Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  “I don’t know, but I still needed to hear from my dad that he thought I could be starting quarterback. I stayed on the sidelines, not believing I had the talent.”

  “I know you think he only cared about himself—and I can understand why you think that, but I also thought you should know there are two sides to every story, Drew. When it comes to you, this is his side. His proof. You’re who kept him going most days.” She rises from her seat and walks around the table to press a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m sorry you never knew about these until now.”

  “Mom?” I ask, struggling to accept all of this.

  “As a parent, all you want to do is protect your children from everything. And sometimes, you don’t see until it’s too late that protecting them is what ends up hurting them.”

  “Okay. Fine. But why won’t he give me answers? Us answers? Don’t I deserve an explanation about why our life spiraled into such chaos?”

  Her somber eyes meet mine and a bittersweet smile ghosts over her lips. “I did just explain,” she says softly before turning and walking out of my house, leaving the box behind.

  As a parent, all you want to do is protect your children from everything. And sometimes, you don’t see until it’s too late that protecting them is what ends up hurting them.

  What the hell does that mean?

  And a man who thought he had it all figured out, is now conflicted once again.

  BREXTON

  “HEY, IT’S ME,” I SAY to Drew’s voicemail. “I know you need space but I wanted you to know I’d never ask you to choose between me and your family. I don’t want you to feel like that’s a choice you have to make. I do love you, Drew. Madly. And I’d walk away from us if that’s what it takes for you to be happy.” I almost choke on the words but know I’d do that for him. “And I hate that you’re hurting. I only wish there was something I could do to help you, but I understand this is something you need to figure out or confront on your own. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk or . . . whatever.”

  I stare at my cell phone for a beat as I vacillate between whether I should have said all of that or not, but it’s too late now as it’s been said. I can’t take it back so I end the call.

  But this not talking to him thing is killing me. It’s making me doubt myself and how strong I thought we were together.

  The one thing I keep thinking is that I know silence speaks when words can’t, but I’m struggling to hear what Drew’s silence is saying.

  Restless and preoccupied, I walk to my office door and then turn back, already forgetting whatever it was I was needing to do.

  Get a life.

  Hear from Drew.

  See Drew.

  Any of the three will suffice.

  “Hey? You okay?”

  I startle at the sound of my dad’s voice and when I look up, find him standing across the office studying me.

  How long has he been there?

  Did he hear me on the phone?

  I’ve been trying desperately to put on a brave face so that no one knows what’s going on. At least until I know what’s going on, that is.

  “Brex?”

  “I’m good. Sorry, I was lost in thought.” I nod and give a smile that I’m more than certain he realizes doesn’t reach my eyes.

  “Is it Flatley?” he asks about my NBA player, who is currently causing problems with his teammates on the Chicago Bulls, and the management is demanding I try to control him. “If it’s too much on your plate, I could have Dekker or Chase go for you. I could even go. I know you have a lot going on and—”

  “No need. I’m fine. I already have my flight booked for tomorrow morning. I’m heading there and then have a few meetings set up the day after next with some clients I’ve been neglecting in the same vicinity. Just a quick trip. I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon.”

  “You sure? I can take your place.” He gives me the once-over, and I try to be more convincing with my smile this time around.

  “One hundred percent. You know me, I like to keep busy.” I lean against the doorjamb of my office and then take a deep breath. This is your dad, Brex. You know you don’t really have to put up a front of indifference. “I’ve just been running ragged, I guess. I feel like shit for not landing Hobbs, but even if I had landed him that spot with the Chargers, I still wouldn’t have signed him with the shit he pulled.”

  “I agree. There’s no need to feel bad, honey.”

  “But I do, and so I’m just tired, trying to pull in some other new clients to make up for it is all. Then this crap with Flatley, and I’m just frustrated. That’s it. Frustrated and tired.”

  Quit talking. Quit overexplaining. He’ll definitely know something is wrong.

  “We’ll survive without an asshole like Hobbs. I already told you that. And Drew? He’s good too?” he asks and purses his lips.

  “Yes. Of course.” I offer a tight smile that wins me a narrowing of his eyes followed by a nod.

  “I have a good lunch.” He holds up his lunch bag. “I overpacked per usual. Do you want to share it with me? We can have lunch together in the conference room like old times?” His smile is soft, his eyes knowing. He can see I’m upset about something.

  But he doesn’t ask.

  I swallow over the lump in my throat and nod. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  And before I follow him, I toss my cell on my desk. I’m uncertain if I’m leaving it behind because I’m afraid Drew won’t respond to my voicemail or if he does, his response might be something I’m not ready to accept.

  But I leave it.

  Because right now it’s okay to be uncertain. It’s okay to feel a little lost.

  At least I’m in the best place possible while having those feelings.

  Next to my dad.

  My rock.

  And it doesn’t hurt that he packs really good lunches.

  DREW

  “YOU’RE DISTRACTED THIS WEEK,” LONNIE says as I walk past him on the field. “You’re not the same Bowman I’ve seen week after week during practice. You break up with your girl? Need to get laid? What’s the deal?”

