Broken Play

by Tracey Ward

  That’s not what I want for my life. I don’t want these little brain farts I’ve been having to turn into a complete loss of my identity. It’s one of the reasons I’m here tonight. I put it off for as long as I could. I told myself I wasn’t going to do it just because they told me I had to. I had big plans to wait them out and watch them buckle, but it didn’t happen. Coach and I took it down to the wire, and in the end it was me who folded. Mostly because I want to play but also because I really do want to know what’s wrong with me. I want to know if they can fix it.

  There’s a tentative knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Colt answers.

  The doctor enters alone, closing the door behind him. It’s not Mike. I didn’t want to use him and Coach Allen insisted on tapping a longtime, trusted friend to oversee the test and the results. This guy is tall with winter white hair and somber green eyes. I don’t know why, but the second I see him, I stand.

  “Mr. Anthony.” He offers me his hand.

  I shake it mechanically. “Doctor Harlan.”

  “Take a seat. Please.”

  “No, thanks. I think I’d rather stand.”

  He gives me an appraising look. “Alright then. Suit yourself. But I’m an old man and it’s been a long night, so you won’t mind if I…”

  “No. Of course not.”

  He pulls the rolling stool out from under the desk. It feels like it takes ages for him to settle himself. He has a folder in his hands that’s stuffed with several white sheets of paper, but he doesn’t open it. He sets it on his lap and folds his wrinkled hands on top of it.

  “What’s the verdict?” I ask curtly. “Is it vertigo?”

  “No.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down?”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. “No. I don’t want to sit. I want to know what’s happening with my head. Can I play football? Am I all clear?”

  His bushy eyebrows dip down over his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that.”

  “What are you talking about? Can I play football? Yes or no?” I ask succinctly.

  “No, Mr. Anthony,” he replies gently. “I’m afraid I can’t recommend that you ever play professional football again.”

  I feel myself sway on my feet. My balance goes sideways and I’m worried I’ll fall over, but I hold my emotions in check. I force myself to breathe. “Why not? Is it CTE? Can you see it?”

  “I can’t diagnose CTE at this time. That’s not to say it should be ruled out, but I believe we’ve found the cause of the dizziness and headaches. It’s something called cerebellar hemorrhage.”

  “Hemorrhage?” Colt asks sharply. “Are you saying his brain is bleeding?”

  “Yes, but it’s slight. We can correct it. That’s not our main concern, however. It’s the cause of the bleed that has me worried.”

  “What’s worse than a leak in my skull?” I ask breathlessly.

  Doctor Harlan looks up at me with sympathy and sorrow. “A brain tumor, I’m afraid.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MILA

  January 28th

  Cashlin Greene on Holmby Hills

  Los Angeles, CA

  The Kodiaks won the Conference Championship. They beat the Falcons twenty-one to eighteen. It was a nail biter from start to finish, but they pulled it off. And they did it without Tyus Anthony.

  The team is claiming his back problems are what kept him out of the game. Coach Allen went on record saying they felt like they could win without him so they didn’t risk his health by playing him. He tried to downplay the seriousness of the situation but the truth is Tyus wasn’t even on the sidelines. That’s never a good sign. An injured player not at a game supporting his team smacks of scandal, and every sports news outlet in the country is digging to find out what the dirt is on this one. I don’t even know exactly what’s happening, and I’ve been behind the curtain. I’ve been in his bed, in his heart, but once you’re shut out of Tyus’ life, you’re really out. No takebacks. No forgiveness.

  I’ve moved past the crying stage of the breakup. Now I’m numb. I feel like a zombie. I get up, I go to school, I go to work, I sleep. Sometimes I eat. Sometimes I don’t. I’ve lost six pounds, and while that doesn’t sound like much to most people, it is when you’re my size. I’m already straddling the line between healthy and emaciated on a good day. Losing weight is not something I need to be doing, and it shows. I look gaunt and tired. Pale. Sad. I just look fucking sad all the time and I’m getting so sick of it but I don’t know how to pull myself out of it, so tonight I decided it was time to go home.

  That’s how I know how truly desperate I am.

  Mama answers the door. I can’t remember the last time I saw her do that. She always asks Daddy to or makes Ronda do it, but today is the exception. Today she greets me herself instead of receiving me, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “I wasn’t expecting you today. Is it… It’s not Saturday already, is it?”

  I shake my head with an enduring smile. “No, Mama. It’s Thursday.”

  “Are you here for dinner?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Italian.”

  That narrows it down, I think bitingly, but I keep it to myself.

  “Perfect. Is there enough for me to stay?”

  Mama opens the door wider. “Of course. Come in off the stoop. The neighbors are going to talk.”

  About what?

  I step inside, brushing past her. I’m careful not to touch her. Mama doesn’t always like to be touched. I kick off my shoes in the basket by the door and hang my coat out of sight in the closet. Mama waits for me patiently, watching me go through the ritual until she’s satisfied I’ve done it correctly.

  “Come in the kitchen with me,” she invites me. “I was just about to open a bottle of wine, but I have soda too.”

  “A soda would be great. Thanks.”

