Broken Play

by Tracey Ward

  “Got your slot back, huh?” Ramsey asks bitterly. He’s fallen in step next to me, his eyes fixed forward.

  I was expecting this. I’m actually surprised it took him this long to come at me, but now that he has, I’m already tired of the argument. “Looks like it.”

  “How the fuck’d you manage that?”

  “The spot was always mine. I just let you borrow it for a minute.”

  “Bullshit.” He speeds up to cut me off, standing in front of me like a roadblock. “They brought me in to replace your old, tired ass, and now all of the sudden you pull that quitting shit on the Pats field and you’re back in? It’s not right.”

  I look him up and down pointedly. “Feels right from where I’m standing.”

  “For real, how’d you swing it, ‘cause from where I’m standing, it doesn’t make any damn sense.”

  “You’re standing on the sidelines now. It’s hard to see clear from over there.”

  “Fuck you,” he snarls. He crowds me, invading my space in a way that makes my spine stiffen. It makes my fists clench. “I’m faster than you. I’m better than you. I just needed more time.”

  “We don’t have time right now,” Colt tells him calmly. He’s trying to diffuse the situation that’s starting to draw a lot of attention, but I’m not sure Ramsey is going to let this go. Not without a fight. “The championship is coming up fast. If we don’t have Anthony on the field, we don’t have a shot at taking it, and I’m not missing it again this year, you hear me?”

  “I want to hear it from him.” Ramsey points his finger inches from my face.

  I want to slap him like the bitch he’s being, but I swallow back the urge. “What do you want to hear, Ramsey?”

  “What’d you do to get the spot? What backroom deal did you strike?”

  “You better watch yourself.”

  “Or what? What are you gonna do, old man?”

  I empty the air between us. I push it aside with my body, bringing me nose-to-nose and chest-to-chest with Ramsey. “I’ll fuck you up,” I growl.

  He shoves me hard in the chest.

  That’s it for me.

  I stumble back a step, but then I’m rushing forward with all the speed I’ve got. All the speed that got me here after years, months, days, hours of practice since I was seven years old. I take him by surprise. He expects me to swing at him but I tie him up instead. My arms go around his waist as my body barrels into him, knocking him off his feet and taking him down onto his back. His breath bursts from his lungs. His eyes are wide with surprise. Dark with rage. He reaches for me, scrabbling to get ahold of me, but he loses track of everything when I put my fist into his eye. Once. Twice. I’m reaching back to hit him for a third time when arms take hold of me, dragging me off of him.

  “Easy, brother,” Fiso grunts in my ear.

  I put my hands up in surrender, puffing, “I’m cool. I’m cool,” but I am anything but cool. I’m fire. I’m flames burning brighter than the sun and I’d love nothing more than to get back on top of that little shit and beat the ass off him.

  Fiso wisely doesn’t let me go. Not yet. I watch as Lowery and Trey help Ramsey to his feet. He’s glaring at me with blood and murder in his eyes. His face is red. It’s swelling. He’ll have a hell of a black eye by dinner time, but motherfucker earned it. He never should have put hands on me.

  Lowery steps between us. “Let’s go, man,” he tells Ramsey gruffly. “Let’s get you to medical and to get some ice on that. Cool you off, alright?”

  “Yo, man, fuck you!” he shouts around Lowery’s big body working like a wall between us. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

  Lowery doesn’t budge. “No, you won’t. You’ll chill. He’ll chill. Then you’ll talk it out and put this shit behind you because we don’t have time for this.”

  “I’ll make time,” he promises viciously.

  I jut my chin at him, taunting him. “I’m ready to go again when you are, bitch.”

  Ramsey moves like he’s going to come at me, but Lowery corrects him. He puts his hands on his shoulders, turning him around to face the tunnel, and gives him a gentle nudge in that direction. Trey falls in step next to Ramsey. He talks to him quietly, so low I can’t hear him, but Ramsey follows. He listens because Trey is a leader worth listening to.

