by Lilly Wilde
Doc Blake extends a stack of pamphlets to me. “But here are a few brochures if you decide to go that route.”
“But I don’t want to leave Blue Ridge. All my friends are here,” Jace says, his eyes darting from me to Jimmy.
“You’re always saying you want more time with me. This way you’ll have it,” I say, knowing this won’t be an easy sell. “You’ll get a front seat to most of my games. Right there on the sidelines. How many kids get to do that?”
“But if I go with you, I won’t have Mama and I won’t have my friends. Why can’t I have all three?” he asks, his eyes sad as he leaves the room.
“Jace,” I call after him, but he doesn’t break stride as he pushes out of the front door. “Jace!”
“Let the boy go, Branch,” Jimmy says.
“He can’t stay here. You know that.”
“Looks like you have some decisions to make.”
“What do you mean?”
“The kid feels like he’s losing his mom. His dad is hit or miss. You’re in and out of his life long enough to toss a football around with him for a day or two, and then you’re gone. He has no idea what stability looks like. Do you honestly want him to grow up that way?”
Before I reply, Loretta calls Jimmy to grab something from a shelf in the kitchen. I go to the front door and look out to see Jace sitting on the step, his head bowed as he looks down at his feet. It reminds me of a day when I was that young boy, sitting on the porch waiting on Dad. A day he never showed up. A day that faded into night.
I can’t do the same thing to my brother. Jimmy’s right. I can’t leave Jace here and I can’t force him from the only stability he knows. And then there’s Mama. Who knows what condition she’ll fall into without Jace?
Knowing the right thing and doing the right thing, well, that’s a difficult choice. The part of me that knows I need to protect Jace is screaming at me to grab him as fast as I can and get him the fuck away from here. And the part of me that knows taking him is the wrong choice, fires a pang of guilt that furrows through my gut. To take him away from his home is cruel. To leave him behind is even crueler. It’s misery. And he’ll drown in it if he stays here with only Mama at his side.
My decision vacillates from one option to the other, neither compelling enough to force my hand. And then there’s my professional obligation. It, too, is somehow left undecided. The Broncos game is tomorrow and I know it will be a next-to-impossible win if I don’t play. That’s one thing I can easily settle—I’m heading back to Dallas. I’ll sort out the family dramatics afterward.
I draw up the plans in my head as I take the short trip back to the hospital. Jace will stay with Jimmy and Loretta for a couple of days. I’ll play the game, take care of the shit I know I’ll have to deal with from Coach and Vaughn, then it’s back to Georgia to bring Mama home from the hospital. And then and only then, will I make the tougher decisions I need to make.
I cross the room as Mama looks up, a smile spreading across her lips. She’s happy to see me. I know that’s about to change.
“There’s my boy,” she says. “I was just talking to one of the nurses about you.”
“Really? Which nurse?”
“It wasn’t that Christina, if that’s what you’re thinking. Praise heavens. I don’t like that one. And I don’t like the way she puts herself on display for you. Her breasts hanging over the top of her uniform. And those tight pants. I don’t see how she bends over, but somehow she manages to do it just fine when you’re around. Don’t think I didn’t notice.” She shakes a finger at me. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you noticing her. You were never one to keep your pants zipped, but for Christ’s sake, don’t whip out Little Branch for that one.”
Relieved to see that she’s Mama, I can’t help but laugh at her. “So what did the nurse that you do like say about me?”
“She knows everything there is to know about your life in the NFL.” She beams. “No surprise there. So I told her about your childhood shenanigans. They made her smile. Made me smile, too.”
“Tell her I said thanks for taking such good care of my favorite girl.”
“I will.” She blushes and moves her hand over her hair, recovering the loose strands that play about her face. “Oh, can you autograph that for her?” she asks, pointing to the gray jersey on the bed table.
I grab the marker and pull off the cap. “What’s her name?”
“It’s Deidra. And she’s just the sweetest thing. If you ever hire a nurse for me again, I want her. Not that trashy Christina.”
