Dad comes back with something in his hand, and just before it catches me in the face, I recognize it as the old cordless phone that we still have on the wall. I never use the damn thing anymore. I have my cell, and I'm not even sure if it works. I think the service was shut off a few weeks ago after we got a bunch of notifications in the mail.
The handset cracks when it smashes against the side of my head, and I'm down, blood dripping from my temple. I've been hit harder in football, but before I can recover, Dad kicks me in the ribs, and even if he's just a shell of the man he used to be, he's still got almost two hundred pounds to drive into the kick. Pain explodes in my stomach, and I roll over into a ball while he stomps the shit outta me.
I know I should fight back. I know that I can. I could kick his ass if I wanted. But it's Dad, and even if Whitney makes me feel like I might actually be a good person, inside the four walls of my house, the truth is different, and the beatings have been going on too long. I promise myself that I won't cry though, and at least I hold onto that while he kicks me over and over until he's gasping and out of breath. "Stupid lying little shit," he gasps, spitting on me. "I should just kill you and save the state the trouble later on. You're going to end up in jail, Troy. I know it. You're just going to be some prison bitch who takes it up the ass for protection. That's what you want, isn't it? A big cock up your ass on a nightly basis. You make me sick!"
Dad stops screaming and holds his chest. I hope he's having a heart attack—maybe then the nightmare can stop—but instead, he turns and staggers back toward the living room. "You're eighteen," Dad says as he walks away. "Find your own house to live in. I'm done with you."
I crawl out of the house, drops of blood staining the walkway as I do, and I see our neighbors gather outside as I somehow get into the driver's seat of my car. Well, take a fucking picture, people. It'll last you longer. Come see the truth, that the big man on campus, Silver Lake Falls boy hero, is nothing but a cowardly little punk who runs away from his father. I start up my car and drive off, not caring anymore. I wipe the blood out of my eye every once in a while when it stings, but I make my way to the school, not really knowing why, since my original plan had been to try and find some food. The world swims, and I lean my head back, closing my eyes for just a bit to catch my breath.
There's a knock on my window, and I open my eyes to see Coach Jackson standing outside, a cop car parked behind his Toyota. Great. Dad called the cops on me, and now I'm going to get arrested. I open my door and try to get out, falling to my hands and knees when I try. Just perfect. Now I'm the one who looks like a drunk. "No statement."
Coach bends down and helps me to my feet, and I see his eyes are filled with tears. "Oh, Troy," he whispers, blinking. "Oh, dear God, son, what did he do to you?"
"Nothing I don't deserve," I mumble, trying to focus. "Don't you know, Coach? I'm a piece of shit, just like him. At least you might get a State Championship out of it before I fuck up my life. You know it's going to happen. It's fate. It’s a family tradition.”
Coach Jackson shakes his head, and the cop comes over. I see that it's George Walters, a crusty old coot who is one of the four cops in town, and he's got a camera. George lifts it up and snaps a few photos of my face, then turns to Coach. "Don't worry, Steve. This combined with what the neighbors said when they called in will keep Randy out of the house for a while. The rest depends on Troy here."
I don't understand, but Coach nods, waving George away. "All right, George. Let's get Troy cleaned up and looked to first. I'll take him to Dr. Burrows's clinic, if that's okay."
"That's fine, Steve. Want an escort?"
Coach shakes his head and leads me to his car. I collapse into the passenger seat, and he buckles me in before going around and getting behind the wheel. "I want you to know, Troy, the next few days are going to be tough, but I'll be with you the whole time. First, we're going to go to the clinic, get you patched up and checked out before you come home with me. In the meantime, don't close your eyes even if you want to. You may have a concussion, and I want Doc Burrows to give me a heads up if you're okay."
"Can't have a concussion, Coach," I mutter, leaning my forehead in my hand as he drives away. It's the only way I can keep my chin off my chest. I feel so weak. "If I have a concussion, Roberts is going to have to play QB Friday against Hartsville. No way we get by them with him under center."