  “Anthony!” Coach Allen shouts across the field. He’s standing in the mouth of the tunnel with Coach Bailey and Coach Fallon. He saw the whole thing. “I want to see you in my office!”

  I shake loose of Fiso’s hold. “Good. I’ve been waiting on this all week.”

  “I bet you have,” he answers softly. Now that he’s got my attention, he’s not shouting. He’s making me work to hear him. “Get changed. Meet me in ten.”

  “I’ll be there in five.”

  “You’ll be there when I tell you to be there.”

  Bailey and Fallon follow him into the tunnel. I stand huffing on the field, my hand throbbing with my wild heartbeat. I’m already calming down. The fight was over almost before it started and the adrenaline it left behind in my body is flaring out quickly. It leaves me feeling shaky, like I’m vibrating. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, just for a second, and I have a weird feeling like I’m falling.

  Fiso slaps me hard on the back. He nearly knocks me over. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I lie to him. I take a deep breath to try to prove it. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You better get moving. Ramsey’ll be in medical for a few. You can get changed and head up to Coach’s office before he shows in the locker room.”

  “I’m not afraid to face him.”

  “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about keeping it cool for the team, yeah?”

  The world slowly slides back into place. The falling feeling recedes, leaving me on solid ground with a clear view of my world.

  It’s fantastically fucked up at the moment.

  “You’re right,” I agree with Fiso. I offer him my hand. I let him pull me into a hard hug that feels crushing against his wide frame. “Thanks, man.”

  “Anytime, brother. Go get your ass chewed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I take the full ten minutes Coach Allen gave me to get cleaned up. Just as I’m about to head to administration, Matthews shows up with an ice pack for my hand. He doesn’t say a word. Just drops it down on the bench in front of me, claps me on the shoulder, and keeps on walking. I mumble a thank you but he’s already out of earshot because that’s what the dude does – he shows up when you need him and then disappears like a ghost.

  About a month ago I hit a low point. I was angry and sick with pent up frustration about being benched, and all of that toxicity had nowhere to go. Kurtis found me alone in the locker room after the Tennessee game with my head in my hands. It was insane, but when he asked what was wrong, I actually told him. I hadn’t even told Colt what was going on with the headaches and my memory issues, but I told Kurtis everything and it actually felt better to say it out loud. It was nice to unload on someone, and even though he didn’t have any advice on how to fix the problem, he convinced me to tell Colt about it. He made me realize that if I’m going to go through this, I shouldn’t do it alone. He also told me my career is ending and I have to acknowledge that, but that’s one piece of advice I haven’t accepted. I don’t think I ever will. I’ll be eighty in a diaper someday wondering if it’s too late to get back in the game.

  As I walk down the hall to the offices, it feels longer than it used to. Narrower. Louder. Three doors are open on my way to Allen, all filled with coaching staff and one-sided phone calls. One room is packed to the walls with Coach Bailey and a camera crew filming him Google prescription grade compression socks or some shit on his computer. It’s almost silent inside and I wonder if the non-stop chatter coming from the other rooms is intentional. Ambient noise to make the offices seem busier than they are.

  Never believe what you see on TV, kids.

  Coach Allen’s door is closed. I shake out my ha
nds before knocking twice, solid as oak.

  “Come in.”

  It’s dim inside his office. The furniture is modern and light, but the lights are down low, the blinds drawn behind him. It feels easily five degrees colder than the rest of the building.

  “Coach,” I say blandly as I close the door behind me.

  He sits back in his seat with his hands threaded together over his concave stomach. The man is old. His skin is pale and weathered, wrinkled in places I didn’t know you could get wrinkles. The ballcap he always wears is tossed carelessly to the corner of his desk that’s white and gleaming, completely clean of any files or papers. His laptop sits closed and quiet in the middle, sending me a clear message – I have his full attention.

  “Do you want to sit or stand for this?” he asks thinly.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well, do what you want when the mood strikes you.”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  He stares at me patiently with those icy blue eyes that belie his age. His body is old and frail looking, but his mind is sharp as a knife. A man should never underestimate Coach Allen. He’ll cut you clean through.