I sign the jersey and turn back to Mama.
“I’m so proud of you, Branch.”
“Thanks, Mama.” I tuck the loose strands of hair she missed behind her ear. “How are you feeling?”
“More like myself every day.”
“Good.” I sit down beside her on the bed. “I’m about to head out of town for a game.”
Her face falls. “You’re leaving?”
“You knew I wasn’t planning on staying for good.”
“Just like your daddy, Branch,” she says, flicking the switch in the bat of an eye. “You’re gonna leave me to fend for myself.”
“Mama, why do you say stuff like that?”
“Because it’s the truth,” she says and swats my hand away. “Aren’t you the one always going on and on about how I need to accept the truth? Well, that’s what I’m doing.”
“No. What you’re doing is the same thing you did to run Dad away.” The words come out before I even realize it.
Her eyes widen. “Is that what you think? That I’m the reason your daddy left us and took up with that woman?”
“Mama—”
“Have you been talking to him, Branch? About me? I’ve told you for years to stay away from that man!”
With each word, her volume crawls louder and if I stay and try to make her see reason, it will only get worse, so I stand to leave, stepping away from her. “I can’t do this with you. Jimmy is outside waiting.”
“What about your brother? What about Jace? Are you gonna leave him behind with your crazy mama? Isn’t that what Curtis said? That I was crazy? Did he tell you he made me this way?”
“Mama, you need to calm down,” I say, my voice low, hoping to soothe her emotional outburst.
“Go. Just go.” She waves me off. “Your brother and I will be just fine.”
I look down at her. The tears streaming down her cheeks twist my gut into knots. I’ve got to get away from this. From her. “Bye, Mama.”
I don’t hug her this time. She won’t accept it, and I don’t feel like being that son who gives one simply to give it. Instead, I leave.
After providing additional contact information to the nurses, I head downstairs to Jimmy, who’s waiting outside, and hop into his car.
He takes in my expression. “Are you gonna be all right?”
I shake my head on an exhale. “Just get me out of here.”
July 4, 2016
I STAND IN FRONT OF the floor-length mirror in the silence of disbelief. They fit. They honest-to-goodness fit. The size-five denim shorts I grabbed by mistake from last year’s Old Navy end-of-summer sale. After months of trying to conceal what pregnancy left behind, my figure has made its long-awaited reappearance. I never thought anything positive would result from a low immune system, but my recent illness pulled at my extra weight and ran off with it. It took a while for my appetite to return to normal, but when it did, I was so used to eating smaller portions that I kept at it. Little by little, more pounds disappeared.
“Hurry up, Ragan. They’re cranking up the grill,” Ethan yells from downstairs.
With a confident smile, I turn away from my reflection to start our holiday. The fourth of July with Ethan’s family. Grilling, music, and the pool. “I’m coming. Let me grab CeeCee’s bag.”
A nervous buoyancy follows me down the stairs and into the living room. Ethan is scrolling through his phone when he looks up and sees me in the doorway. Butterflies move ove
r my stomach as I await his reaction to the new me, but my heart sinks when I see the scowl forming on his face.
“You’re not wearing those,” he says matter-of-factly, his gaze pinned to my shorts. “You need to change.”
I look down at the recycled denim. “Why? I thought you’d like this.” I pirouette with a smile. “See. I’ve lost weight.”
“Turn around again,” he says. “And bend over.”
Although confused, I do as he asks.
“That’s why. Those are too fucking short and you know it. Go change.”
Is he kidding me? He doesn’t acknowledge my weight loss, and he says nothing about my appearance. I’m also wearing lip gloss and eyeliner. And I never wear makeup. “I happen to like the way these look and I’m wearing them.”
He looks up from his phone again, obviously surprised by my refusal.
“And I said, you’re not.”
“I’m not going to let you dress me, Ethan.”
“If you think I’m letting you walk out of this house looking like that, you’ve lost your fucking mind.”