  Stopping with my helmet in my hand, I turn to face him, unaware that all the shit in my head was affecting my on-the-field play. I thought I was hiding it well enough.

  “I’m good. Everything’s good,” I say.

  “You sure?” He tucks his clipboard under his arm and takes a few steps toward me.

  I nod. “I’m sure.”

  “Good, because I need clarity on the field tomorrow, Drew. I need to know you can focus and secure us the home-field advantage for the playoffs.”

  I stare at him. There’s no way I just heard that right. “I thought you told me it was a one-time thing last game? That Hobbs’s shoulder was sore and—”

  “Yeah, well. Maybe I didn’t want you to get in your own head too much if I told you otherwise.” He winks and laughs. “But I spoke to Neil and Coach, and we think you’re the best-suited QB to lead us against the Steelers. You’re starting, so do whatever it is that you have to do to get your head straight and your mental game strong.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stand there and stare at him.

  “Did you need something else?” he asks.

  “No.” I blow out a relieved breath. “Just taking it all in, is all.”

  Lonnie pats me on the shoulder and squeezes. “There’s something to be said about fighting your way to the top. I’ve always found it’s those guys who appreciate the top much more.”

  He walks away and leaves me standing in the stadium, one hand on my hip, one hand holding my helmet, and a sense of belonging for the first time with the Raptors.

  Pride swallows me whole.

  I did it.

  It took me way too fucking long, but I climbed back here. I proved myself and my talent even with the Bowman last name.

  “Brexton,” I whisper.

  I need to call her. To tell her. To see her. She’s definitely one of the reasons I’m standing here
right now.

  . . . do whatever it is that you have to do to get your head straight and your mental game strong.

  There’s something else I have to do first.

  DREW

  “DREW?” MAGGIE’S FACE LIGHTS UP when she opens the door to see me standing on her doorstep.

  “Hi.” My smile is timid but genuine. “You look good.”

  And she does. There’s color in her face and the hollow of her cheeks are now filled in with the weight she’s gained.

  “I’m taking it day by day.” She steps back and motions to the inside of her apartment. “Would you like to come in? It’s a mess but—”

  “Just for a sec.”

  “If you’re coming to check if I’m using, I’m not.”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” I say and take a look around her place. It’s bright and sunny with the curtains pulled back, whereas the last time I was here it felt more like a tomb. There’s a plastic kid’s table in the corner where coloring pages are half done and some building blocks are stacked.

  “She’s with Wayne. I mean, if you’re looking for Charley. I don’t get to have her just yet. Just visits for now,” she explains.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her that I spent a few hours with her yesterday, needing a bit of her innocence to ground me.

  I’m not quite sure that I found it, but Charley’s sweet smile and belly giggles definitely helped.

  “I’m not here for her either.” I walk to the kitchen and open the refrigerator out of habit to make sure there is food in there. No tin foil. No bent spoons. No lighters.

  I hate that I look, but I do.

  “What do you need?”

  I turn to stare at my sister and shrug. “I’m not exactly sure.”

  Her laugh is anxious as her eyes narrow. “Drew?”

  “Why?” It’s a single word but it’s asking so much.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did this happen to you? I mean, was it Dad? If his scandal had never happened, do you think you would have gone down this path?”

  “I’m not following you.” She takes a step closer, concern filling her eyes.

  “I’m in love, Maggs. I’m in love with Brexton Kincade.” Her lips form an O in shock and her eyebrows lift. “And—”

  “Do Mom and Dad know?”

  “Yes,” I say and explain what happened the other night. She has her hand over her open mouth as she listens. Our parents going to my house. The fight. The ultimatum. Letting Brexton walk away without chasing after her.

  “So what are you asking me?” she whispers, and I immediately feel stupid for coming here and involving her when she’s in such a fragile state.

  “It’s stupid. Never mind.”

  “You know, in recovery, you have to ask yourself a lot of hard questions. You have to make amends for all the lies you’ve told others and the ones you’ve told yourself before you can move on with a genuine clean slate.”

  “What if the people you apologize to don’t accept them?” I ask.

  “It’s not about them accepting, it’s about you acknowledging the hurt you’ve caused and the damage you’ve done. It’s about you owning up to it. They can do with it what they will.”

  I twist my lips as I stand with my hips against her kitchen counter and my hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans. “I think Dad did it.”

  “Okay.” She stretches the word out.

  “And I’m mad at myself for believing him all these years, because if I had really listened to what he wasn’t saying, then maybe I could have stopped this years ago. Our family’s pain. Your battles with addiction. The lull in my career—”

  “No one is to blame for my addiction other than me, Drew.” She moves forward so she’s standing right in front of me. “Sure, I was lost and needed something when our world went to shit, but that’s one hundred percent on me. Not Mom. Not Dad. Not you. Me. It took me a while to comprehend, but one of the rehab mantras is this: Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” She pauses, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she says, “I took that first hit when Bobby Bufford offered it to me. If I blame Dad, then I also have to give him credit for my recovery and I refuse to do that. I’m doing this on my own and I deserve all of the credit.”