"Some things are more important than football, son."
I spend the next two hours at Dr. Burrows's clinic, where it takes five stitches to close up the gash above my left eye, and the doctor tells me that I'm lucky I have a skull that's thicker than your average rhino's. After that, Coach takes me home, where the horror show continues as his wife helps me into some fresh clothes.
"All I've got in your size, Troy, is a team shirt, if you don't mind," Mrs. Jackson says. She's a few years older than Coach, and she has an accent that says she's not from Silver Lake Falls, but I've never been able to peg exactly what it is, even after knowing her for four years. It's kind of Southern, kind of New England. "Sorry, but our boy's nowhere near your age, you know."
The Jacksons have a little boy of their own, Gregory, who's in first grade and cute as hell. He and I have played together before, and usually, he's all up in my face, bugging me to mess around with him whenever I come to Coach's house. This time, though, he's not around, and I gather that they sent him to stay the weekend at his grandparents’ house. "It's fine, Mrs. Jackson. Thanks. I'm sorry to be any trouble."
"Oh, Troy, you've never been trouble," Mrs. Jackson says, wiping away the little bit of crusted blood that escaped Dr. Burrows' cleaning. "Difficult, of course. But I've been doing this for nearly twenty years now, and I've come to know that high school boys are often difficult. But you've never been trouble, Troy."
She leaves me alone to change, and I pull on the shirt and a pair of team shorts, hissing as I have to bend my knees to get my feet through the holes. I'm going to be stiff, and there's practice tomorrow. Shit.
I get out to the living room, where Coach and his wife watch with careful eyes as I walk across to the kitchen table and sit down. "Thank you. I guess I screwed up, didn't I?"
Coach shakes his head, and Mrs. Jackson leaves to go into the kitchen, opening the fridge. "Troy, you're not going to blame yourself, got it?" He says, his eyes burning with intensity. "What Randy did . . . there's bad parenting, and then there's damn evil. What he did to you this morning . . . that was evil. You have nothing to be ashamed of or to blame yourself for."
His words fall on my ears like lightning bolts, and I'm trying not to cry as Mrs. Jackson brings me a glass of milk. "But it's not all bad, Troy. Actually, Steve was looking for you at your house. You'd just left a little early. He’s got some wonderful news for you."
"What's that?" I ask, sipping the milk. It's cold and delicious, and it helps. I chug the rest, and I realize it's been days since I had milk, since school lunch on Friday had unsweetened tea instead. "Hartsville's running back broke his leg?"
"No, but you don't need to worry about that for now," Coach said. "I got a call from Los Angeles today. I don't know if you knew it, but there were some scouts from the Pacific Conference at Homecoming last week."
"I met one, but I didn't think much of it. I was, well, distracted by other things."
He nods, and Mrs. Jackson takes my glass, going back to the fridge before coming back with it and the rest of the half-gallon container. "Here. We can buy all you want later."
"Thank you. So what was the call, Coach?"
"Well, they can't offer it officially until Friday afternoon, you know, but the head coach of Clement University wants to offer you a full-ride scholarship to play for them next year."
I’m floored, and I have to set the milk glass down on the table before I drop it. "What? What about State?"
He sobers and shakes his head. "Nothing yet from State, but if you want my opinion, I think Clement's a better fit for you anyway. I was meaning to have this c
onversation with you after the season, but this is as good a time as any, and with the scholarship offers coming in soon, we need to talk. Troy, you're a hell of a high school quarterback, but you're a runner. You can pass, but our lack of passing isn't all on the receivers. You don't have that natural ability to drop back and accept that the defensive linemen are coming to try and hit you like a great QB should. A QB like Manning, Brady, guys like that, they don't engage the linemen. They avoid them with tiny little steps and get the ball off even if it means they take a lick right afterward. It's part of their nature, and coupled with their arm strength, it makes them great QBs. You're a naturally combative guy, and despite four years of coaching from me, you're still naturally combative."