“Why are you being so freaking mean? And looking like what? It’s summer. These are shorts. I’m not changing.”
He shoves his phone into his pocket. “You sure as fuck will change,” he yells. His six-foot-two-inch frame reaches me in three long strides and he pushes me toward the stairs.
“Stop it.” My tone is low, not wanting our daughter to hear us.
“What the fuck are you trying to prove? Get your ass upstairs and put on some decent clothes so we can go.”
His fingers are at my waist pinching and twisting my skin as he forces me to our bedroom. The years of abuse I’ve fought like hell to bury suddenly resurface and I’m terrified. And for a moment, I revert to the child who was unable to defend herself—trembling, vulnerable, and confused. “You’re hurting me. Stop it, Ethan.”
“You’ve lost a little weight. Now you think you’re gonna show your ass to anyone who wants to see?” He rubs his fingers roughly over my mouth, smearing my lip gloss. “So you think you’re beautiful now?”
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you doing this?” I move to get away from him, but he holds me in place while aggressively pulling at my shorts.
“Ethan, stop it,” I scream. “Get away from me.”
“I’ll get away from you when I’m good and damn ready,” he snarls, slamming my body into the bedroom wall and landing a solid blow to my stomach.
Air rushes from my lungs and I keel over, my forearm cradling my abdomen. Not allowing me the chance to recover, Ethan’s arm curls around my midsection, lifting me and hurling me onto the bed, his frame covering mine.
I gather all my strength and try pushing him away. “Fucking stop!”
But he doesn’t. He slaps me hard across the face and fists my hair, his other hand at my throat.
“Your body is for my eyes only, and you fucking know it!”
His grip on my throat tightens, cutting my breath. My legs rustle beneath him. “Please don’t do this.” Tears flood my eyes, thick and heavy, spilling down my cheeks in endless streams. “You promised you’d never do this. You promised!”
His weight presses into my thighs and I can’t move. I’m no match for his strength, yet I manage to free my hand and drive a fist into his chest. He returns my blow with several of his own. My first instinct is to curl into a ball and take the abuse, same as I did when I was a kid, but then I hear Cecelia cry out. And that’s what saves me. The cries of our daughter stop her father from beating me to a bloody pulp.
Ethan’s fist is midair as he turns away and catches sight of CeeCee. Alarmed that he’s been caught, he jumps off me and rushes from the room.
I sit up a little too fast, lose my balance, and fall from the bed. Cecelia is still standing in the doorway, tears streaking her cheeks. I gather myself from the floor, wiping away the blood that I know is scaring my daughter. I pull her into my arms and rock her back and forth to quiet her screams. To take away her fear. To remove the image of her mommy and daddy fighting. I rock and rock. And silently, I weep, holding my baby girl against my chest, afraid to move from this spot, and knowing I’ve reached the end of my story with the man I foolishly believed was my knight in shining armor.
January 14, 2017
FUCK.
Another sack and the quarter has barely started.
Get your head in the game, McGuire.
It’s still raining. Doesn’t appear it will let up anytime soon, either. But that’s not the problem. I’ve played in rain before. The problem is the person the Redhorns are relying on. The problem is me.
The team is an array of confusion and frustration. The coach is spitting expletives up and down the sidelines, and the stands are a mass of expectant red and gray ponchos. And me, well something inexplicably fucked is going on. Something that never happens to a player of my caliber. Something I can’t seem to shake.
Just as quickly as the players break formation, they are covered in a sea of midnight green and black—the Eagles defense isn’t giving an inch. I take a few steps back looking for Tucker. He breaks free and I send the ball sailing toward him. A throw I typically make with my eyes closed lands on the sidelines.
Shit.
The disappointment of the crowd echoes across the field, but I manage to tune it the fuck out and step out of the huddle for the next call.
Fourth down.
With less yardage and more pressure to make a play, an unfamiliar tension tightens around my eyes. If I don’t get my shit together, no way will we make it through this round.