  “You do.” My smile is wide. I couldn’t be prouder of her than right now. “You deserve all of the credit.”

  “So go do it, Drew.”

  “What?”

  “Confront Dad, once and for all.”

  “How do you know that’s what I’m going to do?”

  Her smile is soft as her hands come up to frame my face. I’m forced to look into my sister’s bright and cloudless eyes, which is so damn welcome. “Because you’ve always looked out for me. And right now, you’re here because you’re afraid that I might not be stable enough to handle whatever fallout ensues from you demanding answers—our family pulling together or possibly falling apart. You don’t want me to relapse.”

  I nod. It’s all I can add as an answer, because isn’t that why I came here? To make sure she’s okay? To know she’s on board with the decision I’ve already made?

  “We’ve been both, Drew. Together and apart. You have a life you deserve to live. Get your answers. You need them. And then go and live that life. Go and love Brexton. Go and step out from under this shadow.”

  When I wrap my arms around her and hold tight, I know I was right to come here first. Whatever she said wasn’t going to alter my decision to confront Dad, but I sure as hell didn’t expect it to make me more confident in my decision like it just did.

  “I love you, Maggs.”

  “Drew,” my mom says when she opens the door, her eyes wide and the pitch of her voice high. “I didn’t expect to see you. I—thank you for coming by.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I need to talk to Dad. Alone.”

  “Yes. Okay. You sure?” Nerves dance through her as she probably fears what I’m here to say.

  “Yes. This is something I should have done years ago.”

  My mom stares at me with tears misting and gives me the slightest of nods. She understands.

  “He’s in the study.”

  I hold her stare for a few more seconds before I set off toward the back of the house. When I reach my dad’s office, I’m struck how everything that lines the walls is about a sport we’ve been forbidden to talk about. Pictures, memorabilia, and game balls in glass cases line the bookcases and walls and my dad sits at his desk in the middle of it all.

  “Dad?”

  He startles and starts to stand immediately, his defenses already up as surprise reflects in his expression.

  “Drew.”

  “Stay seated,” I say as I walk into the room and close the door at my back. There are a million questions in his eyes but he doesn’t say a word. Instead he simply stares at me with a wary expression. I inhale a measured breath and then say what I came to say. “Did you do it?” My voice is calm and unrelenting.

  “We’ve already gone over this.”

  “No. You told us to shut our mouths and we have, but can’t you see that your silence is tearing us apart, Dad? So I’m going to ask you one more time for the truth. And if I walk out of this door because you refuse to give it, then don’t ever plan on seeing me come back.”

  The words stick in my throat. A horrible threat given to a man with a terminal illness. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep living for him and pretending that I’m not. I’ve reflected on my mom’s words the other day, and I don’t understand how he was protecting us. It makes no sense.

  But I need to know.

  I need to get my head straight.

  “Son, I—”

  “I’ve got the start tomorrow. Not because Hobbs is injured, like last time, but because I’ve earned it. It’s been seven years since the last time I started. Now, I need to know the truth. You owe that to
me.” I clench my fists out of frustration and from years and years of not knowing. “I need to be able to go out there and play for me instead of playing to clear our last name.”

  “I never asked you to do that.” His voice is so cold, so stoic, that all I want to do is shake him to get some emotion out of him.

  But then again, is that something he’s actually capable of?

  “You didn’t have to. You’re my dad. You were my idol. And no matter what I’ve done in my life, everything about what you did overshadows it. I have a chance here—at my dream on and off the field—and the only way I can walk into both so that I can succeed is if I know the truth . . . so I’m going to ask you again, did you do it?” Anger floods my voice as I jab my finger with each and every word.

  “It started out small. A few bets here and there on baseball or college football.”

  Fuck.

  “The funny thing is, the more you make, the more you bet. What’s a huge dollar amount to someone else is chump change to you.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, his hands trembling as they try to clasp in front of him. I can’t take my eyes off them.

  “I started betting more and more, began loving the high I’d get waiting to see the outcome of a game and whether or not I was right or wrong. I’d reached every pinnacle that could be reached playing football and placing huge bets was the next closest feeling I could find to say winning the Super Bowl.”

  “You were addicted.”

  “I didn’t see it then, but yes, I was addicted.”

  “Did Mom know?”

  “I hid it from her. Or at least I thought I did. But you can only hide something like that for so long before the lies run out.”

  “So you threw the game.” My voice breaks when I say the words.

  I wish I were wrong. I wish I’d come here and received any other response—anything—because it would be so much easier to accept. So much easier to process. So much easier to save face.

  “Let me finish. Please?” When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I got into trouble with bookies. It started around the time we were in the Keys. I spent that whole trip stressing how I could keep pretending I was living the high life when all my money and then some was going to bets. I had loans to pay. Big amounts, and it wasn’t like I could make any more money than I was making.”