Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  “When can I play again?”

  “The surgeon and the physical therapist will be in to talk to you about that sometime soon.”

  That didn’t sound good. He closed his eyes and let the morphine carry him away.

  He couldn’t believe it. It was just a dumb broken ankle, but he would be out for the rest of the season. Logically, he knew that was what would happen, had seen it happen to his heroes and his team mates. But he couldn’t seem to imagine a future where he wasn’t out there on the field, getting paid to hit people, being in the middle of the action. No more sacks. Crutches. Couldn’t even carry his food to the couch. His crappy apartment in Carondelet was on the second floor. He couldn’t even live by himself anymore. Just thinking about it made his throat start to close up.

  He’d prided himself on not having handlers, or life arrangers, on keeping that money in the bank for his mom’s foundation. Interest accruing and all that. He had his same truck from college. He kept his head down in his neighborhood and nobody had noticed him.

  His dad didn’t like the city. He preferred his mostly country life, driving 15 minutes to the Schnucks, and going back to being surrounded by pastures. Jack couldn’t ask him to stay in the city for too long. Maybe a couple days, but Jack would be on crutches for much longer. He was still puzzling all this out from his hospital bed when his phone buzzed.

  It was Rochelle: You gonna make it?

  He texted back: I don’t even know. My life isn’t cut out for broken ankles. He added a sprinkling of assorted emojis. Texting with morphine was more fun.

  I know. I’m so sorry, Jack. She replied to that immediately, and then the three dots hovered on the screen for what seemed forever. I’m so sorry for everything. And an emoji heart.

  He replied with a thumbs up emoji and put his phone down. He drank some water. Shifted his pillows. Thought about trying his crutches again. Then there was a knock at his open door.

  It was Cedric. Behind him was a nurse with a wheelchair.

  “What’s up, Cedric?”

  “I’ve come to spring you out of here.”

  “Ced, you know where I live. I haven’t figured out what to do yet.”

  “You might not know what to do, but I do. You’re coming home with me.” Cedric spoke like it was the most normal thing in the world to offer to take in an injured co-worker.

  “I can’t do that! You’ve got a family, man! Your wife doesn’t want a strange man in her house.” Where ever Jack went, he would be dependent on somebody, the fact a hot coal on his skin. He’d already had to rely on Cedric’s good will once this season. But going to Cedric’s would be less hassle than hiring an assistant and finding an accessible room. And he could find a way to make it up to Cedric, maybe help out with some of the volunteer work he did.

  “Exactly. I have a family. I know what it’s like. And Ceci, well, it was mostly her idea. I love you man, but I wouldn’t have thought through what it was like to live with a broken ankle like my sweet wife did.”

  “You got a treasure, man.”

  “More precious than rubies: that’s what she’s always telling me.”

  “Well, I certainly can’t get away from you like I am, so I guess I’ll go. I don’t want to spend one more day at this hospital.”

  Cedric was one of the other players that chose to live in the city. His wife had been captivated by the big old houses in the Shaw neighborhood and by living so close to a huge park. Their front yard held a lot of trees, a huge flag sporting St. Louis’s mascot, a tidy flower bed, and a Black Lives Matter sign besides the steps. Their four kids went to the Catholic school in the neighborhood, and they had shifted things around to give Jack a bedroom on the downstairs level. He wasn’t sure if he’d met Ceci before. She was a Black woman who exuded warmth and energy—he could immediately see why Cedric would’ve said yes and offered to house an injured teammate.

  She gave him a tour, with extensive commentary. “Can you believe it there are some houses here that only have a bathroom on the upper level! We nixed those right away when we were house hunting. Anyway, here’s your room, here’s the bathroom—Marcus is going to lend us the shower stool he used when he broke his leg, and here’s the kitchen and the play room.” She pointed at a framed paper on a sideboard. “That’s the Wi-Fi code, and please just go wherever you’re comfortable.”

