Broken Play

by Tracey Ward

  “When are you getting it removed?” he asks gently.

  “February fifth.”

  Coach Bailey chuckles sadly. “Super Bowl Sunday.”

  “It was the earliest he could get me in. I’m on meds to try to shrink the thing to make it easier to remove.”

  “Are you going to release a statement?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.” I frown at him. “Do you think I should?”

  “I think it’s up to you. But if it were me, I’d be honest about it. The truth, in this case, is better than the rumors.”

  “What are the rumors?”

  “That you’re a punk bitch with a sore back.”

  I laugh loosely. “That’s some cold shit.”

  “Get ahead of it. Get the truth out. You’ll get an outpouring of support instead of a whole lot of speculation.”

  “Alright, yeah. I’ll have Darren put something together.”

  “And on February sixth I’m going to come visit you at the hospital. I’m going to bring you two gifts, so you better pull through, you hear me?”

  “Yeah. I hear you.” I smile at him. “What are my gifts?”

  He grins proudly. “One will be a Super Bowl ring.”

  “I’ll take that.”

  “The other is a job offer.”

  I stop, stunned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you belong to football and if you’re going to be her bitch, you should do it with the Kodiaks. We could use you on the coaching staff.”

  “You want me to be your assistant?”

  “I want you to be the Assistant Wide Receiver Coach,” he specifies. “I know it doesn’t sound fancy and the pay will be shit compared to what you’re getting now, but it’s a real offer. I cleared it with Coach Allen, Paul, and Keith. All the way up the ladder. We want you to stay on board with the team for as long as you’re able.”

  I clear my throat. I try to speak but nothing comes out. I clear it again, chuckling at myself. “I, um… I’ll have to think about it. But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Think about calling your girl too.”

  “I might.”

  “Might. Maybe.” He looks at me meaningfully. “You’re stalling again, son. And don’t take this wrong, but you don’t have time to stall anymore. You need to make up your mind about what matters before it’s too late.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MILA

  February 4th

  La Cartonnerie

  Paris, France

  It’s nearly impossible to hear inside the dressing area. It’s filled with the cacophony of metal hangers scraping and clanging against metal rods, hair dryers blasting hot air in the already sweltering space, and men and women arguing excitedly over makeup, hairbrushes, and strips of pretty fabric. The lineup has already been set, and still some are wheeling and dealing, trying to snag the chance to wear a better dress. They’re fighting over who’s walking in the bigger coat or the sexier shoes. Normally, I’d be in there in the fray to make sure I secured my supremacy but tonight I hang back. I sit with a girl named Devon who’s barely seventeen years old and can’t stop talking long enough to drink her dinner through a lipstick stained straw.

  “I dated this guy last year,” she tells me with a sly smile. “He got me off like a video game.”

  I laugh, nearly destroying a thick, straight line of eyeliner. “What does that even mean?”

  “He did it like a cheat code. Like up-down-left-right-A-B – it’s something for the Nintendo. I don’t remember. But he said he came up with his own cheat code for the female orgasm. Nipple-nipple-clit-lips-nipple,” she winks at me, “ass-clit. I can’t remember the rest but he swore by it. He said if you did right, it got a girl off every time.”

  She sips her vitamin water in smug silence.

  I lower my hand, looking at her in the mirror impatiently. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Did it work?”

  Devon doesn’t answer. She just winks at me again.

  I shake my head, smiling.

  “Five minutes!” the stage manager nearly screams. “Cinq minutes! Funf minuten!”

  “Why is he shouting at us in German?” Devon complains.

  “Because he’s German.”

  “He is?”

  “His name is Friedrich.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  I shake my head, giving up. “I don’t know.”

  Devon smiles proudly like she made her point.

  I excuse myself to go to the bathroom but I take a seat at a mirror on the other side of the room instead. Next to me is a guy without a shirt in leather pants and a feathered belt. He looks up from his phone long enough to nod to me before getting back to his text. He doesn’t say a word.

  I love him.

  I don’t have a problem with Devon as a person. I just have a problem with people in general right now. It’s been three weeks since Tyus and I broke up but I’m still hurting from it. I don’t like to talk to people much. Everything reminds me of him and I’m trying really hard to do what Hollis told me to do – find my normal. I need to find things in my life that are completely without attachment to Tyus, and I need to do those things. It’s one of the reasons I’m here tonight. I didn’t want to come. I agreed at first, but when it came time to actually fly out here, Daddy practically had to push me onto the plane. But once I was on and we were pulling away from the gate, I sighed a little with relief. It was like I could feel the miles building between Tyus and I, and while I initially thought they would hurt, they became kind of a release from my depression. I never flew on a plane with Tyus. I never went to France with him. I never walked the Champs-Élysées or the halls of the Louvre with him. I never really did any of that sober either, and that made the experiences completely new for me. Fresh and untethered from my old life or my lost love, and yes, that was sad in a way, but it also felt good. For the last week I’ve done those things by myself, and while I’ve been alone, I’m not lonely. I’m okay.

  I’m going to be okay.

