by Erica Hobbs
That was me. I was the real son. The one who should have mattered.
“Are we ready, boys?” Coach Clay said, coming up from the back of the line. “I want you guys to eat those Jets. I want complete annihilation. I want you to play so well that the situation with the Ravens will be forgotten like it never happened.”
When he said the last bit, he looked at me. I didn’t avert my eyes, I looked right back at him. He couldn’t blame me for everything. Sure, I fumbled the ball. A lot, lately. But there were forty-four more players, even if only eleven were on the field at one time. Surely, I couldn’t be the only one to blame! Tell that to the coach. And the team. And my dad. Finding a scapegoat is easy.
“Jake,” Coach said when he got in the front of the line. Jake turned his eyes to him and looked like he was really focusing for the first time. “You just do what you do, son.”
Coach clapped him on his padded shoulder. I rolled my eyes. Jake pulled his helmet on and then he was just another one of us. We all did the same, and it was time to run onto the field.
The floodlights made the world fall away until it was just us and the field and the fans. My reality was only this, the only escape I had. The grass under my feet was soft and springy. The roar of the crowds all around us was music to my ears. There were four shadows of each of us when we ran onto the field.
The only shadow I walked in was Jake’s.
One day I would fix it, though. Somehow, I would make my mark, and I would become the star. One day I would make my parents proud.
The whistle blew, and the game started. My nerves bunched up like a rock in my stomach and my chest constricted. I wiped my hands on my pants automatically. I always sweated a lot in the game, and not just from running. God, we’d barely started, and I was already perspiring liked we’d been at it for an hour.
I went through the motions, trusting my reflexes. My body knew what to do. This sport was in my blood – I’d wanted to a football player since I could remember. And the game started off well. Maybe this time wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe this time I would pull off the play, and the guys wouldn’t be so pissed at me.
One of the Jets walked next to me after a touchdown.
“How did you get on the team?” He asked. “Did your daddy pay someone to let you play with the big boys?”
This always happened – we tried to talk each other out of the game. It was a mind trick. The more you messed with each other, the easier it was to score one way or another. You just didn’t pay attention to what they said. Sometimes they nailed it on the head, but you just ignored it.
And that was what I did.
I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the heavy feeling; it was as if an anvil had been placed on my chest. The crowd was using up all the oxygen. There was nothing left for me.
I tried to breathe, sucking in and blowing out like it was going out of fashion. My body wouldn’t work with me.
My fingers tingled. I pumped my hands open and closed into fists.
“You’re up!” Someone shouted at me. I took my position. This was the play. I knew this – we’d gone over it so many times. I bent my legs, my hands ready. I swallowed hard. My throat felt like sandpaper. My mouth was completely dry. The world tilted and shifted around me. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to orientate myself.
“Focus, Damien,” I told myself, speaking out loud so I would get the message loud and clear.
The whistle blew, and I watched the ball as it was passed back. Clyde turned around and threw it at me. The ball spun around and around. It sliced through the air, aiming for my face. I lifted my hands to catch the ball. Everything was dead quiet, the crowd waiting for my next move. The game depended on me right here, right now.
The ball made contact with my hands. The soft leather was in my palms for a second… and then it slipped through, tumbling to the ground.
Shit. The crowd let out a collective groan.
My ears started ringing. I scurried after the ball, desperate to fix what I’d messed up, but it was too late. The play was already interrupted. I found the ball and threw it to Jake who had to do the rest. My hands were slippery on the ball. The damn sweat.
I swallowed hard. I felt as if I was made of paper.
Clyde jogged next to me.
“I’ll kill you, boy,” he said.
I tried to ignore him. Thickskin Damien, right? Still, my stomach turned. I’d messed up the play. Again.
The whistle blew to announce the first quarter was over, and we walked to the sideline. Coach Clay’s eyes were on me, and he was not impressed. I walked toward him, knowing it would be impossible to avoid him.
“I think you better sit yourself down,” he said to me. He waved for another player to get on the field and I walked to the bench. I sat down. The muscles in my thighs jumped in small bursts. I was glad to sit down – I still struggled to breathe. But God, this was so damn humiliating. The whole world had seen this – not just the teams, but also all the people in the stands and everyone watching on television. I looked around and spotted a big back camera, moving on the sideline, tracking the next play. Hi mom, guess what, I failed again.
Fucking fantastic.
The game lasted two and a half hours with all the stoppages in between. I wasn’t put back on the field. Surprise, surprise. When the final whistle blew, the score was 23-10, and it was not thanks to me we had won. In fact, it was because of Jake. Of course, it was because of Jake.
