fidgeting with the hem on the shirt, as if it will somehow distract me from him.
“Hey,” he says simply, as if nothing happened today.
I pinch my lips together, shrugging. “Hey.”
His forehead creases, looking around, like he’s being set up for a practical joke. “What’s wrong?”
“Where were you?” I ask. Whoa. Where’d that insecurity come from?
“Practice.”
“It ended four hours ago.”
“So,” he says casually, like it should make a difference. “Didn’t know I had to check in with you before I went out for a drink.”
Annoyance gnaws at me. Landon’s always good for popping off with a line or two to piss me off throughout the day, but I didn’t exactly expect him to say that. Breathing in deeply, I push the anger aside when I notice him swaying, catching himself against the wall. He’s probably upset over the interview. “You’ve been drinking?”
He frowns. “So what if I have been? You’re not my mother.”
What a tool. “Don’t be a dick. You know what I mean. You never drink during the season.”
He shrugs, shifting his weight like he’s uncomfortable. “Well, I was.” He pauses and swallows, as if it’s difficult. “I needed it after today.”
“I heard about the interview.”
“I… yeah,” he says, breathing in deeply, his hand pulling at the back of his neck and avoiding my eyes.
“Are you okay?”
He drops his hand from his neck. “No, not really.”
He sits down on the edge of my bed, and I move closer to him, next to him. “Do you want to talk?”
“No.” He wraps his hand around mine and tries to pull me onto his lap. I won’t let him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m worried about you.”
With the soft flickering of the candlelight against his face, I watch him closely, waiting for the crack, the break in his shield he’s put up tonight. He doesn’t say anything, his gaze going to the floor. “Don’t be.” He frowns, licking his lips. “I’m fine.”