My Darling Arrow

by Saffron A Kent

  I arch my back and his eyes move. They stare at the pale patch of my belly and I wonder if he was one of the guys who wanted a piece of that, a piece of me.

  I wonder if his jealousy extends from soccer to other things.

  I know it’s stupid but I still wonder.

  “Isn’t that a little arrogant?” I bite my lip.

  He raises his eyes; his pupils look all burnt up and charred. “Not if it’s the truth.”

  I feel something flutter in my bare stomach, something tugging and pulling just behind my naked navel.

  Reaching up, I push back the messy strands of his hair because I know he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like messy, wild things.

  The Blond Arrow.

  His jaw ticks at my action but I smile. “Okay, I won’t watch him. I’ll only watch you.”

  As soon as I say it, he grabs my wrist and takes it off his forehead. I fist my fingers when I see something flash across his face, something unfathomable but dark.

  “So tell me something,” he rasps, holding my wrist captive. “For a girl who works really hard for her money, a girl who had a job. Who’d take off her clothes to return the t-shirt she stole because she’s clearly not a thief, why did you steal that money? Where were you going that was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”

  My heart starts banging. “What? Why?”

  “Was there a guy involved?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Another flash of darkness passes through his features. “Was it a guy? Some loser like Beckham who you thought was so wonderful you had to run after him?”

  The strands of his hair that I’d pushed away not five seconds ago have come out to play again. They graze over his lined forehead, making him look so unkempt and so wild.

  So beautiful.

  “Why?” I ask, twisting my hand in his grip but not to get free – I never wanna get free from his hold – but to feel his strength, his dominating fingers on me.

  “I’m your friend, aren’t I? A friend should know these things. So tell me. Were you running away for a guy?”

  Yes.

  I was running away for him. So I could get out of his life, leave him alone before my love makes me do something drastic. Before my secret love ruins his love.

  I raise my chin and his necklace hits my jaw. “What if there is?”

  His own jaw clenches as he says, “Then I’d like to ask him something.”

  “What?”

  He runs his eyes over my body.

  My wild, wind-whipped hair, the tingling tip of my nose, my parted and painted lips. My heaving chest under his vintage leather. My bare belly.

  He stares at each part of me like it belongs to him. Like he can stare at those favorite little spots of his whenever and for however long he wants.

  He can. He can.

  But still.

  It makes things happen inside my body. It makes me break out in goosebumps and it makes me bite my lip. It makes me arch my spine and makes my nipples bead.

  He lifts his eyes, a flush covering his cheeks. “I’d like to ask him what the fuck is he doing, letting you run around town like this. Your friends, I understand. Maybe they’re a bunch of clueless schoolgirls like you. But what the fuck is his problem?”

  I draw back. “Excuse me?”

  Instead of answering me, he touches me.

  With his other hand, he touches my lip again. His broad thumb is probably smudging the lipstick at the corner, but I don’t care.

  I don’t care about anything right now except him and his rough thumb.

  “What’s the name of this one?” he rasps.

  “Dream Broken Darling.”

  “You’re the darling?”

  I shake my head, hypnotized. “No, he is.” You are. “I-I like sweetheart.”

  “So what is he doing allowing his sweetheart to go where she doesn’t belong, wearing something she shouldn’t?”

  I grab his wrist then and dig my nails in. “My darling doesn’t control me. I can do whatever I want. I can…”

  He licks his lip then and I trail off.

  “Because if it was me.” He presses that thumb in the middle of my lower lip, tugging at it. “You wouldn’t be setting foot out of your room like this, let alone frolicking around town in the middle of the night.”

  “If it was y-you?”

  He nods slowly. “If it was me, I’d keep you reined in. A girl like you needs that.”

  He’d keep me reined in.

  If it was him.

  If he was my boyfriend.

  That’s what he means.

  He means that if we were together, he’d keep me on a leash.

  He’d keep me bound like I’m an object or a pet. A fuck doll like he called me back at the bar.

  A doll who’s blinking up at him and whose lips he’s playing with, whose wrist he’s holding captive and whose nails are digging into his wrist.

  “A girl like me?” I whisper.

  “Raw, natural and stunning.”

  Did he just… Did he just describe me the same way I described this bridge?

  He did, didn’t he?

  Something blooms in my chest. Something like flowers. Gardenias, the symbol of secret love.

  “I… You…”

  He puts pressure on my chin then. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you ride around on that bike of yours in the middle of the night either.”

  “My bike?”

  “Because you do that, don’t you?” He swipes his thumb on my lip, an impatient movement. “When you think everyone is asleep, you sneak out of the house. You take out your bike and you go on rides. You ride for hours and come back at the break of dawn.”

  Yeah, I’d do that.

  I’d take my bike out for a ride. I’d come here or go to my other favorite places and stay out for hours. But I’d be careful not to wake anyone up. Leah would’ve been furious.

  But I didn’t know that someone was awake. That someone knew about my nightly excursions.

  “Y-you know about that?”

  “Clearly, not everyone was asleep.”

  “But you never said anything.”