  “You kicked a man while he was down,” he begins. “Did that feel good to you?”

  “No,” I admit reluctantly.

  “I won’t ask what started the fight—”

  “He did.”

  “—because it doesn’t matter and I think we all know the answer. How’s your hand?”

  I glance down at it. It’s still wrapped in the ice pack Matthews brought me. It still hurts like hell. “It’s alright.”

  “You could have broken it a week before your first full game back. Does it feel worth it?”

  “No.”

  “No. I don’t think so either.

  I stare at him hard, my blood boiling. “Is this all you’re gonna do? Lecture me like a little kid?”

  “What were you expecting? A magic show?”

  “What you did was wrong,” I tell him, the words finally escaping the dark place where I’ve been hoarding them all these months. They’re out in the open and there’s no taking them back now.

  Coach nods slowly in acceptance. “I’m sure you think so.”

  “You disrespected me.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “You should have talked to me,” I continue, my voice rising. “You should have told me you were replacing me with Ramsey.”

  “I probably should have, yes.”

  “So why didn’t you? Why weren’t you straight with me?”

  “Because you haven’t been straight with me, Tyus.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

  Coach doesn’t answer. He only watches me, waiting for me to admit what I’ll never say.

  I take a jerky step forward, jabbing my finger into the top of his desk. “I can play. That’s all that matters.”

  “And you will, according to Bill Greene and Keith Wilton.” He spreads his hands openly. “I’m sure they have your best interest at heart.”

  “Is that what you had? My best interest at heart? You thought you were protecting me by benching me?”

  Coach shakes his head. “I thought I was giving you a break. I thought you needed it.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Stop with that shit,” I snap. His calm is riling me up and I can’t stand it anymore. “Are you gonna talk to me about this or not?”

  “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I didn’t show you the proper respect by telling you that I have to replace you with Josh Ramsey, a player with a fraction of your talent, because you’re injured and you won’t admit it? Is that what you’re dying to hear?”

  “I’m not injured.”

  “Lie to yourself all you want,” he replies irritably, “but the truth will come out. I already see it. Your memory is slack. Your moods change with the wind. You might not have CTE yet, but take a hit or two like you did last year and you’ll be well on your way. If you want to know what I think, if you want to talk about it so damn bad, I’ll tell you the truth. You’re done. Finished. This is your last season playing in the NFL and you shouldn’t even finish this one. You should be off the field taking care of yourself and planning for your future.”

  “My future is on that field!”

  “Your future is dementia. Unless you take care of yourself now, you’re going to lose whatever parts of your brain you have left. That’s the truth. That’s the honesty you wanted, right? You wanted me to be real with you, well, there it is. I put you on the bench to protect you, but if you want off so bad, then get out there. Get ground into the dirt day after day while your brain turns to swiss cheese, but I hope you enjoy it while it lasts, because in twenty years you won’t be able to remember a single second of it.” He shakes his head in disgust, his mouth a withered, tight line. “I don’t know why you think you can stand there demanding respect from me when you’re not even respecting yourself.”

  My mouth is bone dry. I try to pull my lips apart to shout at him, but they feel like they’re glued together. I’m eating anger and ash that flames in my throat like a sickness and all I can do is try to swallow it down. I feel like gagging. I feel like I’ll be sick on his beige rug that looks like old oatmeal.

  “Thank you for your time,” I tell him, my tone dead as the desert on my tongue.

  Coach runs a gnarled hand over his tired eyes. “Anytime, son,” he mumbles. “My door is always open.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  MILA

  Sproul Hall UCLA

  Los Angeles, CA

  Tyus is touching me. He’s kissing me and caressing me, his lips on my mouth, my jaw, my neck. His hand slides inside my shirt, under my bra, and it feels huge against my breast that aches as he squeezes it. Tweaks it. I want him to kiss me there. To suck me into his mouth and bite down hard, too hard. I want him to make it hurt but he’s moving lower. Slower. He’s taking his time teasing me as his hands drag down my body. He pulls my pants off and the cold of the air conditioner hits me with a force that makes me tremble. But he’s quick to warm me. To cover me with his mouth and his tongue, and he’s inside me and eating me feverishly, lapping at my wet center. His tongue is careful to avoid my clit because I’ll blow if he touches it. I cum so easily, too easily, but he knows that because he knows every part of me. He’s fucked me more times than I can count in the week since we met in the elevator. Sometimes more than twice in one day. In one hour.

