First Position

by Prescott Lane

  They arrived back at the condo and walked towards his front door his arm around her, Mason feeling she was unsteady and weak. She walked inside and ran to the guest bathroom off the foyer and vomited. What has her so scared? Emory came out of the bathroom, as frail as he’d ever seen her. He wiped her mouth and patted her face with a towel, offering her a small sip of water. He walked her to the sofa in the living room and helped her sit down, placing the towel on the coffee table, keeping it close in case another round struck.

  “What is going on, baby?”

  Not that word. She hid her face in her hands.

  “What is it?”

  Emory looked up at him, scared, trembling, wiping a tear from her cheek. “There’s something I need to tell you.” She pulled her knees to her chest and rolled herself into a tight, little ball.

  “Whatever it is, Em, we’ll deal with it.” He wrapped a blanket around her. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She took a deep breath. “I need to tell you about my nightmare.” With everything else going on, Mason hadn’t given much thought to her bad dreams. He actually hadn’t thought about them in weeks. But seeing the look on her face, he prepared himself for the worst. “A reporter called Wesley today, asking a lot of questions about our relationship.”

  “You and Wesley?”

  “No. Me and you.” She paused to gather herself. “Now and in college.”

  “I figured that might happen now that we’re engaged.” Mason rubbed her leg. “Reporters might start speculating that I left you for Alexis, which is not true. But these things usually blow over quickly.”

  Emory shook her head. “I’m not worried about that.”

  “Then what?”

  “He was asking about medical records.”

  “Mine? So?”

  “No, mine,” she said.

  “Yours?” Mason raised his brow. “Why was he asking about yours?”

  Emory took a moment for a sip of water, then grabbed his hand. “Six years ago,” she began, but then stopped, shaking her head. Am I really going to do this, risk everything? “When we broke up, I. . . .”

  “What is it?” Mason braced himself to be blindsided, this time by a petite ballerina.

  “I. . . .” She buried her head in her hands, then looked up through tears. “I was pregnant.”

  Mason laughed out loud. “What? No really, what’s going on?” But Emory wasn’t laughing. She was serious and scared. He leaned back on the sofa, stunned, trying to wrap his mind around what he’d just heard, and slipped his hand from hers.

  “I was twelve weeks pregnant,” Emory said, her voice cracking, searching Mason’s eyes for some reaction -- anything -- other than disbelief.

  Mason ran his fingers through his hair. “Weren’t you on the pill?” This isn’t happening.

  “Yes, and I learned it doesn’t always work.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know that day -- that day in the weight room.” Emory reached for his hand, but he stood up, her eyes following him. “I found out a few days later.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “I tried!”

  “What?” Mason cried, feeling his entire world crumbling around him. “You knew where to find me! Or call me!”

  “You were with Alexis!”

  “You could have told me you were pregnant! Jesus Christ, Em! You at least could’ve told me over the last few months!”

  She put her head down. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried to tell you, but something always got in the way -- your arm, Alexis. . . .”

  “Give me a fucking break!” Mason paced around the living room, confused and angry.

  This can’t be happening. “Where’s my baby?” Emory shook her head, unable to say, sobbing into her hands, too afraid to look at him. “Where’s my baby?” But she still couldn’t answer, the same question just bringing more tears and pain. “What did you do, Em?” Mason barked, but she could only shake her head, her entire body trembling. “What the fuck did you do?” he screamed, a large vein bulging from his neck, his words echoing off the walls.

  Emory looked up at him, defeated, her face drawn and frail. “I killed our baby,” she whispered.

  Mason stopped in his tracks and tightened his jaw, looking at her in disbelief. “You what?”

  She said it again, even softer this time. “I killed our baby.”

  “You got a fucking abortion?” Emory quickly shook her head, but Mason was too overcome to notice, kicking the coffee table across the room, flipping it upside down. Terrified, Emory shrieked and crouched into a ball on the sofa, bracing her head. “How the fuck could you do that?”

  “I didn’t,” she wailed. “I loved our baby.”

  Her words took him aback, realizing he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Mason surveyed the wreckage around him, the coffee table and Emory curled up, and took some deep breaths to try to calm down. Emory took the chance to unwind herself. “What are you talking about?”

  Emory wrapped the blanket tightly around herself. “I pushed too hard. You were with Alexis, and I just came apart. Wesley took care of me. The doctor told me to gain weight and not push myself too hard. So I gave up my spot in New York. You didn’t even know that, did you?” Mason sat down. “But I didn’t listen well enough. I couldn’t listen. The only thing that made me feel better was dancing.” Mason clenched his hands in front of his face and lowered his head onto them, looking away as she spoke, trying to come to terms with everything.