  “Maybe I was keeping your secret too,” he whispers with grave and gorgeous eyes.

  I don’t see it coming – what I do next.

  Maybe it’s the fact that he called me stunning and he’s been talking about me being his. Or the fact that he just told me he is my secret keeper.

  He’s been my secret keeper like I’ve been his.

  Whatever the reason is, it makes me close the remaining distance and let go of his wrist. It makes me put my hand on his bicep and tilt up my neck and go in search of his mouth.

  It makes me kiss him. Or try to.

  Because he stops me at the last second.

  He lets go of my hand, the one he had in his hold all this time, and grabs my hair in a fist, pulling me back.

  With a low, dangerous tone, he tells me, “It’s time to go back.”

  I need a smoke.

  Which is a surprise because I just smoked outside of Dr. Lola Bernstein’s building before going in for my appointment.

  My second appointment, to be precise.

  Yes, I’m back. Unfortunately.

  I talked to my manager and he said that the big shots on the team management won’t change therapists. She’s supposed to be the best at what she does so I have to stick with her.

  And so I’m sitting on her pink couch again, watching her adjust herself in her armchair – purple armchair – as her tinkling bracelet bangs in my head like a gavel.

  Hence, the need for my second smoke.

  It’s pretty rare, actually, for me to want to smoke again. I’m not a smoker, or at least not a regular one.

  I only need it when I’m trying to relax before an important game or something.

  I started back in high school, junior year. I had a big biology test and practice was brutal th
at week because we also had a big game coming up.

  A few of the players were smoking outside of the school after practice and something about how they were standing, all relaxed and loose, smoke coming out of their mouths like they were expelling all their stress in the form of a gray cloud, made me want to try it too.

  I was ready to dismiss it after one puff though.

  Addiction of any kind is bad for the game. It had always been drilled into me, first by my mom and then by my coaches.

  I would have too, dismissed it, I mean. If it hadn’t led to a series of coughs, alerting everyone who was watching that this was the team captain’s first drag. You can’t have your reputation questioned or the players won’t follow you.

  So to shut up their derogatory laughter, I took another drag.

  And another and another until it started to feel good.

  Until the burn in my lungs turned into this high-speed rush that spread all throughout my body, making my shoulders relax and the base of my neck tingle. Making me feel like I was on top of the world.

  Making me feel like I could do anything. Ace a fucking biology test and win the game against our rival school.

  As I said though, I know my limits. I know the conventional wisdom. One smoke and that’s it.

  Besides I promised my mother that I wouldn’t smoke. I’m breaking that promise so I can’t have more than one anyway.

  I’m an asshole for lying but I don’t have to be a complete bastard too.

  The days I smoke, I train harder. To punish myself for going back on my word.

  But I would do anything, any-fucking-thing, for a smoke right now.

  Because Dr. Bernstein has finished settling down and she’s smiling at me. I look away from her and my eyes land on her coffee table.

  The object of my fixation the last session.

  It’s not the same one though.

  “You replaced your coffee table,” I say, focusing on her.

  Nodding happily, she leans forward and raps on the table. “Wood. Less of a chance that it could get broken. Accidentally.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me and I have to admit, my lips twitch a little. “Were you worried that it could get broken accidentally?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  I give in and chuckle. “It’s a little early to say. But we’ll see, Dr. Bernstein.”

  She chuckles as well. “You can call me Lola.”

  “I think I’ll call you Dr. Bernstein,” I reply. “Sounds more professional.”

  Still smiling, she nods. “Okay, let’s be professional. So.” She folds her hands on top of her notebook and I brace myself for her irrelevant questions. “Soccer.”

  I narrow my eyes, starting to feel my skin tighten up. “What about it?”

  “Since you don’t want to talk about your breakup, let’s talk about soccer. How did you get into that? I mean, I know your father played for the New York club. So you were always interested in the sport?”

  This I can handle.

  I can handle questions about soccer. Although I still don’t know what it has to do with my anger issues and how we’re going to fix that so I can go back and play. But at least we’re off the subject of the breakup.

  “I was born into it,” I reply. “My first memory is watching my dad play on TV.”

  “Were you ever interested in some other sport?”

  “I played some basketball. Ran track. But it was always soccer. I’m my father’s son.”

  I am.

  My father – who was born and brought up in England – played soccer for the New York City FC, before he suddenly died in a plane crash. He met my mom when she was studying abroad and decided to follow her back to the States and get married.

  If he hadn’t died though, we would probably be living somewhere in Europe. It was my dad’s dream to play for the European Soccer League.

  I don’t remember my father much. I don’t remember how he was before he passed away. I’ve only seen pictures of him and he’s always looked like such a distinguished man, my dad.

  A great soccer player with a dream.

  And now it’s my dream.

  To do what my dad wasn’t able to. That’s what I’ve been working toward all my life: to rise to the top and be traded to the European League. Real Madrid, if I have to be specific.

  “So it must be painful, to sit out the season,” my therapist comments.

  “Very,” I clip.