  “Oh God,” I gasp, my body clenching.

  He slows, his kisses pulling away to give me a chance to breathe. But then his dick is there pushing against me, nudging into me, and I feel like I’ll pass out. My climax is coming whether I’m ready or not.

  “Go slow. Slow. Slow. Slow,” I plead.

  He pushes in, just a tiny bit. Just enough to make my insides clench and my throat close up. His hands squeeze my breasts. They tease my nipples to distract me, and then he’s sliding in with one smooth stroke that steals my breath.

  “Fuuuuuuuuck.”

  I won’t last. I never do. I’m too sensitive, I’m too excited, and when he starts to move inside me, I forget where I am. I forget my own name. The orgasm rushes in out of nowhere and I’m demolished. I’m wrecked and quaking, crying. I’m calling his name.

  “Tyus, fuck, yes. Fuck me.”

  My hand clenches and cramps around the vibrator as I push it inside myself roughly. My thumb hits my clit and I’m almost on the ceiling, I’m flying so high. Sound comes from the back of my throat but it’s not words. I’m past that. Beyond anything coherent. I’m all gasps and moans, whimpers that draw out so long I forget to breathe and my sight goes blurry at the edges.

  When it’s over, when I’m sated, I fall back on my bed with a contented sigh. “That was perfect.”

  “I wish like hell you wouldn’t do that with me in the room,” Camille complains.

  I roll my eyes. “
I put up the wall.”

  “It’s a sheet. It’s not exactly sound proof. Or smell proof.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying it smells like a brothel in here.”

  I pull my pretty, pink vibrator from between my legs, flicking the switch to turn it off. The room is silent without the hum. Without my blood in my ears and the memory of Tyus’ voice in my head.

  I pictured him perfectly, drawing some inspiration from the D&G ad on the beach. The rest was real, though. Real memory of the real man as he kissed me deeply and secretly. Why does that make it so much sexier? Why does the fact that we said it can never happen again make me want it so fucking bad?

  I’ve masturbated to his memory daily since I met him and I’m starting to worry it’s not going to stop. Not until I get my hands on the real thing. Maybe then I’ll be happy. I’ll be able to toss him aside and leave him alone the way I’ve ditched my boner for every other guy I’ve gotten off to. Fuck ‘em for real. That’s the only way to be done with them as far as I’m concerned. It worked with my crush on Harry Styles – thank you, Cabo! – and it will work with Tyus Anthony.

  “Who’s Tyus, anyway?” Camille asks curiously.

  I toss my vibrator to the end of my bed, yanking up my underwear. “I don’t know a Tyus.”

  “You said his name.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I said ‘Bryce’.”

  “That doesn’t even sound—” She sighs. “Fine, who’s Bryce?”

  I shove the sheet aside, shrugging. “I don’t know a Bryce.”

  “Jesus Christ, whatever,” she mutters, turning back to her books.

  That’s always where Camille is – hovered over textbooks, studying her heart out. She’s here on an athletic scholarship for tennis, which she hates, but her very overbearing Chinese mother made her take up the sport so she’d either A) be able to impress her rich husband and his friends at the country club when she married a millionaire, or B) get a scholarship to a school with a good medical program, become a doctor, make her own millions, and impress a man at the club with her tennis skills, marry him, and have a million beautiful, black haired babies. Either way you slice it, tennis was supposed to put a ring on Camille’s finger but all it’s done is get her into a good college with a great medical program that she’s not taking advantage of. Also, I’m pretty sure she’s a lesbian, so there’s that.