  “Our college dance finale was coming up, and it was my last chance to dance on a big stage. I pushed myself too hard. You were off with Alexis and the draft.” Emory glanced at Mason, still looking away. “I didn’t want you to come back to me out of some obligation or pity. I thought you loved her. And I didn’t want you to give up your dreams. I swear to God, I was going to tell you as soon as I had a plan for me and the baby.” Emory took a deep breath, holding back tears. “But then I fell. I did a grand jeté across the stage. Something I’ve done a thousand times before, but this time when I landed, my ankle cracked, and I felt the tear.” She grabbed her ankle and rubbed it. “I fell hard, Mason -- really, really hard.”

  Emory peeked at him again, seeing he was trembling slightly. “Wesley carried me off the stage. And since he was the only one who knew about the baby, he took me to the hospital.” She sniffled, crying hysterically, as her chest convulsed. “And there was no heartbeat! There was no heartbeat, Mason!” He closed his eyes. “Our baby was dead, Mason! I killed our baby because I had to dance that day. How fucking stupid! And I lost it after that. They had to sedate me. I don’t remember much. Wesley says I just kept holding my belly, screaming at the doctors, begging for someone, anyone, to help me and our baby.”

  Emory took a few deep breaths to calm her breathing. “But all they did was suck our baby out of me. That’s all they could do. And now I relive it over and over in my dreams.” Mason turned his face and eyes to her, recalling her thrashing and screaming in bed. “I lost my dance career and our child in one second. I refused to eat or speak to anyone. I didn’t tell my dad; I stopped talking to him. Wesley was the only one who could get me to do anything. I wanted to die. My last piece of you was gone, and it was my fault.”

  “I came to the hospital. You wouldn’t see me.”

  “I didn’t see the point in telling you after the baby died.” Emory reached for his hand, but he pulled away. “Wesley begged me to tell to you, but I couldn’t think what good it would do at that point. You’d moved on.”

  “Don’t put it on me. . . .”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I. . . .”

  “That was my baby, too, Em, and you didn’t bother to tell me for six years! I don’t ever want to hear about me keeping secrets from you.”

  She lowered her head. “I know,” she whispered. “It’s horrible. There’s no good excuse.”

  Emory reached for h
is arm, but he yanked it away, storming towards the front door. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

  “Mason, please!” She rose from the sofa, stepping in front of him. “Please, don’t leave! Please don’t give up on us!”

  He looked back, anger in his eyes. “Emory. . . .” But he couldn’t complete the thought, too upset and betrayed, not wanting to say something he’d regret. He continued towards the door, slamming it behind him.

  Emory sank to the floor. I’m back in the weight room, but this time without his baby.

  * * *

  Mason wanted to escape but had nowhere to go. So he just wandered the downtown streets, passing the bright lights of bars and restaurants, theaters and museums. He looked through an antique shop window at a rocking carousel horse. It looked interesting, but he had no desire to go inside or anywhere at all. He just followed the sidewalk, putting one foot in front of the other, his load heavy, carrying all the baggage he thought they’d put behind them -- only this time it was heavier, much heavier.

  And no matter where he went, he couldn’t escape his own mind. He’d made a baby -- one he’d never seen or even known about -- and never got a chance to see or hear the heartbeat. My baby died. He didn’t blame Emory for killing the baby but was pissed she hadn’t told him. He was entitled to know -- and to know while his baby was alive, or certainly immediately thereafter. She had no right to withhold that from him. The fact that he was with Alexis, or entering to the NFL, was no excuse.

  As he walked, Mason briefly wondered whether the baby was his. He’d never ask; the question -- even the idea -- was insensitive and borderline evil, not to mention wrong. He trusted Emory had only been with him. Of course the baby was mine. Unlike me, she didn’t move on so quickly. Nor would she ever cheat, he knew; she was loyal to a fault. She’s loyal to me to a fault. His head throbbing and hanging down, Mason walked across a narrow street, and a taxi darted in front of him. He raised his hand, apologizing.

  * * *

  Next to the overturned coffee table, Emory cried for hours -- for her baby and for her lies, for hurting Mason and for him to return. She wondered whether she should’ve told him at all, his screams still ringing in her ears. Was it worth this? She wondered whether the reporter would’ve ever found out about the baby, and whether she should’ve just taken her chances the story would never appear in the newspaper. That way, she could’ve just left the past behind -- as Father Tony had suggested -- and moved forward. But that was quite a risk to take, and the worry was too much. She tried to convince herself she’d done the right thing, the only possible thing. Our baby is not a dirty little secret and deserves a daddy. She wished she’d come to that conclusion sooner; perhaps then Mason would’ve reacted differently.

  When she ran out of tears, she got up off the floor and turned over the table. The condo looked the same but was quiet and lonely. Her shirt soaked with tears, Emory flipped it over her head, and walked into the bathroom, turning the shower on and looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair, a tangled mess. She stepped into the shower, allowing the water to run over her. Where is Mason? Where did he go? She lathered her hair with shampoo and scrubbed her body, remembering the showers they’d taken the last few days, his hands running over her body. She shivered and turned up the hot water. Now she just wanted to be clean.