"I like the contact," I admit, "but that's a good thing, right?"
"For a linebacker, yes. For a quarterback, not so much," Coach says. “Did you know that about a third of all the guys in the NFL, almost all of the skill players, they played quarterback in high school? You know why? Because coaches like me know the best chance they have to win is to put the ball in the hands of their best athlete as often as possible. I'm both cursed and lucky in that our school is small enough I can play you both ways without getting a ton of flack from the boosters. You're a good enough natural athlete that even when you're tired or a little beat up, you're better than ninety-nine percent of the kids we face. But at the college level, everyone is like that, and the pros are the best of the best of the college players."
"So what are you saying? That I shouldn't play quarterback?"
Coach nods. "That's exactly what I'm saying. If you go to State, they'll play you at QB. They've got an option offense, and that produces a ton of great linemen and running backs for the NFL, but it doesn't produce good QBs. It produces QBs who've taken a pounding so massive, they're no good in the NFL. They don't know how to read defenses, they don't know how to sit in the pocket, all the things that a good NFL QB can do. Clement runs a pro-style offense."
"But they're stacked at QB. Last I checked, they're three deep with a returning senior, a junior, and two sophomores, and that's not including whoever else they recruit. So what do I do?"
"You be who you are," he says, giving me a tight smile. "You're a smart player, Troy. And depending on how you finish growing, you'd make one hell of a pro-level linebacker. Clement needs good linebackers, and they run a 3-4, just like we do. And face it, you like smashing people out there."
I nod, admitting it before I think of a problem. "Contracts for linebackers aren't as big as they are for quarterbacks though."
Coach nods. "But salaries for star linebackers are a lot bigger than salaries for guys who get cut from the scout team. Think about it."
I do, and I shake my head. "It's a lot to think about. Can I just chill on it for a few days?"
"Of course. In the meantime, you're having dinner with my family tonight, and if you want a bed, it's yours as well."
"What about Dad?" I ask.
"Randy's going to be spending at least a few days in jail for assault, maybe more. Why?"
"It's my house," I say, looking out the window. "All my stuff is there. And it wouldn't be right to mooch off you or someone else."
Coach studies me for a moment, then comes over and lays a strong hand on my shoulder. It's hard to believe that this hand belongs to a history teacher. "That, more than anything, is the reason I believe that you can make it to the pros. We'll help you out as we can, though."
"Are you okay?"
It's the first thing Whitney asks me Monday morning, and I know there's no hiding what happened at this point. My face feels like it’s puffy, and my entire back and legs feel wooden, and despite my best efforts, I'm limping when I walk into school. I'd timed my entrance to try and minimize the gawking, but it didn't matter. Come one, come all and see the walking wounded!
"I'll make it," I say. "I . . . I’ll make it."
Whitney nods, and she looks a bit emotional, like she's about to cry. "Why didn't you call me? I had to find out from Dani via the grapevine!"
I swallow and take Whitney's hand, trying to take a deep breath. “I don't exactly know how to talk about this, you know? It's not the sort of thing I ever expected to call someone about. I'm sorry."
Whitney blinks and cups my face, looking me in the eye. "Okay. I'm sorry too. You don't need my drama on top of everything else." The bell rings, and we've got five minutes till our first class. "See you at lunch?"
I nod, and we share a quick kiss before Whitney takes off down the hall before turning right toward the math wing. She's gotta run. I know how far it is to her classroom. Silver Lake High is pretty stretched out that way. I watch her for a second before walking painfully toward my locker, trying not to meet eyes with anyone else. I'm spinning the dial on my lock when I feel a presence behind me, and I turn to see that all motion in the hallway has stopped and that I'm surrounded by my teammates. Cory and Gabe are in the lead, their home jerseys on, and I see that Cory's got his wrists taped up like he does before he plays.
"Game's not until Friday, fellas. You're a bit early."
"We're a team," Cory says, stepping forward and handing me my jersey. "That's on and off the field. Our brother's in trouble. We protect him."