  They’d stopped behind the couch in the TV room, and Jack let one crutch rest against the edge of the couch. He risked falling to reach an arm around Ceci and squeeze. “Thank you. This is… Cedric told me it was your idea and I just can’t thank you enough.”

  “You just get better as fast as you can so Cedric doesn’t have to do it all by himself, okay?” She poked him in his ribs.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help him this season, but I’ll be ready next year, if they still want me.”

  “Go team!” She waved a fake pompom in the air. Cedric came into the room and almost knocked Jack over with a bear hug. “Oh, sorry, man. Welcome. I got all your bags in your room and I think you should be all set. I got to run to that meeting.”

  Jack clumped over to the front of the sofa and sank into it. Then he swung his legs over so he could rest his ankle on the sofa arm, keeping it elevated. Shit. “Hey Ceci? I’m so sorry. Can you bring me the remote?”

  He heard her laugh from a different room. “Sure, hang on,” she called. She came in a few minutes later and went to the TV console and came back with a whole basket of remotes and video game controllers. “Okay, so I’m not sure which one does what, but these are all the ones we have. We’ve got satellite of course, but also lots of video games. Just holler again if you need me.”

  God, he was going to need so much in the next month or two. He’d be hollering all the time. He’d never been physically helpless like this before. He wouldn’t be able to hit people anymore. This fucking sucked. People would bring him things—he suddenly had flashbacks to all the grief casseroles his dad and he had gotten after his mom died. They hadn’t even tried to eat them, just thrown them out. He couldn’t do anything, this time. He’d have to eat the fucking casseroles.

  5

  Rochelle was in St. Louis again. In the Lyft, headed into the city. She was a fool, but she was in St. Louis. It was Thanksgiving break, and she’d done her best to make sure her students had food over the break before kissing her mama and her auntie goodbye and getting on a plane. She was gonna miss that shrimp dressing her aunt made for sure. And her mom’s leftover turkey gumbo, which was basically her favorite thing in the world. She’d begged her to freeze some for her.

  What was she doing in St. Louis?

  Jack had started sending her pitiful selfies of him on his crutches. The family he was staying with had “forced” him to do all sorts of things with them, even on crutches. She wasn’t exactly sure how he did the zoo with them, but the selfie with him and the polar bear was pretty amazing. Of course, a formerly active guy like him, he needed to be out of the house and busy.

  But really, it was time. She needed to know what was going on with him. She knew what these daily texts and occasional phone calls were doing to her. She was getting all tangled up in something—someone—she didn’t know if she could trust. She’d come to find out if he was going to do better. She’d invited him to Thanksgiving in Huss, but he couldn’t travel on a plane with his ankle like that, and since he couldn’t drive, he’d invited her up instead. He said he needed her to meet Cedric and Ceci.

  And so yeah, here she was. She’d seen the Arch from the plane, and now she was headed to Cedric and Ceci’s house.

  When she started this year she didn’t expect to be on first name basis with any NFL players. Their care for Jack amazed her. Jack had broken his right ankle, so he couldn’t drive. He told her he at their mercy when it came to leaving the house, but mostly he told her about Ceci. She was an energy powerhouse, apparently, getting all the kids to school, running errands, volunteering at refugee groups and NFL wives philanthropy events, even running Jack t
o his appointments, as well as making home cooked meals and snacks and keeping an open house for other lonely and/or single St. Louis players.

  Rochelle couldn’t decide if she loved her or she hated her. From Jack’s stories, it was clear that Ceci was totally bound up in Cedric, there was just somehow all this extra overflow of love that she lavished on everyone else, too.

  As Rochelle’s Lyft stopped in front of their house, she reminded herself she was glad that someone was there to care for Jack. She took a deep breath and got out of the car.

