by Lilly Wilde
“I got it. I’m good. Your three percent is safe, all right?”
He squints, tilting his head. “Now I know something’s up. We’ve never gone there. In all the years I’ve represented you.”
“It’s family shit. Stuff I need to deal with,” I finally spit out.
Understanding and sympathy cross his features. “Your mother again?”
I drop to the bench, leaning forward, my elbows propped on my knees. “Yeah.”
“I see. It’s never affected you like this on the field before though.”
“I know.”
“What’s different? Has she regressed?”
“She’s never been like this. I mean, she’s been doing wild shit for as long as I can remember, but she was somewhat stable. But now, it’s… I’ve not seen her like this in years. And my kid brother…”
“Jace? Is he okay?” Relaxing his stance, Vaughn joins me on the bench.
“I thought so. Not so sure anymore. And today… every time I looked down the field, I saw him. Looking up at me. Expecting me to—hell, I don’t know. Fix some shit that can’t ever be fixed.”
Vaughn is quiet. Processing. Thinking. And then he finally asks, “Think you need to spend some time with Doc Pattington?”
“The team shrink? Nah.” Why the hell is he suggesting that?
“Then what are you planning to do? Obviously this is something you need to take care of.”
Noise rumbles through the locker room as the players grow closer. I toss Vaughn a look, signaling he should table this discussion.
“I get the feeling this won’t be one of your party nights.”
I shake my head. “Nah.”
“Didn’t think so. I’ll meet you at your place within the hour.”
“Hey, McGuire. Is your agent giving you plays now so you can up your price?” Tucker throws out with a chuckle.
“Fuck off, Lance.”
“Dude, I’m not knocking you. It was risky. But good thing you knew I was a sure thing, baby.”
“Is that what you call it? The only sure thing on this team is yours truly.”
“One hour, Branch.” And with that, Vaughn takes his leave from the impending hysteria.
Vaughn paces alongside the wall of windows that serve as my barrier to the outside world. I sit back in the large leather chair—bare-chested, bare feet, gym shorts, and beer in hand—watching as he goes back and forth, scrubbing a hand across his jaw, running his fingers through his hair, and occasionally mumbling to himself. He finally turns to meet my eyes. “As I see it, playing you and upsetting the status quo isn’t the way we want to handle this. If everything works in our favor, we’ll have five games left. I’m going to be honest here. I don’t think you should play.”
My grip tightens around the bottle. “What the fuck?”
“Hear me out,” he says and takes a seat across from me. “You’ve been playing for years, Branch, and never has anyone questioned your performance. Never have you faltered. It’d be entirely different if this was something that happened from time to time. But it has never happened. That leads me to believe you can’t put your personal life aside for the professional at this point.”
“Vaughn, no one is fucking perfect.”
“But that’s what you’ve shown the league. Over and over again. Are you honestly fine with tonight? With the distinct possibility it can happen again?”
I take a long swig of my beer. “It won’t.”
“I’m honestly fine either way. But this is not the Branch McGuire you’ve asked me to sell. This is not the Branch McGuire you’ve wanted me to accept, so why would you?”
“You don’t get it, do you? I have some serious shit going on.”
“I realize that and I respect that. So take some time and take care of it. What if you sit out the rest of the season, give you some time to get your house in order, so to speak. That way, we won’t risk your standing. Your stats are good, Branch. Too fucking good. They’re unheard of. But your completion percentage dropped tonight. Too many more games like this one and it’s all over.”
“Are you not hearing me? I said I won’t let that happen.”
“After tonight, can you guarantee me that?”
“Come on, Vaughn. No one but me could have brought a game like that to victory.”
“You get no arguments from me there. What you did was nothing short of miraculous, and the comeback may have even tipped the scales in your favor, but you and I both know you were off your game. And I’m betting we weren’t the only ones who noticed.”
“Percy?” I ask, referring to the team owner.
“Yes.”