"Fucking right," Pete Barkovich says. Pete's a big guy, maybe too short to play college ball, but built like a tank, and he's solemn. "Nobody touches my QB. We talked—all of us. You don't have to worry about a single comment or a damn thing from anyone. Or else they answer to us."
I gulp as I pull my jersey on, and then the clapping starts. My team—my brothers—surround me, and I'm nearly kept in a bubble as I make my way to first period English class, where Mrs. Penman looks at us just as the bell rings. She nods one time, then goes to her desk. "Next time, boys, tell me so that I can have your hall passes ready before you get here."
The morning goes well, and for once, I'm actually awake through most of class. Coach insisted on me going to bed at what he called a reasonable hour, and I got a full eight hours of sleep along with a full stomach the night before. When I get to lunch, I'm still wearing my jersey, and it's helpful to see the speckles of blue in the sea of students in the cafeteria.
"I heard about the stunt," Whitney says, and I'm touched again when I see that she's changed shirts as well, putting on her cheerleading practice top instead of the blouse she'd worn earlier. "Tomorrow I'll be more coordinated."
"You look beautiful to me still," I say, taking her hand. We can't kiss in the cafeteria. The teachers on duty can't overlook that level of PDA, but we are able to keep holding hands as we sit down and start eating. "I can't believe all this."
"Wait until tomorrow," Whitney says, spearing her hamburger steak with a fork and cutting through. "Dani told me during third period that half the school's going to be wearing blue."
"They don't need to do that," I say, shaking my head but still smiling. "Hey, the weekend wasn't all bad. Work on Saturday was good, and Sunday, I got some good news to go with the rest."
"Oh? What's that?"
"Clement's going to offer me a football scholarship," I say, smiling. "Full ride."
Whitney's fork pauses, and her face goes kind of pinched. "Clement. That's in California, right?"
"Just north of Los Angeles," I say. "It's a great school, and Coach thinks I have a good chance to start my freshman year for them as a linebacker."
"But . . .” Whitney says, then swallows. "What about State? You were all gung ho for them, and they're only an hour away."
"They are, but State's not going to be a good school for me. Besides, while I appreciate what everyone's doing for me right now, after this past weekend, there isn't much that I want to remember about Silver Lake Falls. Too many bad memories, and maybe some distance would be helpful. I've got to build a life without all this damn baggage."
Whitney goes quiet and finishes her lunch without saying another word. I eat my food, but when she goes to stand up, she waves me back when I try to follow. "Maybe some
distance would be helpful," she says and backs away. "I've got a meeting with Dani for game prep. See you later."
As I sit there, I realize what I said, and I shake my head. I'm not saying that I don't want a relationship with Whitney. I love her. Regardless of where I choose to go to school, I plan on continuing that relationship, even if it means calling every night. After all, this isn't the old days anymore, like in the eighties, when people had to pay by the minute for long distance. Email, Skype, all of it means that I can talk with Whitney as much in Los Angeles as if I'd gone to State, or if I just say fuck it and go to Tokyo for college.
I'm still puzzled as the bell signifying lunch ends, and I try to get my mind back on track. I'll talk with Whitney later. I'm sure she just misunderstood me. She knows I love her, and I just need to explain to her that when I said baggage and distance, I meant so many things other than her. The idea of being without her is more painful than my left leg, which is purple-black all the way from my hip to my calf right now. It hurts on the inside, being without her.
Chapter 9
Whitney
The bathroom door is barely closed before I'm over the toilet yet again. I heave one more time, and here comes the rest of lunch.
Oh, God. It can't be, can it?
For two weeks now, my stomach's been churning, and I can barely look at food without wanting to go running to the toilet. I'm losing weight again, enough that even Dani's noticed, and yesterday, she pulled me aside after cheerleading practice. "Hey, is everything okay?"
"I'm fine," I told her, faking it. "Just . . . lunch didn't settle well with me."
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