The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  Shifting upwards, I slide into the seat beside Jaxon, bringing Annabelle with me. She holds on tight, and I realize her attachment stems from the need to be close to someone who loves her brother as much as she does. I know because I feel it too.

  Jaxon takes her hand in his and bows his head toward me, our foreheads almost touching. “You don’t need to tell him that,” he says to Annabelle, “because he already knows you don’t hate him.”

  “That’s right,” I say, rubbing my hand up and down her shoulder, forcing a calm I don’t feel. She looks to me. “He’d never believe something so silly as all that.”

  “But he left.”

  Jaxon and I share a pained glance. “Annabelle …” I flick a glare toward Brody’s father. He doesn’t even notice. Juliet is hovering nearby, but he’s taken a seat away from us, his phone pressed to his ear. My eyes return to Annabelle. “You have to believe me when I tell you that leaving you was not something he ever wanted to do.”

  She nods, unsure. “I still want to tell him I don’t hate him. Just so he knows.”

  “Of course you can tell him,” Jaxon says.

  Juliet steps in. Taking her daughter’s hand, she tugs her off my lap. Annabelle goes reluctantly. “Come on. Let’s go get a coffee.”

  “But I don’t drink coffee,” she says as they walk away.

  “No, but I do.”

  Annabelle glances behind her at both of us, her expression torn. Brody’s little sister needs comfort, and I honestly don’t know if that’s something her parents are physically capable of providing.

  Jaxon takes my hand when they disappear, his voice hollow when he asks, “A coma?”

  I nod. “That’s all I know. He … Brody died on the way here. He died,” I choke out. Jaxon grabs me, gathering me up in his arms. This time it’s for him and not me. He buries his face in my neck and my palm brushes the back of his head the same way I did for Annabelle. “They managed to revive him, but all the sleeping pills …” I trail off, shaking my head. “Jaxon, what happened? Please tell me.”

  Jaxon draws back, glancing in Liam’s direction, but Brody’s father has disappeared as well. In a rough voice he tells me the story, starting from the moment they got out of the car at Brody’s parents’ house, and finishing with when they left.

  For a single moment we sit in silence, staring at each other. I’m angry for so many reasons I can’t even count, so fucking angry it makes me shake. “It’s my fault. I sent him there. He was coming to Seattle with me. He was going to watch my finals, and I told him no. I told him he should use his time off to try again. To see Annabelle.”

  “It’s not,” Jaxon protests. “It’s mine. I took him back to my apartment and I left him there. I had to hand in an assignment. I wouldn’t have bothered, but it was already overdue and Brody told me he was going to sleep. He was so calm. It was almost eerie.” He wipes at his face, his head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. “Why are we blaming ourselves?”

  “It’s easier,” I say with sorrow, my body drained.

  He turns his head, looking at me. “Easier?”

  “It’s easier to blame ourselves for what happened, rather than believe he would do something like this to himself.”

  Brody

  I’m trapped beneath a thick sheet of ice and can’t break my way through. I don’t want to be here. The water surrounding me is cold and below me it extends into darkness, its depths infinite. There’s no one else here. It’s empty as far as my eyes can see.

  Despite being stuck in this frozen hell, I can still hear everything above me—the beeps of machines and the sounds of people moving and talking around me, sometimes the birds, even the hot buzzing sound that sunshine seems to radiate. Jordan is up there. The sweet scent of vanilla is close. There’s something warm in my hand. I realize it’s anchoring me to the surface, not allowing me to sink down into the dark. Maybe it’s her hand holding mine. I try to squeeze it, to reassure her I’m okay down here, but my body won’t respond, and I don’t know if I’m okay or not.

  “Brody?”

  A deep wave of warmth rolls through me. I’m here.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Her sadness filters through. No! Don’t be sorry. I did this.

  Something hot and heavy presses against my arm but I can’t see what it is. I can only feel it. “Jaxon told me what happened. I should’ve been here with you.”

