by Teagan Kade
He laughs at that, nodding to his teammates, who have also started to gather around him, slinking from the corners and shadows of the club. “You’ve lost your last two games, right? Your back line’s a fucking joke, and your tight end’s an actual homo. Champ, we’re going to beat you so deep into the ground you’ll need a shovel to find your way out.”
Tony moves, but I hold him at bay.
I take a step towards this Titan prick, fucking hate being called ‘champ.’ “You’ve got a big fucking mouth, you know that?”
“Hey now, I don’t need no trouble here tonight,” says the Sons of Anarchy extra, but he’s ignored — kind of outnumbered, too.
The Titans have crept forward, all of us coming together, testosterone heavy in the air, Def Leppard turning to Led Zep in the tinny speakers mounted above the bar.
The Titans QB blows me a kiss. “Big mouth and big balls, which is why I can tell you, to your ugly fucking face, we’re going to fuck up your scoreboard and then fuck all your dirty bitches too, double-bagged, of course. Wouldn’t want to pick up any diseases from their sloppy little holes now, would we, boys?”
A chorus of agreement from the Titans, a few unsure.
I feel the guys tighten behind me, eager for blood, but we can’t engage.
Then the Titan QB says something I simply can’t forgive.
He points directly at me, only a few feet away now. “And you, asshole, I’m going to fuck your bitch first.”
I think of Erin and see absolute red. I know this guy is talking shit, only wants to wind us up, probably doesn’t even know her name, but I snap. I rush forward and collect him around the waist, driving him through his team and over a table, the two of us spilling over onto the dancefloor.
It’s a fucking disaster after that.
The place descends into chaos. Tony’s clashing with two guys back at the bar, a glass smashing against the wall as a Titan goes flying. I hear the crunch of knuckles against bone and realize it’s my own hand belting this mouthy fucker in the jaw. His head snaps, but he takes the punch well and fires back a hard left I manage to duck, trying to get to my feet.
I’m winded as someone else tackles me back to the floor. It’s wet and sticky against the side of my face. “Fuck you!” I scream, and snap upwards, kicking some guy in the chest and tossing over a table, picking up the QB by the collar of his jersey and smashing him square in the face. He mutters something, blood flowing in two red rivers from his nose, the same color as the walls of the club. I drop him and spin around, shocked at how quickly all hell has broken loose but feeling the welcome flood of endorphins a good fight brings.
The barman is nowhere to seen, either cowering in a corner or calling the cops, and we sure as hell can’t be here when they arrive.
I shove my fingers into my mouth and whistle hard, shouting, “Get the fuck out of here. Go!”
My head’s clearing fast, realization icy down my back. The Titan QB is pinching his nose, stumbling against an old cigarette machine, one hand reaching for the wall.
I run for the stairs leading outside. “Fucking go!” I shout, throat suddenly dry.
The others join me as I run.
Tony’s busy wailing on some linebacker-looking dude against the bar.
I grab his jersey and pull him off, shoving him towards the exit. “Get the fuck going, man!”
We all stumble up the stairs and outside, breathing hard. My hand’s starting to hurt, my eyes wide.
“What the fuck just happened?” pants Tony.
“It doesn’t matter,” I reply. “Let’s just get to the bus and get the fuck out of here.”
Tony nods, brushing his hair back. He claps his hands in the air. “You heard him, boys. Move! Double time!”
I take a second to gather my breath, looking down the stairs leading to the club, but no one emerges.
What the fuck have you done? my head says.
What the fuck have you done? it repeats.
*
Coach is shaking his head. It’s raining, the smell of ozone and stale sweat in the air. He walks down the line, umbrella keeping the worst of it off him. “I haven’t seen a sorrier pack of jerk-offs in my entire life. What the fuck did you guys get up to between yesterday and today that’s turned you into such a miserable pack of pricks?”