  It doesn’t mean I don’t still love him. It doesn’t mean I don’t ache for him almost daily, but it does mean that I’m learning to love myself too, and that’s not something I ever thought I could do. I never imagined I could look at myself in the mirror and see anything but a hot mess running roughshod through life, but I can. I do. While this new girl emerging is pretty blurry and there are still times when she’s very hot and very messy, I feel like I can put in the work to draw her out. I feel like it’s a start.

  How many fresh starts can a girl have, right? I’m working on number three at this point but I’m trying not to let my failures ruin my future. I learned something every time I fell down and it’s the fact that I keep getting up that defines my character, not the falls. I’ll fail again. I know I will. More than once and maybe worse than I already have. My greatest catastrophe might still be ahead of me, but I refuse to be afraid of it. I may not be fearless like I always thought, but I am powerful and the world should watch its ass, because I’m coming for it.

  “Your eyes are crooked.”

  I pause, glancing at the guy next to me in the mirror. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.” He puts his phone down, suddenly giving me his full attention. “The left one is bigger than the right one.”

  “Dammit.” I reach for a makeup wipe.

  He stops me with his hand on mine. “No. Don’t. You’ll lose all that eyeshadow.” He turns his hand to ask for the eyeliner. “Let me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Make the right eye look bigger so they match.”

  I give him the liner before turning to face him in my chair. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah.”

  I look straight ahead over the guy’s shoulder at a sequined dress in a terrible orange tone while he carefully draws a black line along my eyelid.

  “I like your chin,” he tells me, his eyes squinting with focus.

  “Thanks.”

  “Is
it natural?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t had anything done.”

  “Oo-la-la,” he sings sarcastically.

  I try not to laugh. If I do he could stab me in the eye on accident. “What about you? What have you had done?”

  “How do you know I’ve had anything done?”

  “Because you said ‘oo-la-la’ like jealous bitch when I said I hadn’t.”

  He grins. His teeth are perfect. So is his face. It’s almost too perfect…

  “My earlobes,” he admits.

  “Really?” My eyes dart to his ears. It’s hard to see them with his face this close. “I can’t tell.”

  “Then the money was worth it.”

  “They look good.”

  “Thank you. And now, so do you.”

  He hands me the liner pencil, falling back into his seat.

  I check myself in the mirror. My eyes look perfect. “Nice work.”

  “Yep,” he drones. His phone is already back in his hand.

  “It’s time, people! It’s time!” The stage director comes running through the dressing room with a wild look in his eyes. “It’s time!”

  “God, he needs to chill,” I mutter as I stand.

  The guy next to me snorts. “He’s on something.”

  “Well, he needs to get off it.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you lit?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “You wanna be?” The guy pulls a green bottle from his pocket. “I brought plenty to share with the class.”

  I look at him and his beautiful face and his beautiful body with a fist full of pretty little pills, and a part of me wants to say yes. There’s a piece of me that will never be able to look at a sight like this without thinking, ‘Fuck yeah, let’s do it! Let’s do all the drugs and then do the guy! Twice!’. It’s in my code to want that. I’m hardwired to feel wild, but there’s another part of me, a quieter part, that is softly and simply saying, “No.”

  The guy shrugs. “Whatever.”

  I leave him with his phone and his pill bottle to get lined up to take the stage. Other people fall in line behind me. The stage manager comes rushing by, frowns at us, switches us three times, and then leaves us in the exact same order we were originally in. Music is playing on the other side of the divider. It builds and builds until finally it stops all together and the announcement is made welcoming everyone to the unveiling of the spring line from Jeanne Ledoyen.

  A smattering of applause.

  A few anxious, puppy dog noises from the SD.

  Cue the music and the lights.

  And we’re walking.

  Outside the curtain is dark and bright at the same time. The house lights are down but the spotlights are glaring bright in my eyes. They burn like stars gone supernova. I can’t see anything beyond their glow. The world at the end of the runway is nothing. It’s black and imposing, leading on for miles. Eons. It feels like I’m walking out to the edge of the world, staring out into the cold, empty nothing of space that threatens to engulf me if I go too far. There are hundreds of eyes watching me but I’m alone. Wholly, completely, and utterly alone on this abandoned planet in these uncomfortable clothes that no human person should ever wear. And who knows. Maybe I’m not human. Maybe I’m an alien. Maybe that’s why I never feel right in the world. I always feel apart, separated by that veil that will never come down because it’s a part of me. It’s who I am.

  I am Mila. Woman. Daughter. Extra-terrestrial.

  It’s nice to meet you.

  When the last model has gone out and the final outfit has been viewed, the crowd stands to applaud. I can hear the thunder rumbling on the other side of the curtain. The houselights go up. The frantic stage manager waves us forward, one by one. We’ll make one last pass out onto the catwalk to soak up the applause and create a beautiful backdrop for Jeanne to stand in front of and take her bow. I’m a garnish at this point. A set piece designed to lay the scene, but I’m not the focus. I’m nameless. Faceless. I’m nobody.

  I’m never modeling again.

  The realization hits me out of nowhere, but it’s not a passing thought. It consumes my brain. It takes up every inch of space inside my mind in big, bold letters that are flashing red like an alarm.