I line up on the center and call the play. Bosa snaps the ball. Dropping back, I look left, pump fake, and roll to my right. I tuck the ball and run through the line, shove a defender, and look down the field. Tucker is wide open. I lift the ball and prepare for the throw, but my eyes glaze over and a vision of Jace clouds my view. He’s staring up at me… wanting, needing, expecting. I blink, attempting to regain my focus, but it doesn’t come. This time, Jace is sitting slumped over Jimmy’s steps, waiting, confused, desolate. I push the images back, clearing my head, and prepare to release the ball. I cock back and wham.
I’m down again.
And not by one or two players—it’s more than what’s necessary. Typically the opposition never has a chance to even grasp the tail of my jersey, let alone take me down, but they’ve spotted an opening tonight and they’re seizing every opportunity to eliminate the greatest threat.
“Watch it, Anderson,” I warn the Eagles defender.
“What’s the problem, McGuire?” he sneers. “Can’t stand the heat? Thought you were The Man on Fire.”
I make a play for him, but Tucker grabs me, pulling me back.
Anderson smirks and walks off, his teammates guffawing and slapping him across the back.
End of the third quarter.
I look at the clock as I make my way to the sidelines. Down by two touchdowns.
“You all right, Branch?” the water boy asks, lifting the bottle to my lips and squeezing the liquid into my mouth. I spit it out and pace the line, the coach in my face demanding answers.
After the first few words of his would-be reprimand, I tell him to fuck off or sideline me. And I fucking mean it, I won’t take his reproach on top of everything else.
The players throw me looks. Some curious. Some angry. But my don’t-even-fucking-try-me scowl easily redirects their attention.
In less time than I’d like, we return to the field. My focus remains diverted throughout the better part of the game, but somehow toward the end, I manage to pull my head out of my ass long enough to barely get the win. By two fucking points.
In the span of seconds, my teammates shift from what-the-fuck-is-going-on to celebrating, popping and spraying bottles of Cristal, and giving me congratulatory slaps on the back. Something for the first time I know is unwarranted.
True to form, newscasters push their way through the crowd, hoping for the first response f
rom The Man on Fire.
Microphones are shoved in my face. Cameras flash. Questions asked.
“Branch, was the strategy to give the Eagles a false sense of hope so they could lower their defense?”
I cast my eyes forward, my response stuck in the back of my throat.
“Was Coach Fobbs bothered by what appeared to be a total disregard for his plans tonight?” asks a different reporter.
Then comes question after question, the press firing them off in rapid succession. I push past them all and head to the lockers, something I’ve never done without my time in the limelight. Vaughn won’t like it and I know he’ll be right behind me. And before I finish the thought, he’s hot on my tail.
“What the hell was that, Branch?” he demands, already pacing the floor.
“It was a win. We made it through another round of the playoffs, V,” I flare off. “Or did you miss that?”
His brows draw together, sizing me up. “Come on. We’re not going to play this game, are we? You know it’s never just about the win for you. It’s about showcasing your talent. But you haven’t been the same since you went off the grid last week. Anything I should know?”
“Like what?” I’m not in the frame of mind for this bullshit and if he doesn’t drop the inquisition, he’s going to see a side of me he doesn’t know exists.
“Did something happen in Georgia? Has one of those girls finally fucked with your head?”
I grimace. “Hell no. You know that will never fucking happen.”
“Then what is it?” he asks, not letting up on his interrogation.
“It’s nothing. Just a little off. It happens.”
“Not to you.”
I toss my helmet to the floor. “Drop it, Vaughn. This isn’t the time.” But he’s right. Even on my worst day, it never happens to me. I’m never off.
“Look, you’re in a position to up that two-hundred-fifty million. And I’m working my ass off for those two new endorsements we discussed last week. Branch McGuire… The Man on Fire. That’s what they’re lining up for. If there’s even the slightest chance you can’t perform at the top of your—”