I look to Tony, see the guilt there spreading across the entire team. But everyone will keep their mouths shut. That’s how it works in the Thunder. It’s one for all.
Coach isn’t done. “You lost the ability to speak somewhere in there too, caught the corovirus?”
“It’s the coronavirus,” someone says down the line.
Here we go.
“I don’t care if it’s fucking cancer!” Coach screams. “You’re playing like the fucking Eagles out there!”
He’s referring to the Eastern Michigan Eagles, of course, always friendly with the last rung of the ladder.
Coach stands on his toes trying to see over us. “What the fuck is this?”
We all turn together. A group of cops are approaching from the west exit, making their way across the field. I look at Tony and know we’re sharing the same thought.
“All right,” Coach says. “Hang here for a second.”
We watch Coach walk out to meet them. One of them points in our direction and I know we’re fucked.
“Shit,” says Tony. “You think they…?”
I nod my head. “It’s just a question of who.”
The question’s answered when the cops show up in front of us, the one on the left looking at a photo in his hand. It’s a black-and-white, security cam footage, but it’s clear enough. He looks up and points to me.
Another cop approaches me, taking out his cuffs, water dripping from the brim of his cap. “Peyton King?”
Coach is standing there silently. I have no idea what he’s thinking.
I’m fucked. “Yes,” I announce.
The second cop takes out another photo, looking up and this time nodding to Tony. “Tony Hamilton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll need to come with us.”
There are no more photos. It seems Tony and I will take the fall today.
The cop moves towards me with the cuffs, but Coach jumps to block him. “Hey, hey now, officer,” he says, “we don’t need those. The boys will go willingly, won’t you, boys?”
We both nod in tandem, but I can feel a nervous spread of fear fill me up from my feet. My brothers and I got up to some real shit growing up, especially the twins, had a few run-ins with the police, but this is serious. It builds on a series of incidents at Crestfall — fights and trips to Dean’s office, a string of apologies.
The cop with the cuffs thinks on it for a moment before putting them away. “All right. Let’s go.”
I walk off with him, Tony with the other, my heart thumping knowing this is headed anywhere but good.
I look back and see the team standing there through the rain, a block of red and white, Coach looking sullen, disappointed, and that’s worse, far worse, than seeing him angry.
I hang my head and walk.
There’s nothing else I can do.
*
We’re questioned for fifteen minutes, but the footage from the club is pretty clear cut.
I pass Tony in the dim hallway of the cells, watch him be walked into one, the cell door closed and locked behind him.
“In here,” says the female cop who walked me down here, a hand on my back directing me into a cell of my own.
I step in and the door closes behind me with a solid ringing of metal, the lock turning. There’s no window on the door, just a single slit against the back wall, a chute of sunlight cutting diagonally down the room. There’s a metal toilet in the corner… and that’s it. It’s four walls of painted brick and nothing else. I can only hear muffled sounds outside, nothing clear.
I slump to the floor and place my hands on my knees. It’s only then I realize I still didn’t get to message Eri
n. She’ll think I’m ghosting her for sure.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist into the ground, but only end up cursing again in pain, cradling my hand against my head, more frustrated at myself than anything else for losing it so easily, and for what?
I stare up at the ceiling, a single caged bulb mounted in the center, and want to scream, but I know it will do no good.
All I can do is wait.
*
Dinner is served, a collection of three sloppy scoops of what I think are potato, pumpkin, and peas, but, given the color, could be fucking anything. I push it aside. I’ve been in here twelve hours or more judging by the light outside, the bulb popping to life an hour ago or so.
I lie down, try to sleep, but I can’t. I shift and shuffle around, reaching for my head, shaking it over and over knowing this is going to fuck everything up.
I’ve only been out of the cell once, to make my phone call. I thought about calling Erin but decided on my father. He wasn’t even there, forcing me to leave a voice message that will probably be deleted and forgotten.