  I’m a big boy, Jordan. I don’t need you to hold my hand through every crisis. Which is ironic really because she’s up there right now, holding my hand.

  “Why?” she whispers, her voice cracking. It makes me want to weep, but I can’t even do that. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

  I didn’t know what I was doing, I tell her. It’s unbearable for her to think I meant this. Forgive me, Jordan. Please, I beg. It just got so hard. And it felt so good, just for once, to not be anything at all.

  “The doctors say it’s up to you now, but if you don’t want to be here, then … then … Dammit!” she cries. “I’m not going to tell you it’s okay to go. It’s not. You fight, Brody,” she hisses. “You fucking fight and you don’t stop fighting. I need you.”

  I’m fighting. I promise. My fists bang against the sheet of ice, frustration clawing at me. I’m more than a little scared. It’s thick and holding fast. How will I ever get through?

  Footsteps filter through above me, getting closer. A new voice speaks. It’s Jaxon. “Any change?”

  “No,” Jordan tells him. “Nothing.”

  There’s a pause and the rustle of paper. “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Trust me, you do not want to read this.”

  Jaxon sounds pissed.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Jordan sounds even pissier.

  You won’t win, Jax.

  I hear paper ripping, followed by more footsteps and Jaxon’s sharp huff. There’s silence. Whatever it is, Jordan’s reading it. Then she speaks. “Drug Overdose. Rookie NFL star Brody Madden in coma.”

  It’s a newspaper headline. Fuck. Jax was right. Don’t read it Jordan.

  “Oh god,” she whispers. “They’re tearing him apart.”

  They are? That hurts.

  Don’t read anymore.

  “Not just him,” Jaxon says, resigned.

  Not just me?

  “You too, Jordan. By association.”

  Fucking bastards! I bang my fists harder against the ice, but it does nothing.

  “Oh god.” Her voice shakes. “I can’t read anymore.”

  No! Keep reading, baby. I need to know what they’re saying about you.

  But she doesn’t. The paper makes a slapping sound as if she’s tossed it away. Moments later the warmth of her hand disappears, and I feel myself sinking.

  My hand is warm again and I surface.

  “Did you miss me?” Jordan asks. She’s trying for flippant, but she doesn’t pull it off. There’s too much pain there.

  I did. Every minute you weren’t by my side.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  Who?

  There’s warmth on my other hand. Someone else has hold of me now too.

  “Brody?”

  Oh god. Annabelle.

  The sound of a child sobbing reaches my ears. All I can do is lie here and bear hearing them. “I don’t hate you,” she says, hiccupping. “I never did.”

  I know, Moo Moo. I love you so much.

  “So you can wake up now,” she adds.

  I want to, I promise. I just don’t know how.

  “Jordan, why is he so still? And why won’t he wake up?” Her voice turns shrill. “I don’t like it! I don’t—”

  My sweet wife cuts her off. “Come here, baby.”

  The warmth leaves both my hands and I begin to sink, but not before I hear Jordan comfort my sister. I know she has Annabelle folded up in her arms, soothing her with sweet words. It breaks me that she needs it, but it puts me back together because they’re forming a bond, and it’s
beautiful.

  “I’m quitting FIFA.”

  No, you’re fucking not. Christ. If I was able to do anything at all, I’d be wringing Jordan’s pretty neck.

  “You’re not quitting.”

  Thank you, Jaxon, for saying what I can’t.

  “Brody needs me here.”

  “Brody would kick my ass clear across this hospital if he knew I let you quit the Australian soccer team.”

  Damn straight.

  “Besides, you signed a contract. Those killer legs of yours are legally obliged to kick major goals on behalf of your country.”

  Eyes off my wife’s legs, you fucking dipshit.

  “Jordan?” There’s a brief pause and when Jax speaks again, it’s like he’s talking through a throat full of crushed glass. “What if he never wakes?”

  The thought sends waves of pain rolling over me, crushing me beneath them. I focus on Jordan’s hand, holding onto the warmth with everything I have. “Don’t you say that,” she growls, full of fire. “Don’t you ever say that.”