I’ve never sat out. Not once in all the years I’ve played. Playing is to me what therapy is for Mama. It cures what ails me. It makes me invincible. And it clears my mind of all the garbage that riddled my youth. Playing has become a necessary outlet. It’s my fuel. And I don’t know how I’ll cope without it.
“I’m sure you noticed… and felt the impact,” he says, his eyes darting to the bruise on my shoulder. “But the lack of focus placed a target on your back. What if you’d been hurt? A player with an injury on record loses marketability. Better you bow out for a while, regain focus so you’re at the top of your game when you return.”
The validity of Vaughn’s argument pushes me to reconsider. “Let me think about it.”
“While you’re mulling it over, think about this. There’s another endorsement on the table. One I haven’t mentioned.”
I lean forward, curious as to why he’s kept this to himself and anxious to know the reason for the Cheshire cat smile. “Who is it?”
“Raine Industries.”
My brows furrow as I try to place the name.
“You’ve heard of multibillionaire Aiden Raine, right? Well, his company has their hands in a little bit of everything. And I mean everything. I’ve done the research, and whatever they touch turns to gold. Make that platinum. Well, they’ve recently acquired the top footwear, sports, and casual apparel manufacturer in the country, and they’re doing a massive overhaul. New branding, spokesperson, the whole gamut. And they want the best. Which means you. They want you in front of this.”
“Are you shitting me?”
Vaughn’s brow arches. “Do I ever kid around about your money?”
“Fucking hell. This could be huge.”
“This will be huge. So huge in fact that Raine’s not sending his people. He’s coming himself. That’s how big this is. He and his wife are headed out of the country and want to drop in for a face-to-face. We’ll have lawyers on standby to finalize the details if all goes according to plan. Any exposure for you in this capacity is money in the bank for Percy. If we get this signed, sealed, and delivered before the next playoff game, it will go a long way to coax him over to our side.”
I nod, my anticipation already growing. “And I highly doubt he’ll say no when such a heavy hitter is in the picture.”
“Exactly.” Vaughn stands to leave. “Twenty-four hours. That’s all we’ve got to get in front of this. So think it over, and if you agree with my approach, I’ll come up with a way to sell this to Percy. If they make it past the playoffs without you, you’re going to have to play the Super Bowl. No way will he be on board with you skipping that unless you’re dead. Besides, that’s your winning ticket. We need you in that one. But I’m pretty sure that with the right spin, we can sideline you for the other four. Maybe get you to commentate or do some spotlights. I’ll figure out something.” His gaze falls to my arm again. “And ice that shoulder.”
The familiar ding of an ESPN alert has me moving toward my phone. Branch McGuire. How long will he remain The Man on Fire? I scan the article and a stream of obscenities crosses my lips. I’m not accustomed to derogatory statements paired alongside my name. I close the app and press the speed dial for Vaughn.
That one article alone is enough to force my decision. Last night could have very easily gone the other way. Luck may have been on my side, bu
t I preferred my skill to any fucking luck. Like Vaughn said, more games like last night and it’s all over. Not my football career, but my ranking. And I won’t risk something I’ve busted my ass to achieve. I finish the call with Vaughn, deciding to meet over lunch to discuss a game plan.
The next day, I’m on a plane headed back to Blue Ridge, my spirits low as I get in the headspace to deal with Mama. As the plane makes its ascent, I decide it’s also time to face Curtis McGuire. Jace doesn’t want to leave Blue Ridge and I sure as hell don’t want to make it my home again. So it’s time to determine if the man I’d held out hope for is ready to be the father to my brother that he wasn’t to me.
January 3, 2017
AFTER SIX MONTHS OF LIVING with Hayley and her parents and with zero financial support from Ethan, my pride gets the better of me. I can’t continue to live as a freeloader despite their insistence to the contrary. My bank account has dwindled to nothing, leaving me unable to pay for personal expenses, let alone chip in for my part of the food. And to make matters worse, last Friday was my last day working for Dr. Koscner.