  The house was set back from the street, with trees obscuring a good bit of its facade. There was a large porch with wicker furniture, and hey, a Black Lives Matter sign in the flower bed. Instead of a doorbell, there was a handle to twist, and she heard the ting of an actual bell being rung. A deep voice hollered “coming” and a thump thump approached the door. The lock clicked, and then the door opened and Jack was there, two crutches, one leg, and a boot. And Jack.

  “Rochelle. Come in.”

  He backed up awkwardly on the crutches to give her space to cross the threshold. She rolled her suitcase—bump bump—in too and turned to wave at her driver.

  “Hey,” he said. She almost couldn’t look at his face. She looked at his ears, and his hair, and his chin, and his neck. And his chest, that she’d cried on. She couldn’t explain how she was attracted and repelled to this man, a shifting polarity within her she couldn’t seem to control. If she looked full in his face, would she see the arrogant, self-protecting Jack? Or the vulnerable, open Jack she’d been texting?

  She dared a glance at his eyes. His look was soft and questioning. Something in her chest unclenched. Maybe it would be okay.

  “Hey,” she said back.

  “Let’s go sit,” he said. “I’d offer to take your bags, but I’d probably fall over.” He grinned wryly. They walked to the formal living room, decorated in dark colors and African scenes. He sat down on the couch so she took a chair across from him. Everything thrummed. It was different being with him now that she knew his favorite emoji.

  “How’s your ankle?” she asked.

  “It hurts constantly, and I hate that I can’t do anything for myself.” He had a pat speech down for that all too often asked question—mostly about looking forward to being recovered and “getting back out there”—but for her he let the plain truth come out. She knew all his failures and ignorance anyway—it wasn’t worth it to hide how much he hated his situation.

  She shuddered and sighed. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. It made me sick.”

  “Oh, you were watching?”

  “Well, I have this irrational attraction to seeing that quarterback get sacked.”

  “What?”

  “I just like seeing him get hit.”

  “That…sounds unhealthy.”

  “I know.”

  But he could see the blood coming to her cheeks, and the set of her lips changed. He’d made her blush. On the inside, he did his pick-six dance.

  “Really, you can’t admit that you watched the game to see me?” He wanted that to be true so bad.

  “No, Jack, not everything is about you. I really do hate that quarterback.”

  “What about the game before that? Do you hate Dallas’s QB too?”

  “Com’n—He’s from north Louisiana! I love him. I had to watch!”

  “So how did it feel that time I tackled him for a loss? Did you cheer?”

  “Well, I love him, but I hate Dallas so…” Her voice trailed off and her interlocked fingers started sliding past each other. For a moment he was mesmerized by the slide of them. Her fingers were long and slender, darker brown around the nails lighter at her palms. He squelched the thought as fast as it came, but yes, he wondered what they would feel like on—any part of his body except his damn ankle.

  He still couldn’t believe that he had asked her to come. He hadn’t been able to go to Huss, but he’d asked her here instead so she could see his life with Cedric and Ceci, that he might be starting to be someone she could trust.

  And that she had.

  They both knew, he guessed, that they wouldn’t keep what they had indefinitely. If he wasn’t going to be changed by sharing her world, he was wasting her time. He hadn’t been able to stop texting her, or stop checking his phone constantly for her responses. Yeah, it was mostly casual, but her updates on her family’s progress had drawn him into a world he’d happily skirted around before. And now he was finding that life was harder and richer and more than he’d known it could be—if he was willing to enter in.

  He cleared his throat. “So how’s your family?”

  “They’re as okay as they can be. They told me to tell you thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For the therapy? For the lawyers? For not pressing charges?” she rolled her eyes at him. “You did a lot, Jack. Take some credit.”

  Credit? The football field was the only place he felt like he’d earned some credit. Now that he was sidelined from that and instead, getting a crash course on Black family life, he felt powerless and behind and dumb. He may well be the fastest, hardest-hitting man in the NFL next year (assuming his recovery went well), but he couldn’t stop Ceci’s indrawn breath every time a St. Louis police car drove down the street, the way she told Cedric “be safe—be careful—I love you” every time he left the house. Between that and the articles and books Rochelle had him reading (because he failed dismally at Google), he was halfway inside out.