  But Jaxon is right. What if I can’t find my way back?

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t … I can’t imagine a life without him in it.”

  “Me either,” she says.

  The sound of chair scraping along the floor reaches me. Then a deep exhale. “Brody changed when he took up football,” Jax says, his voice close. He’s sitting beside me with Jordan on the other side.

  “How so?”

  “He became happier, but he became harder too. Brody found something in life to love, and it loved him back, but he had to fight to hold on to it. And the older he got, the harder that fight became. The dyslexia was a noose around his neck. But it should never have been. His parents put it there, and even when the kids teased and bullied him at school, they never let him seek help. They made him feel shame. They made him feel less. It made him fight harder, yet he still managed to take joy in the smallest of things because for him they were huge. Then you came along and he changed again.”

  “How so?” she asks.

  My eyes close beneath the water, letting their conversation drift over me quietly.

  “He became more accepting of himself. More confident. You showed him he was more than football. You showed him he was worth loving for who he was rather than what he did. But then he had to fight to keep you too. All the time he was fighting.”

  Jordan’s voice is thick. “He got tired of it, didn’t he?”

  “No. He’s still here, so he hasn’t stopped fighting yet.”

  “I don’t want him to feel he has to fight to keep me too, Jaxon. All the more reason to quit FIFA.”

  “He wouldn’t want that for you.”

  “They don’t want me anyway so it doesn’t matter.”

  Why don’t they want you? I ask, joining the conversation. They’d be fucking lucky to have you!

  “According to the social media backlash, if Brody’s taking drugs, then I am too. When I spoke to my Australian coach about needing time, I could hear it in his voice. He barely restrained himself from telling me to walk.”

  Jaxon echoes my own sentiment. “Asshole.”

  “He is. But I get it. And my presence would cast a dark shadow over the entire team. How would we work together if none of them want me there?”

  Fuck this. I didn’t just ruin us, I ruined her.

  I’m so sorry, Jordan.

  But sorry doesn’t cut it. I need to fix it somehow, and the only way I can think of is if she had no association with me. If I wasn’t in Jordan’s life, she would have a chance to rebuild her battered reputation.

  I would have to let her go.

  Pain slices through me.

  Jordan gasps. “Jax, he … Brody just squeezed my hand!”

  I did?

  “Are you sure? It wasn’t just some kind of muscle spasm, was it?”

  “I’m positive. He squeezed it!”

  “Holy shit!” Jaxon sounds giddy. “Buzz the nurse, Killer. Buzz the nurse!”

  “I am, shut up already.”

  Jordan sounds giddy too. The warmth leaves my hand. This time I don’t sink into darkness. I’m alert. I can still hear them talking.

  “Buzz it a second time.”

  “It’s been five seconds, Jax!”

  “Take his hand. He might squeeze it again.”

  Warmth explodes through my palm, radiating upwards over my arm and across my chest. My eyes blink open. Light burns my retinas. I quickly close them.

  “Oh my god, he opened his eyes.” The thud of something crashing on my left jolts my ears. “Brody?” Jordan is close. Her palm brushes across my forehead and down the side of my face. “Can you hear me?”

  Brody

  Every part of me hurts. My eyes, my throat from the tubes, my ribs and face. I reach for the button to buzz the nurse, and when I realize what it is I need, I let go quickly. My arm falls back to my side on the hospital bed.

  No more painkillers.

  Jordan half stands in her chair. “Are you okay?”

  No. “I’m fine,” I rasp.

  She reaches for the cup of icy water from the table at the end of my bed. “Have some water.”

  “No. I’m good.”

  Water means having to piss and getting out of bed hurts. Jordan sets it back down and wheels the table closer so I can reach for it myself if need be. She returns to the seat by my side. Tucking her legs up, she wraps her arms around them and rests the side of her face on her knees, her eyes on me.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “About what? My overdose? That my real father is a sick fuck and that I’m his son? That I’m addicted to drugs?”