A couple of hours later I hear the lock unlatch on the door. It swings open, the same female officer who ushered me in standing there sternly. “Get up. You’ve been bailed out.”
I want to ask how, who, but I piece it together when I see Dad’s attorney waiting in the foyer.
I sign the paperwork, the cop at the desk taking it and hitting the buzzer for the door that leads to the foyer.
The attorney, briefcase in hand, walks over to meet me. “Your father’s waiting outside.”
“Of course he is,” I reply, following the attorney to the limousine waiting outside. The chauffer opens the door and I step inside, taking a seat opposite my father sitting there with his usual glass of Scotch — 25-year Bowmore, a good five-hundred a bottle.
My father gives nothing away. It’s a common King trait, being able to hide your emotion, your anger, or it was until the Titan QB started talking shit about Erin.
He didn’t, my head cuts in. He didn’t say her name now, did he? You’re the one who bit.
“I’m going to make this brief,” says my father, a finger dipping into his glass and swirling around the ice. “You’re moving back home.”
“I don’t want to,” I protest.
“It’s not a request, Peyton.”
Moving back home would be hell. I hated living there with whatever mistress dad was fucking haunting the place.
“You got a better idea?” he says. “Because there’s no way you’re staying near campus anymore.”
I do have an idea, but I don’t like it. Might be all I have. “I could move in with the others.”
“Your brothers?” Dad laughs, placing his glass down. “Mmm.” He settles back into the seat. “All right. Maybe they can keep you out of trouble.”
I’m surprised the old man gave in so easily, not that living with my brothers is going to be much better than living with my father, but I’d rather the lesser evil.
My father rocks forward, a finger pointed towards me. “But hear me, Peyton, and hear me well. One more shenanigan, one more fuck-up, and I’m not going to be here to bail you out, to smooth this shit over, you hear? After this you are on your own. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” I reply, almost adding ‘sir.’
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good,” says the great Stone King. “Get out of the car.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ERIN
It’s been days since I’ve heard from Peyton. Mild concern has started to turn into something else that’s twisting and turning in my gut like I ate something bad.
Have I been duped? I wonder. Have I fallen prey to a predator I’ve tried my whole life so hard to avoid? Even in high school when the cutest boy in the grade, Blair Williams, offered to finger-bang me in exchange for a blowjob under the bleachers — though we couldn’t possibly tell anyone about it, no, not with plain ol’ Erin — I refused. And for good fucking reason, but here I am sleeping with Blair Williams 2.0 and what do I have to show for it but an aching heart with side of regret?
It's only been a couple of days, I remind myself. He might be busy at practice, right? That makes sense.
He has a cell, I retort. It’s not like he’s been sent to Mars.
But then I remember the cuddling and the talking, the way he opened up to me, and I can’t believe he’d just up and ghost me like this. It doesn’t make any damn sense. We had something, didn’t we?
The question is left unanswered.
I’m lying in my bed watching Cold War, a particularly depressing Polish film in black and white. Mindy’s watching Magic Mike in the living room and I’m starting to wonder who made the better choice here.
I hear Mike wrap up outside. No more than a minute later there’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Enter,” I mumble.
The door swings wide, Mindy standing there, watching me. “I see you’re wearing your penis pajamas, which means you’re either super depressed or ran out of clean PJs.”
I keep staring at the screen. “The latter.”
The PJs, featuring cartoon pink interlocking penises, were a gift from my aunty when I turned eighteen. It was her way of saying I need to liven up a bit, to “just have some damn fun,” as she put it, which is rich considering she also spent her college days in the study hall. So yes, all my other PJs are in the wash and I’m forced to wear these, like a perverted, pornographic Escher artwork.
Mindy picks up the remote and pauses the movie, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. “This mopery better not be because of Peyton King.”
I try to look anywhere but at her.
“Oh, shit,” she exclaims. “It is. You are. You guys did. Are the legends true? Do you need medical assistance?”
