The Keeper

by Jillian Liota

  I nod again with a smile, then turn to jog over to where my teammates are meeting as a group.

  Its time for a little fun.

  * * * * *

  After we divide into co-ed teams, we get started. Playing soccer with the guys is one of my favorite parts of playing soccer in general. It reminds me of playing football in high school. The camaraderie is just different. More relaxed and playful. A little more rough and tumble.

  Jeremy used to brag about me to the guys on his team when I was a freshman. How I wasn’t fragile and could take anything that came my way. That mentality has stayed with the guys’ team over the years, because damn do they come at me full force.

  It’s thrilling though. To take the risk of charging out from the goal and be able to grab a ball when it is just inches away from your opponent’s feet. The rush of meeting another player’s eyes as you both power towards the same object, both so sure that you’ll be the first to make it, is like nothing else. However, there’s also the risk of getting a foot to the face, a cleat in the hand or other body part, the ball kicked into your nose.

  Which is how I find myself flat on my back, clutching my side, attempting to recover from having the wind knocked out of me.

  “Holy shit, RJ! I’m so sorry!”

  I can hear Will’s voice, but my eyes are clamped shut as I hold my hand against my abdomen. I hear someone drop to the ground next to me.

  “Are you okay?”

  I want to respond but I’m taking large gasps, trying to bring in enough air.

  “Is this the only place it hurts?”

  Tender hands take hold of mine and remove them from my side, touching lightly over my clothes. I grunt in pain when the wounded area is poked a little to hard.

  “Don’t touch that spot again,” I say, finally opening my eyes and finding Thomas on his knees next to me. I try to hike up onto my elbows to see, but pain radiates through me and I remain flat on the ground.

  “Such a tough one,” Thomas jokes, smiling as he pushes my sweaty hair out of my face. “You know, you can acknowledge the pain and no one will judge you for it.” I give him a playful roll of my eyes.

  “Rachel, you okay?” I look quickly away from Thomas towards Mack, who is now standing next to us but slightly behind me. I’m unsure how long he has been standing there. His mouth is in a thin line again, but I don’t think it’s out of concern for me. When I find his eyes, I realize they are trained on Thomas’ hands, which are resting on my stomach and my thigh.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thomas was just…”

  “Well if you’re fine, get up and we’ll keep going. Please don’t waste time laying around on the ground. This isn’t the pros, and I don’t accept dramatic, overinflated pretend injuries.”

  His tone is clipped, a clear demonstration that Mack doesn’t know how to accept our circumstances without blowing everything out of proportion. He turns quickly and walks back to the sidelines.

  “What a prick,” Thomas mumbles as he and Will help me to stand. “Maybe you should have Erin stand in for you for the rest of the game. You know, so you’re all good for tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. We don’t have much time left anyway.”

  As I turn to head towards the sidelines, I hear Thomas call out after me.

  “You’re a total badass, by the way!” When I turn to look at him, he and Will are still standing there looking at me. “The last guy to take a cleat in the rib from Will was carried off the field.” I shoot him a huge smile. “Total. Bad. Ass.”

  I smile and turn to jog over to the sidelines, but slow to a walk after I feel the stab of pain that shoots through me.

  Janice Grange, our athletic trainer, comes over to where I’m seated after a few minutes and lays me back on the bench to get a better look at the damage. When she pulls my shirt up slightly, I can see that there are dark grooves above my ribs where Will’s cleat connected with me. Several of the indentations are bleeding from deep scratches.

  “Coach,” Janice calls to Mack after inspecting me and prodding me for a moment.

  Mack looks irritated as he gets closer, but I see his steps falter a little when he eyes the bruising that is already evident on my skin, as well as the other cuts and marks.

  “I doubt that a rib has broken, but the cuts and bruising are pretty extensive. I want to see how she feels tomorrow before deciding whether she can play or not.”

  My breath catches when I consider the idea of not playing in tomorrow’s game. My dad is coming to the game. How would he react if he manages to get there and I don’t even go on the field? Part of me wants to see the bastard as irate as can be, but the other still clings to the idea that watching me excel at something might make him proud. Or at the very least, keep me from incurring his wrath.

  “I, uhm…” Mack starts but pauses. “… yeah, we can wait until tomorrow to decide.” And again, he turns and walks away abruptly.

  Janice rolls her eyes and gives me a sweet smile.

  “So moody, that one. Keep it iced today, alright? If you can keep the bruising at bay and you don’t swell up, I’ll feel better about the idea of you putting your body through the ringer tomorrow.”

  “Thanks Janice,” I reply, half-heartedly. “Although, I won’t be too fussed if I can’t play tomorrow, so just make whatever decision you think is best.”

  Janice frowns slightly, probably unsure that she heard me correctly when I’ve been a ‘total bad ass’ for the three and a half years she’s known me. I’ve had a few small injuries and have always fought tooth and nail to stay on the field.

  “Since when is my best decision the decision you agree with?”

