by Kara Hart
It all happens so fast. That spinning missile shoots into the air and all eyes are suddenly on me. It comes barreling into my arms, fitting perfectly, and I smile to myself as my feet come back down to the ground. Of course, three men tackle me directly after, but it’s already too late for them. I’ve scored the damn touchdown.
I’m the best, baby.
The stadium erupts and I point one middle finger in the air. Tons of fans do the same. It’s beginning to become a trademark for me. Fiona is probably holding her breath right now. I put up another middle finger and the crowd cheers louder. In the center of all those cheers is a parade of boo’s, but I don’t give a damn. It’s the nature of the game.
I walk off the center of the field laughing to myself, and sit on the bench off to the side. I squirt some water in my mouth, pull off my helmet, and take a deep breath. “Good job, kid,” my coach Scott Stern tells me.
I nod, smiling. “Thanks, Coach. There’s more where that came from, believe me.”
“Great,” he claps his hands to keep morale high. He eyes the kick off with intensity. “Cut it out with the middle finger shit. It’s stupid. I don’t want it associated with our team.”
“I can’t help myself sometimes,” I awkwardly look away. “I’ll try my best.”
“Good, good,” he tells me, and goes back to watching the game.
The kickoff is good. It flies direct and center and our defense is strong. They tackle the guy within seconds. We’re going to win this game, easy. I never thought any different. Everyone has their predictions, but it’s not even debatable at this point. We’re hailed to go all the way to the Super Bowl. I’ve got a lot resting on my shoulders.
I think about Fiona again. I don’t know why. I just do. I wonder if she saw my touchdown. Normally, I’d be thinking about my ma right now. She’s probably watching it in her new house right now, on her new TV. It wasn’t that long ago when she was stuck in that shit hole of a trailer, having to listen to my plays on the radio. I’ve tried my best to make her proud of me.
It’s not long before I’m called back in the game. A few plays later and Loke, the QB, hikes it back and hands it off to a friend. Landon holds down the front end of the line and I watch as we get another first down. This shit is honestly easier than it looks. All it takes is some confidence and ability, and of course the necessary discipline.
The third play in, Loke drops back and shoots the pigskin directly at me. It’s nearly intercepted. The ball is clipped by one of the other team’s players and luckily it falls into the right place. I run it into the end zone and the crowd loses it again. This time, things are a little less celebratory. This time I feel the clean blow from another player.
I turn around and throw my helmet off. “What the fuck, man? You coming at me?” I ask, stepping forward.
It’s the player who almost intercepted the ball. His pride is hurt. I get it, but he’s not winning this battle. In fact, the game is just about to be finished. It’s a last ditch effort to save face and it’s going to backfire on him.
“Come at me, pussy,” he smiles. Then he does the unthinkable. He spits at my face. Lucky for me, he misses. Unlucky for him, my fist doesn’t. I get a clean hit across his jaw and then both sides of the field go crazy. I swear, every single player jumps into the damn brawl.
“And they’re at it!” A loudspeaker blares. People love this shit. I think it’s why most of them come to the game. They get good and drunk, and then hope to God something exciting happens. Well, I’ve brought their excitement. I’ve given them their entertainment. And I’m whoopin’ some ass.
I jump on top of the guy and smile back. “You see? I’m a nice guy. I don’t spit in other player’s faces.” I laugh, bearing my teeth. He swings up and I feel his knuckles connect against my mouth. I instantly taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth and I laugh even louder. I punch down again, hitting his cheekbone. My hand hurts but I’m not thinking straight. “I don’t pick fights either.”
“You just provoke people,” he says back. “I’m tired of your shit. We’re all tired of your shit, boy. This is the big leagues. Learn your place.”
I’m pulled off the guy by security and I instantly throw my hands up in the air, as if I didn’t do anything wrong. “I’m good, I’m good,” I tell them. “Just having some fun with the guy.”