  It’s more than painful, it’s fucking excruciating. To be sitting out when I should be on the field, playing.

  Everything depended on me this season. I was their star player. I led them to victory last season and that was what was expected of me this season too.

  But I went ahead and got suspended and now my entire team has to suffer because of me. Rodriguez is good but he’s not me. He doesn’t have my speed and my precision. And he’s not going to win us the cup.

  I know it. They know it. The whole media knows it.

  So it’s my fault that we’re going to lose this season.

  I’m sorry, A. I didn’t mean for it to happen…

  When the bugs start to crawl on my skin and my neck starts to feel hot, I fist my hands. I press them on my thighs to stop the jitters in my legs.

  I’m not sure if my therapist is oblivious to my discomfort or if she’s aware but simply choosing to ignore it, because her next question makes it even worse.

  “So how you’re feeling about your new job?”

  “It’s a joke of a job,” I snap out before I can stop myself.

  I didn’t mean to say that.

  I honestly didn’t. I’m not one to complain when it comes to paying for my mistakes and I know the purpose of this job.

  It’s a punishment.

  My mom’s punishment.

  But I guess my therapist caught me at a bad time.

  Because I’ve had a shitty fucking day.

  Four girls, on separate occasions, stopped me in the hallway to tell me about their love of soccer. To tell me how they’ve seen every one of my games and how I’m their favorite player.

  It’s fucking high school again.

  At least back in high school, I had Sarah. Not that that stopped the overeager girls but still. There was some relief.

  “Why do you say that?” Dr. Bernstein asks, breaking my thoughts.

  I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. “Because it’s not about the sport. It’s just an activity to reform them. Teach them team building. That’s why my mom put me up to this.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she knew it would bug me. It would remind me of my mistake over and over. So I never make it again.”

  That’s what my mother does.

  She highlights my mistakes – which are very rare and far between – so I never make them again.

  She knew I would hate coaching schoolgirls and that was the reason she gave me this job. To remind me of what I could be doing right this second as compared to what I have to do.

  I remember one year my math score wasn’t perfect. It was a shock to her and to me both. Because I’m good at math. I could do math in my sleep.

  My mother went to the school with me to have a chat with the teacher and to find out if there was a mistake in my scores. Turns out there wasn’t. I’d misread a number and hence, solved the equation wrong. She brought home my test, underlined that equation and stuck it up on the fridge.

  So I’d see it every day. So I’d be reminded of my stupid mistake every time I went to get a glass of milk or juice.

  Needless to say, I never misread a number again.

  “Just because your dad is gone doesn’t mean you can slack off. In fact, you have to work harder, Arrow. You have to work harder than everyone else. You have to do what he didn’t have the time to do. You have to truly become your father’s son.”

  So in order to do that, in order to become my fa
ther’s son, she made me perfect.

  She punished every single mistake of mine to the extent that I never made it again.

  If I ate too many cookies before dinner and ruined my appetite, she forced me to eat every bite on the plate. It took me throwing up a couple of times from the stomachache before I learned not to do that.

  If I ever fucked up a game or a test at school, she would make me stand in the dark until I learned to never ever screw up my passes or misspell a word on a test.

  I think I was twelve or something by the time I was fully trained, by the time I became my father’s true son.

  Well, I truly became his son the day they drafted me to LA Galaxy and named me The Blond Arrow. But still.

  “Well, that’s a little intense.”

  My therapist’s voice brings me back to the moment. “My mother’s intense.”

  She is.

  She’s always been that way.

  Sometimes I wonder though. If she was like this when Dad was alive. Or if his sudden death has made her even more stern.

  Because it can get exhausting at times. It can get tiring, trying to meet her approval, trying to be perfect 24/7.

  But it is what it is.

  I have to pay the price if I want to be The Blond Arrow, don’t I? Plus, she’s my mother. She has brought me up herself, made sacrifices for me.

  I owe her everything.

  “I think we should talk about it, about your mother,” Dr. Bernstein says.

  “I think we shouldn’t.”

  She stares at me a beat. “Can’t you just quit? Your job, I mean.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I made a mistake and I have to pay for it.”

  “You know, it’s okay to not beat yourself up like this.”

  As soon as Dr. Lola fucking Bernstein says this, I’m reminded of her.

  The girl with thirteen freckles and a penchant for dangerous and desolate places.

  My secret keeper friend.

  My secret keeper friend who tried to kiss me.

  She tried to put her mouth on me like some kind of a lovesick schoolgirl.

  How naïve does she have to be to do that? How fucking reckless and careless to try to kiss someone as angry and as agitated as me.

  How fucking stupid?

  And so, my next words to my therapist come out clipped. “Maybe it’s okay for you and for other people to not beat themselves up. But it’s not okay for me. If I don’t beat myself up, then I make mistakes. If I make mistakes, then I’m not perfect. If I’m not perfect, then I can’t be who I am. I can’t be The Blond Arrow. So maybe it’s okay for other people to cut themselves some slack. But I don’t get that luxury because I have to be my father’s son. I have to make his dream come true.”