  I’M NEVER MODELING AGAIN.

  This isn’t me. This isn’t what I want. I’m not the kind of girl who can stand silently by as someone else takes center stage. I’m a narcissist of the highest order and I demand attention. I want my words to be heard. I want them to matter. I want what I say and do to touch people with love and violence. I want to stir the pot, create conflict, and scream into the void at the top of my lungs that I AM HERE!

  You can’t do that if you’re a mannequin. That’s how I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this – this dress, this makeup, this hair, this passive-ass face – is not me. And while I may not know for sure yet who I am, it’s nice to know for sure who I’m not. That’s a start. It’s a jumping off point to discovering the truth about myself, and I’m ready to take that leap for real this time. No safety nets. No golden parachute on my back.

  I’m ready to make my life matter. To me.

  I stride with true confidence through the curtain and out onto the stage. The room is small in the light. There are so many bodies, so many faces. It feels much tighter in reality than it did in my imagination filled with asteroid belts and black holes that reached beyond infinity.

  Walking the catwalk, I look straight ahead. Never down. I have to keep my chin high and my eyes away from contact with anyone in the audience. Looking at the people makes you real when you’re supposed to be inaccessible and mysteriously aloof. It’s all part of the act, one I play to a T because this is my curtain call. This is my final performance. It’s the end and the beginning, and it is terrifyingly exhilarating. I feel strong and alive for the first time since I lost—

  “Tyus,” I whisper breathlessly.

  He’s standing at the end of the runway. Everyone around him claps with fliers in their hands, the white paper fluttering like the wings of a hundred excited doves, but inside the chaos he stands perfectly still. His hands are in his pockets. His eyes are locked on mine. His lips are full and smiling.

  I run for him. I don’t think, I don’t plan, and I definitely don’t ask questions. I brutally shove my way past the four models ahead of me, nearly knocking one off the walk, and then I’m launching myself off the end. I make that leap. I do it based on blind trust, and I’m terrified as I fall.

  Tyus catches me easily. My body lands in the open nest of his arms, and it feels like home when he holds me. He cocoons me in the strength of his embrace while I laugh and cry against his chest that rumbles with amusement. With joy.

  “You caught me,” I chuckle shakily.

  He squeezes me harder, reminding me how powerful he is. “You know I got you, baby girl. Always.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

  Tyus kisses the top of my head gently. “No, Mila, I’m sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be.” I lean back to look up at him and his face is so perfectly beautiful, it takes my breath away. “You were right. What I did was so wrong. I went behind your back just like I did with Daddy because I think I know better, but I don’t. It’s fucked up and it’s going to stop. I swear. I’ll never do anything like that again.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  I laugh incredulously. “No. You’re not.”

  “Yeah.” He runs his knuckles lovingly down the side of my face. “I am. You saved my life, Mila.”

  “You got the MRI? Did you get cleared” I ask excitedly. But my excitement immediately turns to shock. “Tomorrow is the Super Bowl! You can’t be here! Why are you here?”

  Tyus frowns. “Didn’t you read my statement to the press?”

  “I’ve been in Paris for the last week. I deleted the ESPN app off my phone. I was taking a break because I couldn’t stand to s
ee or hear anything about you.” My lower lip quivers. “I couldn’t live with the fact that I lost you.”

  His face falls. His hand takes hold of my head at the base of my neck, pulling me toward him. He kisses me soft and slow, like he’s memorizing the moment. Like he wants to remember the way I feel.

  The incredibly sweet gesture scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

  His voice is strained when he tells me deeply, “We need to talk.”

  ***

  “A brain tumor?” I ask shakily.

  Tyus nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

  “And a real doctor found it? Not your fake one?”

  “No. This was a real doctor Coach Allen recommended. They did a second scan to be sure, but it’s there. It’s very real.”

  I shake my head helplessly. The hotel room is dark and cool; the window open to the let the frosty evening air in. Tyus has a headache. They’re getting more frequent, he told me. Nearly constant. And now we know why. He has a fucking tumor on his brain.

  I hurried to change at the show, throwing Jeanne’s clothes carelessly at the stage director as he cursed me in French and German simultaneously. He sent some old world, apocalyptic shit my way, I’m sure, but I didn’t care. Tyus was waiting for me. That’s all that mattered. He came back to my hotel with me. He sat me down on the bed, taking a seat facing me on the other one, and then he told me the truth.

  The agonizing, gut-wrenching truth. And now I know it and I can’t un-know it and it’s so real it feels like daggers in my heart.

  I bury my face in my hands, trying to breathe. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  I drop my hands. “How are you so calm? I am freaking out!”

  “I freaked out at first too, but I’ve had time to deal with it.”

  “So, what happens now? How do we kill it? Are they going to do surgery or chemo? Is it cancerous? How many types of tumors are there? Do we know what it is or do they have to biopsy it or some shit?”

  Tyus smiles warmly. He reaches across the small space between us to take my hand. “Slow down.”

  “I don’t go slow. You know that. What is happening? I need to know what happens next or I’m going to pass out.”