He picks himself up, wobbles a little, and falls back on the field. He’s not knocked out or anything, but he’s struggling to keep his balance. “I guess I got what I wanted,” he laughs. I’m wondering, What? A broken face? Sure. “They’ll suspend you a few games for sure. Your whole team is fucked now, boy.”
“Mother fucker,” I growl, pushing out of the security guards’ grasp. I swing another punch and knock him out clean. The whole crowd, I swear to God, cheers louder than when I scored my last touchdown. The security guards tackle me and throw cuffs on me. I flip them off behind my back, as I’m carried off the field.
I can just hear the announcers now. I can imagine what they’re saying. “And Jackson Leeman has been carried off of the field, ladies and gentleman! That’s gotta hurt!”
I just laugh because it’s really all I can do. At this point in the game, I’ve really come to understand that if you just smile and claim that things are okay, they tend to end up okay. Shit, it’s what our politicians do, right? Why can’t I?
It’s all a game, all a show. But I really need to check myself. When I’m brought into the stadium, taken into the locker rooms, the coach screams at me. His face is practically on fire.
“What have I trained you for? Huh?” He even pushes me. I fall to the bench and take it. “You want to waste your career? All that talent is going down the drain and you’re going to take us all down with you. Fuck!”
“Coach, it’ll be okay,” I try and tell him. “It’ll all work out. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” he laughs at those words. “You’re one funny guy, Jackson. I’ve been in this game for 35 fucking years. That’s a lifetime, asshole. I’ve seen players just like you. Maybe they didn’t get as many headlines, or as much media attention, but they were good ball players. And guess what? They threw it all away. One of them fucking works for Best Buy. He does their commercials and gets paid 300 dollars for a shoot. I look at you like I looked at them. Don’t fuck this up for yourself.”
“You mean, don’t fuck this up for you,” I spout back. I shouldn’t talk back. I should just listen, but my arrogance sometimes gets the best of me and I don’t know why. It’s like a nervous tick or something.
“Don’t fuck this up for all of us,” he says, turning a bit calmer. “Seriously, I’ll have you out of the games so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
“Yes, sir,” I finally say. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” he sighs and sits down next to me. He throws his arm around my shoulders and leans in. “Now, look. Here’s the fun part. They’re going to suspend you for a game. I’ve already got the word to let you know.”
“What the fuck!” I yell, even though it was obvious it would happen. “The guy pushed me! You saw it with your own eyes.”
“Yeah, well, they’re going to give it to him too. Just because another guy touches you a little hard, doesn’t mean you have to punch back. After all, this is football. Keep your temper on check,” he says. “But it’s just one game and it’s against Arizona.”
“Come on, Scott,” I protest. “That’s my fucking hometown. I have to play that one.”
“It’s not up to me, son,” he says. “It’s up to the league. So keep your mouth shut, behave a little, and you’ll get to play the next game. And then it’s on to the Super Bowl.”
“You think we’ll get there?” I ask him, feeling defeated, but okay.
“I know we’ll get there if you don’t fuck it up,” he laughs. “Just keep yourself in control. Don’t go crazy. Don’t let your mind race. In fact, stay inside that house of yours and train every single day. It’s not like you need
to leave that place anyway. No distractions.”
No distractions? Fine, I’ll stay inside. But there’s no guarantee I won’t get distracted. “Have you met my new PR girl?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Don’t you dare,” he says. “Keep your hands to yourself. Don’t piss me off, now.”
“I’m just kidding, Coach,” I smile. But I’m not fucking playing around anymore. I’m here to cause a ruckus. I’m aching for some kind of action. “I would never do such a thing.”
Fiona
Oh, God. No. Please don’t. He did it. He really did it. He took a swing at that guy. Jesus H. Christ.
I can barely watch the game. Jennifer is over at my house and her eyes are completely open. She’s got a big smile on her face and I swear I’m going to slap her. “Do not laugh right now,” I say. “Or I’ll kill you.”