  I shrug, but Janice keeps her eyes trained on me, waiting for a response. She’s always been pretty motherly with us, even though she’s only in her early thirties. My first year playing for Glendale was her first year with the men’s and women’s soccer teams, and she requested to stay with us instead of moving when it was time to rotate to football or basketball. I think she secretly loves the girls that started with me freshman year and wanted to see us all through our college careers.

  Janice doesn’t know about my issues with my dad.

  Well, not everything.

  During my freshman year, I went home to pick up the last of my belongings on a day when I thought my dad would be at work.

  He wasn’t.

  Not only was he home, but he was absolutely plastered and ready to extract his rage wherever possible. When I returned to campus with a split lip and some extensive bruising on my torso, I was able to explain away the lip pretty easily. But my attempt to get changed after a game that week was another story.

  I had taken my time until everyone started to head out to the bus, then tried to change my top really quickly. But Janice walked into the locker room and saw the shoe and fist marks that had begun to fade from deep purple to a yellowish green.

  We talked for a few minutes about it, and I told her that the ‘problem’ wasn’t a part of my life anymore. It had been that trip home that solidified my decision to extricate him from my life as much as possible. Jeremy was thrilled that I cut ties, although he never knew about the physical abuse, or the horrible things that happened before I finally left.

  He also didn’t know that I still called my dad every so often on holidays. He wouldn’t understand. Hell, I don’t even understand.

  “Why don’t you want to play tomorrow?” Janice asks, sucking me back to the present and away from the drama I was constantly trying to leave behind.

  When I don’t say anything, Janice leads me away from the game that’s coming to a close, and walks me to the athletic facility that houses her office. Once inside the athletic training room just off of the locker room, she turns to me with a concerned look on her face.

  “Jeremy mentioned that your dad might be coming to the game tomorrow.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. I’m sure the look on my face demonstrates my
surprise that Janice is in contact with Jeremy. I know they’ve met before, but had no idea there was enough camaraderie that they would be sharing information.

  “Since when do you talk to Jeremy about me?”

  “We run at the same park,” she states nonchalantly.

  “Why did my dad make it into the conversation? Jeremy hates talking about him.”

  I can see that Janice is withholding something, but for the life of me can’t figure out what it is.

  “You should talk to Jeremy about it. My point in bringing it up was just to tell you that I could put you on the injured list if you want me to. You don’t even have to travel with us if you don’t want to go down to San Diego.”

  I glare at her.

  “I don’t need anyone making assumptions about my life, Janice. If you think I can’t play, bench me. If I can, I’ll be on the field in my gear when the whistle blows.”

  I hop off of the table I’d been sitting on, ignoring the jolt of pain in my side, and plow out of the room. I throw the door open so fast I don’t see anyone in the hallway and run smack into Mack, sending me to the ground with a hard thud.

  “Jesus, RJ.” Mack kneels beside me, trying to help me up.

  “Get your hands off me,” I growl at him, pushing his hand away and standing on my own.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” His response, quiet and concerned, speaks to his regret for his curt words on the field. But I’m not having any of it.

  “Oh, so now you want to know if I’m okay? You know what? Fuck. You. You need to sort out your shit, Mack, because I am sick of this Jekyll and Hyde crap you’re pulling.” I lean in close and stare into his eyes. “Less than twenty four hours ago, you had me on my back and your tongue down my throat, then this afternoon you’re barking at me like I’m an absolute idiot.” Mack’s expression rolls between heated at the reminder of last night, and remorseful at his recent behavior. “Don’t talk to me again unless you have feedback about my game.”

  I brush past him and prowl down the hallway, trying to get away from everything about this horrible, horrible day.

  * * * * *

  My mood hasn’t improved much by game time the next day. I’m grouchy with my teammates as we load into the bus and claim two seats for myself so I don’t have to talk to anyone. Instead, I opt to glare out the window and blast some kind of horrible screamy music that Jeremy added to my phone.

  The three-hour bus ride passes slowly, and my only solace is that I at least don’t have to be in an enclosed space with Mack for the ride. He drove down to USD in the morning for some sort of meeting, so it’s just Coach Johnson and Janice, along with the men’s team and coaches, with our team on the bus.

  I’m lost in thoughts about my dad and today’s game when one of my headphones is popped out of my ear, and Thomas plops down next to me.

  “How’s the wounded party doing today?”

  “I’m fine. But I’m not in the mood to talk, Thomas.” I take my headphone in hand and begin to place it back in my right ear when it’s snatched out of my grip. “I mean it. I’m not trying to be a bitch, but I’m really not in the mood. I need you to leave me alone.”

  Thomas nods, holding his hand out for me to take back the single headphone. “Whatever it is, let me know if you want to talk about it. I’m a pretty good listener.” He gives me a small smile, then stands and walks back towards the front of the bus.

  My eyes turn back outside, but my thoughts remain on my dad. What dramatics will he pull at this game? When he came to the first game I started in during my sophomore year of high school, he kept screaming that we were all a bunch of ‘fucking dykes’. Families were literally moving away from him in the stands, and I was mortified. That was the first time security escorted him out.