  Mama gets me settled at the island in the middle of the kitchen. She stands across from me with a glass of wine and a smile. The lights overhead glow down on her in this impossibly beautiful, ethereal way, and I remember the hours she spent with a professional lighting consultant to make that happen. It was worth it. She looks like an angel.

  “What happened?” she asks suddenly.

  I take a sip of the soda to hide my unease. “Nothing. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not blind, Mila,” Mama tells me impatiently. “I have eyes. I can see you. You’re sad.”

  I shrug. “So what if I am? A lot of people are sad. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Is it going to be the end of yours?”

  It’s a nervous question. A habit I taught her that she can’t shake. I try not to take offense to it. “No. I’ll survive. I promise.”

  Mama nods, avoiding my eyes. “Okay. I won’t lose any sleep over it then.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She doesn’t mean that. Her voice is an octave too high when she asks, meaning she’s scared of my answer. I scare my mama. That realization hits me with a force I didn’t see coming. I always assumed I worried her, annoyed her, but I never imagined I could scare her.

  What a piece of shit I am.

  “I was seeing a guy,” I tell her as lightly as I can. I picture someone else. Anyone but Tyus because if I think of him I’ll cry, and that’s not what she needs from me right now. I picture Chad Michael Murray from his One Tree Hill days instead because that slice of bland bread has never gotten my dick hard. “He was a really, really good guy. Like, irritatingly awesome.”

  Mama smiles reservedly. “That good, huh?”

  “Better,” I gush. “He was smart, sweet, funny. Sexy.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “At school.”

  She sits down slowly on the other side of the island. “What was his name?”

  “Lucas Scott. He’s a basketball pl
ayer.”

  “Is he good?”

  “One of the best. Super fast. He’ll go pro someday. I know it.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Same thing that always happens. I messed it up.” I sniff sharply. “I mess everything up.”

  “Oh, Mila,” Mama laments. She reaches across the endless expanse of the island to put her hand on mine. “You don’t mess everything up. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”

  “No, this was my fault. I was supposed to keep a secret but I didn’t.”

  Her hand flexes over mine. “What kind of secret?”

  “He has an injury. A bad one. But he doesn’t want anyone to know about it because if people know, they won’t let him play and he loves basketball, Mama. He loves it more than anything, so he kept playing and he kept hiding that he was hurt.”

  “But you saw it?”

  “Yeah. I saw how much he was hurting and I was worried about him so…” I sniff again. My nose is running, my eyes watering, and my image of CMM is slipping. Fading against the dark backdrop of Tyus Anthony’s eyes. His lips. His chin jutted out proud and angry at me, like an accusation. “I told the coaches how bad he was hurt. They might kick him off the team now.”

  “Oh no.” She grips my hand tightly, pulling it toward her so I meet her halfway. “He knows you told?”

  “I told him the truth. I told him I did it.”

  “That was brave of you.”

  I laugh tremulously. “He didn’t think so.”

  “He broke up with you because of it?”

  “Yeah. Like a week ago.”

  “I’m sorry, baby, but you did the right thing. His health should come first. He has his whole life ahead of him. He can’t cripple himself for a silly sport.”

  “It’s not a ‘silly sport’ to him. It’s his life.”

  “And he’ll have a longer, fuller one because you made him face the truth,” she insists. “You did right. I know you’re hurting and I know part of you regrets it because you lost him, but I’m proud of you. For whatever that’s worth.”

  I stare at her, stunned. My mama has never in my life told me she was proud of me. Not once. Not even when I was a kid. Her words filter through my brain, into my blood, and warm the coldest corners inside me. They revive a sleeping piece of my mind that I’ve left carefully numb for the last week.

  It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix what’s wrong. Tyus still hates me, I still love him deeply, and I’m never going to see him again. That is torture. But beyond the pain of what I’ve lost, I can feel the glow of something I’ve gained. It’s in her words and her hand on mine. It’s in the honesty we’re sharing under the thin veneer of lies I’m telling. It’s the love a mother has for her daughter, even when she can’t understand her. Even when she feels like she’s been a million miles away since the day she was born.

  It’s the love a daughter has for her mother, no matter how old she gets. The need for a hand to hold when the path gets rough and your little legs feel too tired to carry on. My mama would carry me, fragile as she is. She would sling my body over her shoulder and break her back to get me where I need to go. That type of devotion is staggering. It’s sobering in so many ways, I feel faint from it. I feel light.

  I feel good for the first time in weeks.

  “It’s worth a lot, Mama,” I tell her honestly. “Thank you.”

  Mama smiles, blushing. She takes her hand back to wave me away, but I know my words mean as much to her as hers meant to me. We’re a long way from where we should be, but we’re closer than we’ve ever been, and that has to count for something.

  My phone vibrates angrily in my pocket. Mama pours herself another glass of wine while I check the updates I’m getting from ESPN. A player on the Pats is injured. That’s huge. That smacks of Super Bowl victory for the Kodiaks, and I’m smiling ear to ear as I read the details. It’s not a starter, but it’s a back up to their running back. It’s a weakness in their armor that Coach Allen will exploit as much as he can.