The team shook hands with their opponents and walked off the field, spitting out gum guards and pulling off helmets. I stood up. Clyde walked past me, glaring at me but saying nothing. Nervousness lodged in my stomach and a lump formed in my throat. I shouldn’t have had to fear my own team.
Now, I officially did.
Jake was one of the last to walk off the field. I averted my eyes. I had nothing I could say to him. Applauding him for his skill seemed weird after I’d screwed it up. I wasn’t in a position to be rude to him.
I turned around and headed toward the locker rooms like everyone else where I would with no doubt get the beating of my life.
They were all pissed at me when I walked through the doors. I tried to ignore them. Quips about me being the runt and having to be downgraded to a mascot rung out. Some of them laughed.
Amusing.
“Hey,” Jake said next to me. “Everyone messes up sometimes.”
Right. Powerhouse Perfect Jake was throwing me a lifeline? Did he think my father’s interest in him required him to be nice, too? Sure. I shrugged and turned away from him. I peeled my now crusty with dried sweat game gear off me and walked toward the shower. I wanted to get the remains of the game – or what tiny part I had in it – off me. I wanted to get out of here. I wanted to go home.
When I came back out with a towel around my hips, some of the players were standing in a circle, talking. They stopped when I walked over to my locker like they’d been talking about me.
I didn’t care. I was going to get dressed and get the hell away from them.
Jake approached me. I eyed him. He was still sweaty, his hair a mess, his cheeks flushed red after playing a full game. Lucky him.
“You know, your form is pretty good,” he said. More with the nicey-nice.
“Thanks.” I was sarcastic.
“If you want to, you and I can do some drills after our training or something.”
I’d pulled off my towel, and I turned to him nude. Intimidated yet?
“What’s wrong, Jake? Not earning enough? Offering one on one session for a little cash on the side?” Yeah, I was a dick.
He shook his head, and he looked sad. Right. I was willing to bet he didn’t give a shit. Whatever. He could be my dad’s favorite. I would be brilliant, and then I would leave. Maybe I could sign with a foreign country.
“I was just trying to help,” Jake said.
I wrapped the towel around my hips, feeling stupid now he pitied me instead of fearing me.
“I don’t need any
thing from you.”
I sneered the last words. I was angry. Angry I’d messed up the play. Angry I was always second. Or third. Or last. Angry that Jake had everything handed to him and half of it was because of the man who should have handed everything to me.
I turned around and pulled on a pair of boxers. I spoke without looking at him.
“You’re the last person I’d turn to for help.”
He shrugged. I watched him turn from the corner of my eye, not able to read his expression now.
“The offer stands if you change your mind.”
Like hell, I would change my mind.
He turned to his back and pulled off his vest and pants, getting ready to shower. I waited until he’d walked past me and disappeared before I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I was pissed off. My blood boiled under my skin. I wanted to go up to Clyde and his followers and pick a fight. I had nothing to hide. I had nothing to lose either, at this point.
Being angry was easier than being humiliated. Being angry was easier than accepting I was officially the least favorite player in the team, the least favorite in the family. You would think being a pro player was something my parents could be proud of. Somehow, I managed to fuck that up, too. I guess disappointment came in many forms.
Whatever. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. A couple more training sessions and everything would be fine again. This was just a phase – everyone had off days, didn’t they? Everyone had bad patches. It wasn’t like I couldn’t deal with the pressure of being a professional player. I’d been doing this for long enough I was a seasoned football player.
And I was someone’s favorite. I had to be – somewhere out there a handful of fans still supported me.
I stuffed my belongings into my bag just as Coach walked into the locker room. Dammit, I’d hoped I could avoid him.
“Huddle up,” he called. The guys came from the showers or their locker rooms, and we stood in a circle. “You played good today,” he said. “You made me proud.” I could swear he was looking at Jake when he said that. “There were a few mistakes,” he looked at me, and my stomach turned, “but nothing we can’t fix.”
Would he cut me from the play and bench me? Would he put someone else in my place? I was aware I was running out of time.
“Keep it up, boys.”
They stamped their feet on the ground, creating a muffled clapping sound on the linoleum; a macho response to Coach’s speech. He grinned. His eyes were fixed on Jake. I looked at Jake and then back at Coach. They were having a little moment. I hated Jake for that. I hated he had this personal relationship with Coach when I was just another player, a nuisance more than a player lately.