The problem with being the product of a crack addict—well, one of the many problems—is a high susceptibility to illness, a trait I passed along to my baby girl Cecelia. So through a cycle of my being out sick from my job or CeeCee being home sick from day care, I’ve missed work more than my employer can accommodate, which leaves me jobless and almost penniless.
Circumstances may have left me short on pride, but since there is still some left, I take it and my baby girl and leave the Millers. If anyone owes me anything in this world, it’s Dad. So that’s where I end up. On his doorstep. Literally down to my last dime, I find myself standing in front of a door that once camouflaged the hurt and dysfunction of those who should have been a family but never were. I lift an unsteady finger to the doorbell, and my belly clenches as I fight back the sudden wave of nausea.
Over the past eight years, my relationship with Dad has been nonexistent. And Ethan would become incensed at the mere mention of Dad or his attempts to reach out, claiming he wasn’t a father when I needed one, so to hell with him now. The part of me that went along with everything Ethan wanted agreed without question. But the part of me that wanted some type of connection with the man whose blood runs through my veins disagreed. Yet I never voiced it aloud. I kept quiet and pretended we were of the same accord. And in doing so, I think I even convinced myself that I was in complete agreement about Dad. I mean, he’d never been a father to me in any sense of the word, so why pretend to be something we weren’t? And to be frank, I felt stupid for wanting anything to do with a man who leveraged my childhood, my safety, and my overall well-being as a means to satisfy his own selfishness.
I squeeze CeeCee’s little hand, and on a shaky exhale, I push the button. Two deep breaths later, David Prescott opens the door.
I didn’t bother calling. CeeCee and I just showed up, bags in hand. So the surprised expression that marks Dad’s features is expected. Ignoring his shock, I don’t mince words. I get to the point, telling him we need a place to stay until I get on my feet. I know he and his she-devil of a wife have divorced; otherwise, I would have swallowed all of my pride and stayed a little longer at Hayley’s.
While Dad registers his disbelief, I take a moment to survey him. He looks the same but different. As if he’s aged twenty years instead of eight. He still has a full head of hair—straggly, salt and pepper, and long overdue for a haircut. A shave would do him some good, too. His brown eyes are sad, but light up as they fall on my daughter. And when he looks back to me, an unexpected smile spreads over his lips.
He invites us in, and amid the further bouts of shock and unfamiliarity, he appears genuinely happy to see us. Maybe because he has no one else. Maybe because he views this as an opportunity to fix what he allowed to break. Or maybe it’s because of CeeCee.
And then there’s my reaction to him. My heart squeezes a margin, enough to stir emotions I can’t quite put a finger on. Maybe, just maybe, a pea-sized part of my being, a part buried deep, deep inside of me is happy to see him, too. But I shouldn’t be. I should hate this man as much as I hate Cassidy. I know it. And I suspect he knows it, too.
This is Dad’s first encounter with his granddaughter, so he takes some time with her. Asking her name, making her laugh, and getting better acquainted.
Awhile later, he shows us to my former bedroom. I take in the small space that has barely changed over the years. And as my eyes scan the room, the memories of my first whipping from Cassidy suddenly flood my thoughts.
“Go to your room,” she orders.
“Why? What did I do?”
“Don’t talk back.”
“I just want to know what—”
She points a finger at me. “I will not say it again.”
I look toward Dad.
“Listen to your mother, Ragan,” he says.
“She’s not my mother,” I yell.
“Ragan, go to your room,” he repeats, impatience filling his tone.
I storm off down the hall, slamming the bedroom door once I’m inside. Moments later, the door swings open and in steps Cassidy.
“I will not put up with your disrespect. Do you understand?”
“I do the same as your kids, but they never get in trouble,” I try to explain, not understanding the difference between my behavior and that of my stepsiblings.
“They do not talk back. They do not yell and slam doors. They do not break things and lie about it. It’s you. It’s always you. But that stops today.” She closes the door, grabs one of the belts hanging from a hook on the wall, and moves toward me.