  The second notice is about my guys. My Kodiaks.

  My smile droops when I read the headline. I don’t understand it. I have to read it again to try to grasp it, but even then it doesn’t make sense.

  Mama sees my face. “What’s the matter, baby?”

  “I don’t… I can’t understand…”

  “What’s happened? Is it the boy? Lucas something?”

  “No. It’s Daddy. He’s—”

  I slam my phone down on the island, closing my eyes.

  Breathe. In and out. Breathe. In and out. Slow. Go slow.

  “Mila,” Mama demands. She’s getting agitated. “What’s happened to your daddy?”

  “He’s fine, Mama.” I open my eyes. I see spots. Fireworks badly Photoshoped over my world. “He’s not hurt.”

  “Then what are you so upset about?”

  I show her the screen. My hand is shaking. “It’s official. He’s selling the Kodiaks at the end of the year.”

  ***

  Daddy is late. Mama sits with me sipping wine until after nine, but then she gives up, going to bed. She kisses me goodnight. I tell her I love her.

  I wait in the dimly lit kitchen for Daddy to come home.

  It’s almost eleven when he finally does.

  “I didn’t know you’d be home today,” he says in surprise. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  I shove my phone across the island. It slides to a stop in front of Daddy, the article lit up on the screen.

  “Is it true?” I ask tepidly.

  He glances at my phone without touching it. His tongue runs along the front of his teeth, puffing out his upper lip before he sighs. He turns away to open the fridge. “It was supposed to be confidential. I’ll have words with Anders about that after I eat.”

  “Is it true?” I demand.

  “Yes.”

  The air goes out of my lungs. I’ve taken a hit, a big one, another one, and I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get back up from this fall with a leg that’s already broken. This can’t be happening. He can’t do this!

  My mind is screaming but my voice is level when I ask him, “Why?”

  Daddy comes to the counter with his arms full of leftovers. He topples them messily onto the gleaming gray surface with a stern shake of his head. “It’s my team, Mila. I can do anything I want with it.”

  “But you promised me—”

  “And you promised me,” he growls. His face is taught with frustration as he leans against the island, glaring at me. “I asked you not to go near Tyus Anthony, didn’t?”

  I swallow hard. It hurts, like I’m eating agony. “Yes.”

  “I told you not to talk to him, but what did you do? What do you always do?”

  “Whatever I want.”

  “Whatever you want,” he agrees glumly. He pushes off the counter to stand tall and imposing over me. “You do whatever you want and you expect everything to be just dandy at the end of it because we’re all supposed to make sure you’re okay. You want everyone to give you a million and one chances to make the world whatever you want it to be, but life doesn’t work like that. I won’t run my business into the ground trying to make you happy. The Kodiaks are never going to be your team. I am never going to give them to you. Ten years ago I bought them for pennies and now I’m going to sell them for a profit. That was always the plan and it’s not my fault that you fell in love with them. Life is hard. You don’t always get what you want.”

  “You were never going to give them to me, were you?” I ask sadly. “No matter what I did.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Our deal was that you were going to be responsible and learn how to live like an adult, but what did you do instead? Huh?”

  “Daddy, I—”

  “What did you do, Mila?”

  “I started drinking again.”

  “That’s one.”

  “It was one night,” I cry defensively. “I stopped again. I haven’t
had a drink in months.”

  Daddy doesn’t answer. He only looks at me with a blank expression and one finger counting patiently in the air.

  I sink into my seat. “I let my grades slip.”

  “That’s two.”

  “And I fucked Tyus Anthony.”

  Daddy’s face darkens. “Don’t talk like that to me.”

  I lower my head meekly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t going to cut it anymore. The team is as good as gone.” He snaps open a container of pasta sauce that looks more like blood than tomato paste. “From our lives and from L.A.”

  I raise my head sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m selling to Chris Murphy and his crew, and they think the market is too crowded in California. The Raiders, the Kodiaks, the 49ers, the Chargers. It’s too many teams in one place.”

  “Where are they taking them?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  “You can’t! They’re an L.A. team! They—”

  Daddy casts me a cutting look that silences me on the spot. I hate that look. I see it all the time. It’s the one he and Mama give me when they feel like I’m a problem. A wild animal in their home that can’t be trusted. But as many times as they’ve cast it at me, it hasn’t changed a thing because they’ve never done anything about it. They just give me a wider and wider berth until I’m pacing my cage that’s ten miles wide.

  Today is different though. Daddy holds it for too long. The lines around his mouth are too clearly defined, carved in stone to be remembered forever, and I know it’s designed to remind me very acutely that I have lost my right to argue about what happens to the Kodiaks.

  “He wants to buy them from me right now, before they take the Super Bowl title,” Daddy continues, organizing his plate. “He wants his name on that Championship, but I told him there’s not enough money in the world to make me sell before they finish the year. We’ll have our name on them when they win their first Super Bowl, Mila. That’s not nothing. It’s something to be proud of. For as long as I’ve owned them, they’ve been as much your team as they’ve been mine, but our time with the Kodiaks is over. When they leave for Las Vegas, they’ll be gone from our lives. All of them.” He looks at me heavily. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”