I throw a pillow at her. “Yeah, keep going.”
She scrutinizes me. “Double shit, you’ve fallen for him, haven’t you? What the fuck did he do with that thing? Clobber you in the head with it? ’Cause this is not the Erin I know, to be so cut up over a boy, and he is a child. Surely you get that.”
I sit up cross-legged and play with my hands. “He’s…” But I can’t find the appropriate words.
Mindy helps me out. “…a fuck-a-minute frat boy who seems to have infiltrated your brain somehow. Your pants, I get, but that beautiful head of yours? How the hell did he get inside there?”
It is the question of the hour, really, one for which I do not have an answer.
“I have no idea,” I confess, on the verge of tears when Mindy jumps forward and pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Jesus, don’t let him make you cry.”
“I’m not crying,” but my voice breaks as I say it.
Mindy holds me away, eyes steely. “You listen up, girl, and you listen good. You are not going to let this guy pull his Jedi mind shit, are you?”
“No,” I squeak.
“Look at me,” Mindy commands, louder now. “Are you?”
“No,” I stammer.
“Fucking louder, sister!”
We both rise to our feet. “No!” I shout with everything I can muster.
There’s a bang from upstairs. “Hey, keep it down!” comes a muffled voice.
I laugh with Mindy. Admittedly, I do a feel a bit better after her pep talk. If she fails this whole track-and-field thing she could have a decent career as a life coach… or sex therapist.
She reaches down and hands me the TV remote. “I’m going to get some shut-eye and you,” she says, looking to the screen, “you keep watching the world’s most boring movie.”
“It’s not…”
But she’s already walking out, throwing a hand up. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I reply, settling back into the bed.
I watch the film but still my thoughts shift to Peyton. Try as I might, I can’t seem to get him to leave.
*
Surprisingly, I wake up refreshed and clear-headed. Caffeina
ted, the words flow easily at the office. Maybe it’s because of a sense of relief given I won’t be able to use Peyton for the article. Lewis will come around. He’ll see the bigger picture eventually.
My cell dings mid-morning. Mindy doesn’t get up until lunchtime, which means it can be only one person.
I’m finally relaxed, I think, and now you come calling?
I consider ignoring it, but my cell sits there and taunts me, that wonderful flow I had hitting a damn wall. I roll my eyes and swipe it up.
It’s from Peyton all right, apologizing for being MIA, asking if he can call.
Sure, I reply, keeping it neutral, because yeah, I do kind of want to hear what he has to say.
My cell starts to vibrate almost immediately. I stand and take it to the stairwell, double-checking Amanda’s not nosing behind the door.
I answer. “It’s been a while.”
“It has,” and with that simple sentence I realize how much I’ve missed his voice, the dark, gravelly tone of it that sends shivers up my spine. “Let me apologize again.”
“It’s been three days, Peyton.”
A pause. “Did you hear about the fight in town, at the Ace of Clubs?”
“I did.” I clue in. “You were involved? I heard it was kids from out of town?”
“Yeah, talking shit about the team, but they got what was coming to them. Unfortunately,” he says, drawing out the word, “the cops got involved, I got arrested…” a long exhale “…so yeah, not the greatest couple of days of my life.”
I had no idea. I had heard about the fight, but details were sketchy. We deal with news on campus, not the town. Still, even with this information, I can’t help but feel angry.
“If you’re wondering,” he continues, “I used my phone call to my father, who brought in his heavies and patched it all up, more or less. I wanted to call you, truly, but… Pricks showed up at practice, dragged me away in cuffs with Tony, couple of others. Talk about fucking humiliation. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about that.”
My anger dissipates, but it hasn’t gone completely. I don’t know how to respond.
I’m surprised word hasn’t got out about this, but the Thunder are close-knit. Coach Mooney was probably bending over backwards to keep it quiet before the scouts got wind. It wouldn’t be a good look, Crestfall’s finest being dragged away in handcuffs.