The malevolence of her expression pushes me farther into the room. She meets me, step for step, until I’m nudged between her and the bed.
“I’m sorry. I won’t be bad anymore,” I whisper as a tear slides down my cheek.
Ignoring my apology, she shoves me onto the bed. I scramble to get away from her, but how can a seven-year-old overthrow the strength of a violence-induced adult?
She pulls at my pants, tugging them down until my bottom is exposed and then the belt meets my skin.
Still scrambling to get away, a loud shrill sound escapes my throat.
She pins me down, trapping me beneath her.
Another tear across my skin.
I scream for Dad, but he doesn’t come. My yelps increase in volume, so she pushes my head into the mattress, muting my cries as slash after slash of the belt meets my backside, the bites like nails into my flesh. She continues until all my fight is gone. Until my body is limp. Until she is out of breath. And then finally, she stops, drops the belt on the floor, and walks out.
The next day I awaken in bed. It’s bloodstained. I’m sore. I’m embarrassed. I don’t understand what I did wrong, and I start to cry again.
I’d been in my room all night. Had gone to bed without dinner. No one seemed to care. And no one checked on me.
As I sit up, the door opens and Cassidy steps inside. I’m frightened. Too frightened to move. Too frightened to speak. She doesn’t say anything either.
She strolls across the room to the bed, assesses my bruises and realizes damage control is in order. “You know, I was thinking, with a little makeup, you’ll look like a little princess. Get cleaned up and I’ll be right back.”
She sounded weird. Nice. And she is never nice. At least not to me.
When she returns, I’m dressed and standing in front of the mirror. Staring at the dark bruise around my eye, Cassidy sits me down and makes a game of applying makeup to hide the marks on my face. She even gives me tips on how to reapply concealer if I happen to rub it off by mistake. I’m seven years old and I’m wearing makeup. Not to make me look like a princess, but to cover the bad she’s whipped into me.
Nothing was the same after that. I was always on high alert. Always waiting for the next beating and flinching every time she approached me. I even find myself doing it now when someone gets too close.
&
nbsp; I shake off that memory, but more follow. Recalling every corner I’d run to. Every position Cassidy forced me into. Flashes of the many times I lay naked across that bed as she beat the shit out of me. It all crashes into my mind. My stomach churns, and I take deep breaths to hold back the vomit. But I can’t turn my mind off. It retrieves the onslaught of the pain, the hurt, and the fear. It stabs my insides like a knife, ripping me apart.
I stand frozen in place and think over the shattered beginnings of my life. I was born to a drug addict mother who abandoned me at age four. I was left with a dad who saddled up with the most horrible woman to have ever walked the planet. I was abused since the age of seven and terrified into keeping secrets. I was convinced Cassidy would kill me or send me someplace far worse if I ever told. So I grew up with no sense of feeling protected from my parents. And this is where it all happened. In this house. In this room.
I tell Dad I can’t stay in a space that was nothing less than a childhood torture chamber. CeeCee and I take Noah’s former room instead. Although it holds sad memories as well, they’re more tolerable. I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder where Noah is. How he’s doing. If he’s finally happy.
After being forced from my home, I had no way to check on Noah other than going to his school. But when Cassidy found out, she intervened and warned me to stay away if I wanted to keep him safe. Noah was three years my junior, but he was small for his age—very frail and timid. So hoping to protect him, I did as she said. I stayed away.
After a few months of no contact with Noah, I received a Facebook message declaring he was running away. I hurriedly sent a reply, but I was too late. The account had been deactivated. Half out of my mind, I went to the school demanding answers, but they knew nothing. I even stormed into Dad’s house and he was as clueless and unconcerned as always. He made no attempt to even look for his son, saying that if Noah didn’t appreciate the roof he placed over his head, he was welcome to stay elsewhere. I went to the police, filed a report, but there were never any leads. They even questioned Cassidy and Dad, who both, of course, left out any mention of the truth behind Noah’s disappearance.
