Scorched Turf

by Lilah Grey

  I turned twenty-one that year; had my first legal drink and my first meaningful relationship: Tyler. It was a year of firsts, and all the hard work, preparation, and sacrifices that led me to that point were about to pay off. But nothing prepared me for catching Tyler cheating on me.

  Another first.

  When I walked into the locker room that afternoon in late October, I never expected to find Tyler pinning Rylee, my own teammate, against the wall next to the showers. Their clothes strewn across the floor, a trail leading to one of the most heartbreaking, shatter-my-fucking-world scenes I’ve experienced.

  When I found them together, I didn’t know what to do. It felt as though the world around me had melted away, and all that was left was them and the dizzying, ringing noise in my head.

  I don’t remember leaving the locker room or finding my way back to the team house. I was on auto-pilot. My mind, unable to process what happened, had shut down completely only to return sometime later when I found myself curled up underneath the sheets of my bed, my face wet with tears.

  Weeks after it happened, I could still see their naked bodies writhing against each other every time I closed my eyes. I could see the lust rise in Rylee’s eyes as Tyler grabbed fistfuls of her hair, tugging harshly at it as he sucked and nibbled her neck. The rugged planes of his back, marked with fresh, raw scratches from Rylee’s nails.

  Rylee and I weren’t best friends, but we were a part of a team. A family. It meant something. To me, at least. I didn’t want to believe it; I couldn’t believe it. But it was real, no matter how hard I wished it otherwise.

  I had fantasized—planned—about the life Tyler and I would have together. I couldn’t envision a future without him. In my mind, there was no question that we were going to marry. I was his, and he was mine. But sometimes the person you think you know the most turns out to be the person you know the least.

  Looking back now, I can see the cracks in the mask that Tyler wore. I could see bits and pieces of the man—boy, really—that he truly was. But I chose to ignore them; I offered excuses. When you’re young and in love everything is rose-tinted and perfect no matter evidence that says otherwise.

  I hobbled over to my bag, looking for the half pill I brought with me. I had to ration them now that my prescription was about to expire. I’d already been relying on them for longer than my doctor and coach wanted.

  Relief washed over me as I swallowed the pill. I wiped off the excess water around my mouth with the back of my hand and sighed. In a few moments, the pain would subside.

  I was about to practice my ball control when I heard voices off in the distance. I turned around and spotted three figures walking towards the field, none of which I recognized.

  Thank God…

  Tyler was on the men’s team, and the less I saw of him, the better.

  We met at joint party between the men and women’s team my freshman year. He was charming and charismatic and not to mention gorgeous. He had an uncanny ability to put anyone at ease without much effort. But I wasn’t interested in dating at the time because I had other goals. We became friends and nothing more.

  It didn’t bother him that I wanted to keep things between us platonic. Most guys, when they realize they’ve been friend-zoned, become petulant children. They become prickly and every interaction after the realization sets in becomes laced with desperation and heavy with insecurities. But not with Tyler.

  Tyler was different, indifferent, I guess, to whether we were anything more than friends. Maybe it was because he knew he could have almost anyone he wanted. He ended up dating the captain of the women’s lacrosse team, so we only spoke during team events.

  But after they broke up my sophomore year, we began dating. And in less than a year, I fell in love. I experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows with Tyler.

  I’m still picking up the pieces almost a year later.

  I nearly gagged when I opened the door to my apartment. What in the world was that smell? Burnt hair?

  “Cori!” Violet yelled.

  She was in the kitchen. Not a good sign.

  Although she meant well, Violet’s cooking was—well, for lack of a better word—inedible. I’m still recovering from the night she made spaghetti. Boiled meatballs. Overcooked, congealed noodles. Tomato sauce with curry powder and Old Bay. I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

  “Mmm… What are you cooking? It smells delicious,” I lied, forcing a smile. I coughed and sputtered as I made my way through the smoky kitchen.

  “Chocolate chip and banana pancakes!” She beamed at me before turning her attention back to the soupy monstrosity she called pancake batter. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  “Starved, would be more accurate.” For anything other than Violet’s food, would be even more accurate.

  I couldn’t help but smile though. Although a terrible cook, Violet was an amazing friend. She helped me through my breakup with Tyler, allowing me stay with her, so I didn’t have to deal with Rylee at the team house.

  We’ve only been rooming together, officially, for a few months now, but I wish we started before our senior year. It’s nice having someone outside the world of soccer to talk to.

  I opened the window next to the sink and waved a cloth towel in an attempt to rid the kitchen of the smoke and smell.

  Violet hadn’t seemed to notice the smell, or the smoke, or any other sign that something might be off with her cooking. She was laboriously measuring out an unknown substance when I spotted the culprit of the smell: a stack of pancakes on a plate next to her that looked less like pancakes and more like hockey pucks.

  Please, be the discard pile… please be the discard pile.

  “I messed up the first batch,” she said, nodding to the plate next to her. Relief flooded through me. “But I think I got it just right this time.”

  She wiped away stray tendrils of red hair from her brow with the back of her hand. Unfortunately for her, that same hand was covered in batter; batter that was now caked in her hair and smeared across her forehead.