“I’m sorry.” She starts laughing. “But this is insanely entertaining. Seriously, I told you yesterday. You need to just quit. I’ll get you a job in the entertainment business.”
“Stop,” I groan. “Why is he doing this to me?” He just keeps slamming his fist down on the guy. He breaks out of security’s grasp and goes for more. He even flips off the cameras from behind his back. This is great. Just great.
“He’s not doing this to you,” Jennifer says. “He’s doing this because it’s who he is. He loves the attention. And, shit, I love it, so it must be working.”
“Yeah, well, the league is not going to love it. And I’m going to have them, the networks, and Joseph on my ass all fucking day about it.” I glance at my phone, which has started vibrating uncontrollably. Joseph and a whole host of other executive types are blasting my phone. I don’t even answer. “I just can’t deal with this right now.”
“Well, I think he’s hot,” Jennifer smiles and winks at me.
“Don’t,” I tell her. “I can’t deal with your shit either.”
“I’m serious!” she laughs. “He’s a totally rough and tumble type of guy. I bet he eats pussy real good.”
“Ew, just stop!” I laugh. “Enough with the sex shit.”
“Why are you such prude?” she asks.
“I am not a prude,” I tell her. “I just don’t want to hear about how sexy my insane client is right now. He’s not sexy. He’s an asshole.”
“Assholes are totally sexy and I want to sit all over his face,” she says. “Seriously, I know he can ride a gal to the moon and back.”
To the moon and back? Who is this woman? The images that flash in my head are something else. She’s right sometimes, but this is my ex we’re talking about. This is my high school sweetheart, turned worst piece-of-shit.
“You do realize I was supposed to marry this guy, right?” I ask her, creasing my eyes.
“Yeah,” she laughs. “And live happily ever after, right? Come on, babe. You were like 17 when all of that happened. It was more than a decade ago. Now look at you. You’re doing great.”
“Right. Great.” I shake my head. “I have to make this idiot look like a changed man by the Super Bowl. This should be interesting.”
“Sounds fun,” she shrugs. “Anyway, I have more important things to do right now than talk about this all day.”
“Like what? I thought you weren’t working today,” I say.
“Yeah, exactly,” she smiles, pushing her butt out. “I’ve got a date with a very nice man. He’s a producer. He just did all of those Manic Prowler movies. You know, the really gory slasher type films.”
“Um, be careful,” I laugh. “I don’t want to wake up to you on the news.”
“If I don’t text you tomorrow, just assume I’m dead,” she says.
Jennifer gets off of the couch and gives me a hug. When she’s gone, I’m all alone in my house, in this foresty place I now find myself living in. I immediately call Joseph.
“Fix this,” he says without giving me any time to say anything in my defense. “Fix it now.”
“Joseph, I told you. I told you I didn’t want any part in this shit,” I tell him. “Jackson is going to ruin his career. It’s a fact. I’ve seen players do this before and it never works out well.”
“Jackson just needs a little guidance. The coach is on him for that,” he reassures me. “What he really needs is a good public relations person to make him look good.”
“I’ll do my best. I’ll call the Sports Network and have him go on. He’ll do an interview and he’ll get a chance to explain himself. I’ll coach him on what to say. That’s about all I can do right now. Is he suspended? I assume he is.” I sigh loudly and close my eyes. This is too much work, dammit.
“Good,” he says. “And yeah, he’s suspended for a game, but that’s it. He still has time to redeem himself in the public eye. I want you to dig deeper after this, Fiona. I want you to find some information about his past. He grew up poor in Arizona, right? You both went to the same school. Have him open up to you about it and we can run a big spread in Time. Anyway, I have to go. Talk to you soon.”
He hangs up the phone and I have no chance to argue. Dig deep. I don’t need to. We were in love. I know a lot already. I know his mom used to live in the trailer park a few miles away from the school. I know he used to have to beg for rides to classes. I know that he was lucky as hell to have football and that his dad beat him almost every damn day.