  “Yeah, well, okay, I’m awesome.”

  Rochelle looked around and towards the hallway. “So is the sainted Ceci here? I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “No, she had a NFL wives meeting. But she’ll be back pretty soon because the kids get out of school in an hour or so.”

  “Wow. You know her schedule.”

  “Yeah, when you live with a family with kids, if you don’t know what’s going on, it’s so disorienting.”

  “How’s that? Living with kids?”

  “Well, after the first couple of times the littlest one tried to ride my boot, and I made her cry when I yelled, we got along great. The older kids let me play their video games with them.” He puffed out his chest. “I am a now master Minecraft builder, let me tell you!”

  “Oh, my students love Minecraft! Next time you’re in town you should come visit them.” He was amazed at how her face lit up when she mentioned her students. He must’ve stared at her for too long, because suddenly her expression shifted and she added hurriedly, “I mean, if you wanted to and had the time. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m sure I can work it in.” He pulled out his phone to make a note. “Tell me more about your students.”

  And off she went. He’d seen her catalyzed by grief and pain, but this was the first time he’d seen her alive with hope and love. She glowed as she talked about her students, the challenges they faced and how they overcame so much, how gross and yet beloved junior high boys were, how she loved encouraging junior high girls, making sure that all her students knew their potential beyond obstacles they faced.

  “So did you talk to them about that game?” She’d been on the local news, he’d heard. He’d been on ESPN and everything but the local news had picked up on her side of the story.

  “Yeah, briefly. They thought it was pretty cool that I got a good couple hits in on you. And I hadn’t talked to them about my cousin so it was a good lead in to that, too. Of course, so many of them had already had lives affected by violence in some way, whether in their extended family or down the street, they weren’t shook.” She shook her head, her eyes misting up a little. “Jack…they’re too young to be so numb.”

  He shifted on the couch and held out his arm to her. “Come here.” She got up and took the few steps to sit beside him. “Oof—watch the ankle,” he involuntarily cautioned.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  But he drew her down beside him and put his arm around her. “I know those kids have been
through so much, but I want you to realize how blessed they are to have you as their teacher.” He took a moment to just give her little pats, tiny caresses down her arm, one stroke of her hair. “My mom would be so proud of you.”

  She sniffled just a tiny bit. “Thanks, bruh. I know she’d be proud of you, too.”

  His gut clenched. I’m not so sure of that. He squeezed her tighter. The warmth of her body down his side was a comfort. Shit, he hoped he was ready.

  “Okay. I gotta put my foot up. Let’s rearrange.”

  She looked at him dubiously. “What?”

  “I need to put my ankle up, so I need to swivel this way—” he moved his thigh into her “—and you need to come to the other side.”

  This was probably a bad idea. The only way for them to both occupy the couch with his foot elevated on the arm was meant getting really close. Yeah, she was here, in St. Louis, but they hadn’t said they wanted to get their bodies close.

  But he did. He really did.

  Would he burn up, or would he finally feel safely alive? Dang, he wanted to be ready to do more than text her. But he was still weighing and learning the burdens. He shook it all off and busied himself arranging her body to his satisfaction.

  “Let’s put your legs here, your arms here, your head here. There. Is that okay?” Her body on his was a burden he’d happily hold.

  Sure it was okay—if you wanted to set a girl on fire. Broken ankle or not, Jack Murphy was…Rochelle struggled to find the right word. He wasn’t soft—nope, hard muscles (and boot) everywhere. He was beautiful, yes. There was a lot of him, so much that when her head was tucked into the curve of his neck, like now, her pelvis hit midway down his stomach. (Thank God). There’d be no playing footsies because her feet were at his shins. Already once in his arms she’d found peace, and here again, despite the fire, the awareness of him, she could find some rest in his calm—at least for a little while.