  I groaned as I slid onto a chair and rested my head on the kitchen table, closing my eyes as soreness began to settle in my legs. My muscles were beginning to tighten, but I was too exhausted to stretch them out.

  Violet dropped a plate in front of me, jolting me upright. Flour spotted her cheeks and forehead like warpaint, and her gray headband did little to restrain the wild strands of hair that sprang outward at every angle. Her green eyes were wide and manic.

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What?” Violet asked, her smile beginning to falter. “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m sorry but you look insane right now.” I circled her face in the air with my finger. “I mean, thanks for the pancakes, but you are one hot mess…”

  “Oh, whatever,” she grumbled, heading back to the stove. “At least I don’t smell like a dirty gym bag.”

  I chuckled. “Nice one.” A few seconds later, I turned my head to sniff myself surreptitiously. She was right…

  I poured a liberal amount of syrup on Violet’s creation and took a bite. It wasn’t half bad, so long as I ate around the burnt parts. A huge win for Violet’s cooking.

  “How’s your knee?” Violet asked as she brought her plate over and sat down.

  “It’s getting better. I had a slight flare up this morning.” I picked at my pancakes, flipping a piece over a few times before finally spearing it and putting it in my mouth.

  “I don’t doubt it. The way you’re training…” She shoved a forkful into her mouth, nodding as she chewed. “I think you need to relax. Give yourself a break before the season starts.”

  I know Violet means well; she may even be right, but it’s not that simple. This is my last season—my last chance—and I can’t live with the regret of not giving it my all, even if my body fails me in the process. I had no other options.

  I nodded. “Maybe.”

  Our preseason practices were starting today.
I couldn’t take a break even if I wanted to. After finishing most of my pancakes, I stood up to dump the rest in the garbage.

  “I forgot to tell you. Your mother called me yesterday,” Violet said as I scraped the last bits of pancake into the trash.

  “My mother? Wait, why did she—how did she get your number?”

  “No idea.” She shrugged. “But according to her, you aren’t returning her calls.”

  That’s true but not without reason.

  “She sounded worried,” Violet added.

  Worried? I’m hardly at the top of her list of worries.

  “I don’t know what she could be worried about.” I rinsed off the syrup from the plate and placed it in the dishwasher. Violet’s chair scraped against the floor as she scooted from the table.

  “I know things aren’t great between you two,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “But you should give her a call. She’s your mother.”

  It’s hard for Violet to understand my relationship with my mother. Violet’s mother was somehow even nicer than Violet. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to have a strained relationship with someone who’s never lived with what I was forced to live with.

  I was too exhausted to argue or explain myself, so I told her I’d call after my shower. When I finished showering, I had another missed call from my mother. I didn’t want to deal with her, but I knew I had to.

  Just as I was about to call her, my teammate texted me.

  Chloe: SAVE. ME. NOW.

  Corinne: ???

  Corinne: What happened?

  Chloe: Rookies and Skittles vodka…

  Corinne: It can’t be that bad…

  Chloe: IT LOOKS LIKE A UNICORN THREW UP ALL OVER MY BED

  Chloe: Oh my GOD…

  Chloe: SHE’S PASSED OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF MY ROOM

  Chloe: how did she even get in???

  Chloe: i have no roommate. i’m on the second floor. the door is LOCKED.

  Chloe: WHAT KIND OF DRUNK SORCERY IS THIS?

  I was too busy trying to catch my breath to respond as I imagined the look on Chloe’s face when she woke up that mess. I’d take Violet’s cooking over that any day of the week.

  3

  James

  Is there any better hangover cure than a bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich? Fluffy eggs, gooey cheddar cheese, strips of crispy, thick-cut bacon all sandwiched in between two slices of buttered toast. My headaches always dissolved after the first bite.

  The elixir of life. Or clogged arteries. One of those. Maybe both.

  George’s diner, a hole-in-the-wall, greasy spoon, made the best around. It might have been out of my way, but I couldn’t very well go into this meeting on an empty stomach, right?

  My phone buzzed as I left the diner.

  Jack: I see you’re trying to get released now.

  Released? So I’ll be a few minutes late to the meeting. An hour, tops. It wasn’t going to change anything. The Stars weren’t going to release me—not after bringing them a championship last season.

  But let’s say they did. Let’s say they thought that me skipping a few practices was so egregious that they released from my contract. If that happened, another team would pick me up before I left the building. Problem solved.

  There aren’t many strikers in the league that are on my level. None, to be completely honest. It’s the truth, and Dave knows it. Harvey, too. But most of all, Jack should know it.

  Even so, an unpleasant feeling began to form in the pit of my stomach. I wrote it off as a side effect of the ball of grease I’d just consumed.

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Stars headquarters. Although it was almost empty, someone had claimed to my spot. Jack. He was wearing blue jeans, snakeskin boots, and a red tartan flannel, leaning against back of his black Mercedes-Benz G55.

  Interesting. Jack never wore outfits like that; his beard was never that long. And was that a… man bun? If it weren’t for the car I would’ve thought someone other than Jack was in my spot. Had it really been that long since I’d seen him last?