I left the locker room and followed the network of underground tunnels that led to the parking lot. My car was among the other players’ cars. They were probably all going to stick around and have a beer together to celebrate.
I didn’t like beer. Thank God, or I would feel rejected if they didn’t invite me.
I drove to my parents’ place first. What was I doing here? Was I looking for acknowledgment? Surely not.
The butler opened the double volume front door. When I walked in my dad emerged from his office. He wore khaki pants and a collared shirt even when he was relaxed at home. Italian loafers on his feet, hair combed just so. Always classy. He looked me down his nose like I’d interrupted him.
“And?” He asked.
I shrugged. What did he want me to say? I was sure he had seen the game. He never missed one.
“Maybe you should ask Clay for some extra coaching sessions,” he said.
Sure, like that wasn’t humiliating at all.
“I’ll be fine. It’s just… a phase.” I sighed.
“Why don’t you ask Jake to give you some pointers?”
I closed my eyes. Jake. Right. I forced a smile and nodded.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.” I walked past my dad to find my mom. She would be nicer to me. She would check if I was okay. She might not be happy with my playing, but at least I was still her boy. I fumed all the way.
But of course, why don’t I ask Jake for pointers? How is it possible we aren’t best friends if he only took everything I could have been with my dad?
I walked through the whole house, not finding my mother. When I reached the patio which looked over the garden, she was still nowhere to be found. I cursed. I wanted her to touch my face and tell me I was doing my best.
God, what a character I was. What a great son. I could do something to make them happy. It would be just swell – Jake training me. I could just imagine how proud my dad would be.
Of Jake. As usual.
Fuck no.
Chapter 7
Jake
Rebecca and I were in the park, eating ice cream. It felt the way it used to when I had to take Rebecca somewhere and keep her busy during school holidays as Aunt Maurine had to make enough money to take care of us.
Except, Rebecca was all grown up now. And I had more than enough money so that Aunt Maurine didn’t have to break her back to put something on the table. I took care of myself and Rebecca, even though she never asked for it.
“I watched your game on Saturday,” Rebecca said. We sat on a park bench. She licked her ice cream the way she used to – up from the cone to the tip, turned the ice cream after every lick, so she covered the next spot. I pulled my flake from my ice cream and bit off the tip, tossing bits of chocolate on my shirt.
“And?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You won. So, it was good, I guess. You played well. But you always do.”
I smiled. I had played well. Even though I’d been distracted.
“It’s better to play when we’re on home ground,” I said, taking another bite of my flake, watching new crumbs of chocolate join the already melting bits on my shirt. “I’m not so tense. Usually.”
Rebecca looked up, her green eyes piercing me.
“Usually?”
I shrugged. “I met a girl just before I ran onto the field.”
Rebecca pulled up her eyebrows in an ‘oh wow’ gesture. “That’s different.”
I wasn’t sure if she was sarcastic or not. I had girls around me all the time. Anyone who could get some face time with me was happy. And there were so many women who wanted to cash in on some of my fame.
“I’m assuming she was different seeing you’re telling me about it and I don’t have to read about it in the tabloids.”
I stuck my tongue out at her. She rolled her eyes. She was right, though. They usually heard about my escapades in the tabloids. My life was all gossip. Partly because I didn’t think they were even worth mentioning to my family, they were fleeting – a one-night stand did wonders for a bit of loneliness, after all – and partly because the gossip papers would take a snap of any girl in a close vicinity and post it as something worth reading about.
“It was different,” I confirmed. It was nothing like any kind of encounter I’d ever had with a woman. “She was upset with me.”
Rebecca snorted. “You’ve never had that happen? Strange for a moody guy like you.”
I stuck my hand in her hair and messed it up. “You’re making fun of me,” I said. She pushed me away, struggling with one hand. When I let her go, she scrunched her face and pulled her shirt away from her body.
“You made me get ice cream on myself,” she complained. I chuckled and carried on licking my own cone.
“So, tell me,” she said. “What did ‘Powerhouse Jake’ do to piss a woman off?”
I blinked at her. “Should you be talking like that?”
“Should you be lecturing me?” She asked back. Touché.
I sighed. “She asked for help to find the bathroom, and I told her it was below my pay grade to show her.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened, her mouth open in shock.
“I know,” I muttered. “It was a joke. I was edgy before the game. And she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.”
<
br /> She didn’t say anything; she just looked at me, groaned and looked up at the sky.
“Come on, Beck. I know, okay? I could have done it differently.”
Rebecca pouted lips disapprovingly which looked a lot like Aunt Maurine before nibbling on the cone.