  Jeremy had driven down to watch the game, but traffic held him up, and he got there late enough to miss dad’s tirade. He told me he was so proud of me and how I played, took me to dinner, and then dropped me off at home. He had taken a shitty day, a shitty first game, and completely turned around my day.

  But that evening was the first time my dad’s abuse turned physical.

  I came through the back door of the house, hoping he would be passed out in the den in the front. As I crept through the dark kitchen and rounded the corner to the stairs, he came out of nowhere, wrapping his hand around my throat and slamming me against the wall, knocking the wind out of me.

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  I clawed at his hand as it squeezed tighter, unable to get out the words to explain. I felt suspended in time, both seconds and hours going by as I remained pinned to the wall, unable to breathe. In reality it was probably less than thirty seconds. When he finally let go, I collapsed to the floor on my hands and knees, drawing in large, shaky breaths.

  “Jeremy.”

  Inhale.

  “Came.”

  Inhale.

  “Dinner.”

  Inhale.

  “You lying sack of shit. He doesn’t give a shit about you. You can’t sneak this past me. Which of those boys were you fucking? Huh?”

  He emphasized his last word with a swift kick to my gut, and I crumpled into the fetal position on the floor, crying out in pain. I struggled to get out my words, but finally managed to catch my breath enough to choke out an explanation.

  “I didn’t. I swear. We grabbed a burger. I didn’t do anything.”

  “I didn’t ask for your lip, you fucking cow. I know what you girls are like, whoring your way through school. How many of those guys’ dicks have you sucked? Don’t you know how pathetic you are?” He crouched down and grabbed the back of my hair, yanking back until he could see my face. The scent of alcohol hit me like a wall. “I’ve seen you with them. But I also see how they look at you. Like you’re worthless, because you are. You’re a worthless piece of trash.”

  With that, he finally let go of my hair and stood up, stumbling back down the hallway to the den. I remained lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs for at least fifteen minutes, curled in a ball, focusing on breathing.

  Maybe your life really isn’t worth anything, I thought. It was only fleeting. But it was there. And it scared me.

  That interaction dictated my every decision from there on out. I did everything Frank asked me to. I never talked back. I never made excuses. When he called me worthless, I agreed. When he said I was a whore, I didn’t say a word, allowing him to come to whatever conclusions he wanted to. I kept my head down when I was home and stayed out of his way.

  It was horrible.

  It was degrading.

  It made me feel as worthless as my dad believed I was.

  I lived through that for another two and a half years before escaping. I hid the bruises on my skin from my teammates in the locker room. I didn’t tell Jeremy.

  It was my burden to carry.

  The fact I believed anything my dad said is what made me think I had to hide it. Something about the abuse was my fault, so I had to deserve it, right? It wasn’t until my world fell apart that I really understood how destructive his fists and words were to me… and not just on the outside.

  My memories shift away from the past and bring me back to the present, to the game looming closer as the bus speeds us along the freeway to San Diego.

  My past is coming back. I haven’t seen my dad in-person since my trip home during freshman year of college to collect the last of my things. He had been drunk, alone in his chair, staring at the TV. When he realized I was home, he took his last chance at beating the shit out of me. I choose regularly to push that night to the back of my mind. I’d done everything I could to avoid having to see him again after… well, after.

  As we pull into the USD parking lot, I stand and stretch, wincing slightly at the reminder of the injury on my torso, trying not to let my concerns and fears show on my face. I give a small smile to Erin as she grabs her backpack off of the overhead shelf and walks pas
t me. I follow her out and grab my gear out of the carriage, scanning the people wandering around the area.

  And that’s when I see him, standing outside of the gates to the soccer field, glaring in my direction.

  I quickly turn my eyes away, refusing to acknowledge him, and follow the team through the parking lot to USD’s athletic facilities. We split off from the men to go into the ladies locker room, each of us throwing our bags down next to empty locker stalls.

  As the girls begin to change, I head into the restroom and into a stall. Once I’ve locked the door, I take a seat and bend forward, dropping my head between my legs, willing the calmness to return.

  My old therapist told me that I am the only one who gives him power over me. He can’t take it away anymore. I am independent, and free. I am strong and he can’t touch me. I decide who gets to put their hands on my body, always.

  After a few deep breaths, I step into the main locker room and begin changing with the team. The words of my teammates are muffled in my ears, my mind still unable to fully focus on the immediacy of my surroundings, instead staying firmly rooted in my past.

  The breathing helps with my anxiety attacks, but not with focus.

  I catch a few curious stares as I stand in the back of the group while Mack and Coach Johnson address the team, but I don’t catch any of what they’re telling us. I nod when everyone else does and follow the hooting and hollering girls out of the locker room and onto the field, where I keep my eyes averted from the bleachers.

  The game moves quickly, and I can’t stay on point. Several of my teammates ask if I’m okay, and I just nod and give them tight smiles.

  I don’t even know the score or how we’re doing when halftime arrives, apart from the fact that I’ve let in two goals and botched the majority of my saves in one way or another.

  As we exit the field for halftime, I do myself the disservice of looking up into the stands, allowing my eyes to roam the dozens of jovial friends and family of my teammates and competitors.