  I felt his eyes follow me intently as I opened the door and walked over to him. His face gave no hint of emotion even as I approached.

  “You moonlighting as a lumberjack… Jack? I thought Harvey was paying you enough.” My attempt at levity failed tremendously. Like most of my jokes, this one sounded better in my head.

  That unpleasant feeling in my gut continued to grow. The silence wasn’t helping. Neither was Jack’s unrelenting, unnerving gaze. Christ, turn those high beams elsewhere.

  “Is there something I can—”

  “Do you realize how fucked you are, James?” Jack said.

  “Calm down, Paul Bunyan. I think you might be getting carried away.” Joke number two: flat again.

  He tapped my chest with his index finger. “You really don’t get it do you?”

  “What’s there to get? They won’t release me. They need me more than I need them.”

  “Jesus Christ, James. Just listen to how fucking arrogant you’ve become. No self-awareness at all.”

  He ran a hand over his head, squeezed his man bun, and then leaned back against his car. He folded his arms across his chest as he stared at me. After a few moments, he spoke.

  “Maybe you’re right. Harvey might keep you on, but that’s not the issue here. You’re neglecting to see the bigger picture.”

  He pushed away from his car and closed the gap between us again.

  “You’re twenty-eight. How many more good years do you think you have left in you? Three? Four? And that’s being optimistic considering the rate you’re going.”

  “Four years?” I laughed. “You’re older than me and still going strong.”

  “Yeah, and there’s a reason I’m still here. I don’t give people shit. I’m not selfish. I have self-control. I don’t cause headaches for my team—for the people who pay my fucking salary. There’s a limit to the amount of bullshit people will take from you. From anyone. As soon as your stock falls—an injury, bad showings—you’ll be replaced by someone who actually gives a shit. Someone who still has heart. Who respects the game. Someone like Evan.”

  “Evan? Now I know you’re just fucking with me.”

  Evan was a rookie. The Stars picked him up a few seasons before Jack and I joined the team. No one expected much from him; he wasn’t a first round pick or a middle pick. Bottom of the barrel…

  “He’s the first one on the field and the last one to leave. He has ten times the dedication you have, and he’s a good fucking kid. A whole hell of a lot more likable, too.” He paused for a moment. “Give it a year. Maybe two.”

  Jack was spewing bullshit. My spot was solid.

  “Now get going.” Jack pulled out his keys and rounded the car, heading for the front. “And don’t open your mouth unless it’s to say ‘Yes, sir.’ ”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He paused, turned, and then headed back to me. “If you keep heading down this path you’ll be out before the season’s over. I promise you that.” His eyes were fierce, but his voice was eerily calm.

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Jack,” I said, turning around, trying to play off the uneasiness that settled in my gut. His car sped by me as I stepped onto the sidewalk outside the main building, my nerves building with each step.

  “Assistant coach for the UP women’s team?”

  “Volunteer assistant coach,” Harvey corrected me as a smile formed on his round, pudgy face. His bulbous gray eyes matched the small patch of gray hair on his head. “You’re not getting paid. You’re offering your services for free out of the goodness of your heart.”

  Coach Granger’s chair creaked and squealed, straining to hold Harvey’s weight as he leaned forward and grabbed his can of diet soda. After taking a long slurp, he set it back down on the desk and leaned back in the chair, folding his hands on his paunch as he stared at me with that shit-eating grin.

  Smug prick.

  I turned to Coach Granger. “Why
not suspend me? Fine me?”

  I wasn’t sure how forced interactions with young, athletic women in their prime was supposed to be a punishment for me.

  “We need you to show us that you’re dedicated,” Coach Granger said.

  He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his white t-shirt. For a man of nearly sixty, he was in great shape. His arms were lean and muscular, his jaw line sharp. Only the salt and pepper hair showed his age, but even then, he could be easily mistaken for someone a decade or two younger.

  “And don’t you worry, James,” Harvey edged back in, leaning forward in the chair, which I was almost certain would buckle any second now. “You will be fined. And you are suspended. You aren’t getting off that easy.”

  Harvey stood up and shuffled around the desk, rolls of fat undulating under his suit. As he passed by me, the full force of his stench struck my nose like a mallet. Beads of sweat rolled down pallid face.

  “If you so much as touch one of those girls,” he breathed, pausing for a moment to wipe his brow. “You’ll be off this team.” The way he spoke made it sound like the players were teenagers and not full-grown adults.

  He grabbed my shoulder. “I’ll let Dave fill you in on the details.”

  I’m pretty sure that was going to leave a grease stain on my shoulder.

  Dave and I were silent for a while, both of us waiting for Harvey to leave. When he did, Dave walked behind his desk, wiped down the sweat left by Harvey, and sat down.

  If I were Dave, I’d just burn the chair.

  I plucked a shelled pistachio out of the jar on Dave’s desk and popped it into my mouth. Crunching on it, I leaned back in my chair and interlaced my fingers behind my head.

  “That went well.”

  Rapid bursts of strained, manic laughter came from Dave as his shoulders bounced. I nearly choked on my pistachio when his eyes met mine.

  “That went well?” His voice rattled as he suppressed the anger filling his lungs. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”