  Jordan winces at my bitter tone, but I can’t seem to help it. “I spoke to your mother.”

  “That must have been a fun conversation. You didn’t get frostbite, did you?”

  She sighs. Reaching out, she takes my hand in hers. The small comfort is everything. Her being here is everything. Jordan should be in Australia right now starting training with her new team, but she won’t leave. The last thing I want is for her to go, but I’m not willing to let her stay just to babysit my fucked-up ass.

  “I think she’s trying to change. What your father did …” She trails off. We all know what he did and there’s no point revisiting it. “You know she’s the one bringing Annabelle in to see you.”

  Too little, too late, Mom. “Good for her.”

  And there I go again with the bitter tone.

  “She admitted something to me that your father doesn’t know.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That she didn’t fall pregnant with you the way your dad thinks she did. She lied rather than tell him it was a one-night stand with some guy she barely knew and never saw again.”

  So many lies and secrets it makes my stomach knot. I don’t want to hear anymore. I grunt as I shift in the bed and Jordan pauses.

  “I can’t go there right now,” I tell her.

  Pressing the button beside my hospital bed, the back begins to rise, bringing me to a reclined seating position. My ribs scream and I grimace, holding back the groan. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

  Jordan’s phone rings, interrupting me. Reaching for it, she switches it to silent and drops it back inside her bag. When she looks back at me her lips are pinched. Stretching out my arm, I turn it over, palm up. An invitation. Her hand slides in mine and I give it a squeeze.

  “You have to go.”

  Her chin lifts. “No.”

  Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be. “You say that like you have a choice.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  She’s so determined and beautiful. I’m going to miss her. So much. My eyes burn. A tear spills over and I turn my head so she doesn’t see it. “I want you to.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re just saying that because you don’t want me quitting the team. It doesn’t matter, Brody. I signed with Houston Dash. I’m staying here. Perma
nently.”

  Fuck. I let out a deep, shaky breath.

  “I need you to go.” I turn to face her and admit something that hurts. “I don’t know who I am anymore, or if the NFL is even where I want to be. I can’t work that out with you here. I need time for me, to work out my life and where I went so wrong.”

  Jordan snatches her hand away, leaving me cold. “Is that what I am? Some mistake you made along the way?”

  “No!” Dammit. That didn’t come out right. “You’re not a mistake. I love you, Jordan. You’re the best part of my life. But I can’t be who you need me to be. Not right now. I can’t pretend I’m okay anymore. I need to fix the part of me that I broke.”

  Hurt wells in her eyes. That I’m the cause of it burns like a hot poker to the gut. “And you don’t want me here to help you do that?”

  So the media can vilify you for it? Would I willingly drag you down with me? My jaw locks. “No.”

  Jordan stands, but not before a sob rips from her chest. She grabs for her things with shaky hands—bag, jacket, keys, some girl magazine she was flicking through earlier while I dozed. They’re clutched to her chest in a messy heap.

  “Jordan,” I rasp with my scratchy throat. “Don’t leave like this. I can’t—”

  She faces me. One last time I take her in—all the stubbornness and fire and beauty so bright it hurts my eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  But you won’t, I say silently as she stalks out the door.

  This time when I reach for the button, I buzz the nurse. It hurts to breathe. I need a fucking painkiller. God, I need something. Anything. She comes in a few minutes later and checks my chart. Then I’m given some light aspirin which does fuck all except sit in my stomach like a lead weight.

  After staring out the window into the dark night for over an hour, a rap comes at the door. I turn my head as Doug McDougall walks in, casual in jeans and a tee shirt that reads: Kilts. Because balls this big don’t fit in jeans.

  Funny guy. I want to laugh, but I don’t have it in me. “Big Mac.”

  He nods. “Madden.” Moving to the end of my bed, he picks up my chart and runs his eye down it, flicking pages, frowning. He looks up. “How you doing?”