It’s stuff we shouldn’t bring to light. It’s stuff we, in the media, shouldn’t obsess over, just because it brings us good ratings. But this is my job and this is what the world wants out of stars. They want to own as many pieces of them as they can, to chew them up and spit them out.
Shit, what do I care? Jackson is an asshole, even more so than the consumers waiting to take a bite out of him. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. I have to keep telling myself that. I don’t care.
I get on my laptop, contact all the relevant people at the Sports Network, and check my phone when I’m finished. Shit. At least four hours have passed. What the hell have I been doing all this time? That’s when I hear the knock coming from my door.
Idiotically, I don’t check who it is, and I just open the door. My stomach turns when I see Jackson standing right in front of me, complete with that cocky smile of his. “Miss me?” he asks. I slam the door in his face.
He knocks again and I’m forced to open the door if I don’t want my door falling off its hinges. “What do you want, Jackson?” I ask him. He’s still smiling.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in to your new place?” he asks, walking in on his own accord. “It’s lovely, really. You’re doing so well, despite the circumstances.”
I close the door and groan. “I wish I could say the same for you, Jackson,” I say. “Instead, you’re fucking everything up for me. One week in and I have to deal with your shit.”
“Did you watch the game? If you did, you’d know that was a cheap shot. I had to swing back. It was practically self-defense,” he says, opening my fridge. He closes it when he sees that there’s no beer in it.
“Practically. Right,” I scoff. “What do you want? Seriously, I have things to do.”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I thought we could hang out. It’ll be like old times.”
Is he really going to bring those days up? He should know how hurt I was then. “I’d rather not,” I say, feeling my heart rate quicken to an incredible pace. “In case you don’t remember, you broke my heart.”
“I know I did,” he says, turning serious for a second. “And I never got a chance to apologize, so I’m doing it right now. I’m sorry. There. I said it.”
“Great, can you leave now?” I ask. I’m serious too. I don’t know what he’s doing in my house.
He sits down on my couch and spreads his arms across the back end. “Alright, let me be serious for a second,” he says.
“I would love that actually,” I tell him.
“We need to fix what happened today,” he says. “I’m sorry for that too. I shouldn’t’ve done it. Now I have to sit
out the whole fucking Arizona game. That’s our home state, Fi. My mom was going to go to that game.”
“Yeah, well.” I sigh. “You dug your own grave, Jackson. I’m not your nanny. I can’t just fix every wrong you do.”
“Fine. I’m not even asking you to do that,” he says, though that’s exactly what he’s asking me to do. “But, just this one time, please. Help me with this. I want to go to the Super Bowl. I want to make my ma proud of me.”
For the first time, Jackson is owning up to his bullshit. It’s like looking at someone for the first time. “You’re going on Sports Network. You’re going to do an interview and you’re going to explain yourself. I’ll tell you everything you need to say. If you listen to me, everything will be just fine. Luckily, sports fans have seen asshole players before. But the people who live for the game, don’t live for the theatrics. So cut that shit out.”
“Got it.” He sighs and stands up. “Look, I’m thirsty. I could use a beer or a few shots. You game?”
I’m hesitant. A drink might be nice right about now, but I don’t want to get involved with a guy like Jackson ever again. I want to keep my distance as much as possible, on the off chance he ever wants to mess up my life again. He sees my hesitation. “Come on. I know you want to. It’ll be fine. I won’t be a dick, or whatever you think I am normally.”
“You are a dick,” I say. “But a drink sounds fantastic right about now. I’m so stressed with work stuff. I probably do need a break.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He puts his hand up for a high five. When I don’t give him one, he smacks my butt firmly. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” I tell him, as firmly as his butt slap. My face is bright red with embarrassment. “And don’t ever touch my ass again. Seriously.” I can already tell this is doomed. My career is beyond fucked if he keeps screwing up. I like his new “goody-goody” attitude, but can it really last? I’m sure I’ll have that answer soon enough.