  * * *

  Mason walked a few more streets, with no purpose or direction, recalling how Emory looked in the hotel lobby on his first visit -- how she felt, the smell of her hair, the purity and freshness about her, how she was different than other women. He also recalled her furious anger in the suite -- and the red lace panties, too. The pieces were coming together in his mind -- her rage, her desire to go slow, her nightmares, her concern about Olivia’s pregnancy, her vomiting upon seeing him holding Noah. He thought back to the college weight room -- she felt light-headed, sitting down on the exercise bench to gather herself. Wow, she was pregnant then. Should I have known?

  Mason found himself at the Atrium Bar. It seemed as good as any place to be this night. He gave a polite wave to Clive and took a seat at the bar. “Whiskey. I don’t want to see the bottom of my glass.” Clive did as he was told, sensing something obviously was different about Mason -- gone was the friendly, vibrant personality. Mason looked like a beaten man. “You are like my best customer. Ain’t that some shit!”

  Mason was in no mood for Clive’s insanity. “Just leave the bottle.”

  “You got it, bro.” Mason slammed back his whiskey and poured himself another glass, Clive grinning widely, impressed. “A man only drinks like this for two reasons: women or money.” Mason slammed the next whiskey. “And I know you got money. I read about your contract in the paper.” Clive poured the next glass. “So I’m betting it’s that pretty little girlfriend of yours.”

  Mason didn’t appreciate any man talking about Emory and narrowed his eyes. “You’re very perceptive, Clive. Real fucking genius.”

  Clive slid a basket of pretzels in front of him to make peace, as Mason downed another. “Didn’t think you NFL guys got so worked up about women? Thought that was just for us regular guys.”

  Mason shrugged, taking a pretzel from the basket. “Guess not.”

  Clive leaned forward. “You look like total shit,” he whispered. “I know a guy who could hook you up with some real nice weed.”

  “What?” Mason recoiled, no interest in illegal drugs. He was as straight-laced as NFL players come -- no arrests, tattoos, or steroids -- and married and faithful to his wife, a woman he never even loved. Alcohol was the extent of his vices, and it was working fine at the moment.

  Clive popped a toothpick in his mouth. “Make you forget all about the little lady.”

  “No thanks, not my scene,” Mason said, with a polite smile. “I’m not sure I want to forget anyway.” Mason took a long slug from the bottle, then reached into his pocket for his phone. Is she still at the condo? Should I call? He was still angry, but a twinge of guilt was slowly taking its place.

  * * *

  After the shower, Emory needed a release. She was desperate to dance, but there was no room in the small condo and no music, either. She began to clean -- mopping, dusting, and organizing every cabinet -- not to placate Mason, but to pass the time and exhaust herself. She entered his bedroom and stood in silence, unable to bring herself to make the bed still messy from sex earlier in the day. She stared at the bed, then down at her ring finger, hoping Mason soon would come back. Cleaning had tired her, and she hoped for sleep, but she was too afraid -- afraid of the nightmares awaiting her. They would be bad tonight. She got the vacuum from the hall closet.

  * * *

  Clive nodded his head to a table a few feet away. “Seems like you have some admirers.” Mason looked over his shoulder at two scantily-clad young women, a brunette and a blonde. “That’s some nice pussy eyeing you, bro.”

  “Not my scene either, but thanks again.”

  “Shit, man, you ruinin’ the dream! I thought you NFL guys banged women left and right! And two at one time, no doubt!”

  His head foggy, Mason mustered a small smile. He’d had some great sex with Emory over the past few weeks, but something about two women at once was quite intriguing. And they were all in a hotel already. “It doesn’t exactly work that way. At least not for me.”

  “It could, bro. And I wouldn’t tell nobody. Keep that shit tight -- just between us.” Clive nudged Mason’s arm and stepped back. “Incoming!” Mason turned and saw the two women approaching him, taking a seat on either side of him at the bar, their skirts barely covering their bottoms. Mason took another slug from the bottle and got up to leave, but a soft hand captured his arm.

  “How about a drink?” the blonde asked.

  “And maybe more?” the brunette added, batting her eyes.

  Mason looked at Clive, sucking on his toothpick and gyrating his hips. Is this a test? Is Clive the devil? How does he keep a job here?He knew full well if he
gave in, his engagement would be over, along with any future with Emory. He thought about his baby whose heartbeat he’d never heard. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. He couldn’t do this to Emory again -- he’d learned that lesson. Mason motioned for his tab. “Sorry, ladies, I’m on my way out.”

  “Ruinin’ the dream,” Clive whispered, as the two women shrugged and returned to their table. “What the fuck, man? Your girl must bedamn good!”

  “She is,” Mason said, fumbling for some cash in his wallet, the many drinks catching up with him. “The best.”

  “Then what the hell you doin’ here, bro? Go home and work that shit out! And then when you two are cool, you hit it from the front and the back!” Clive howled, thrusting his pelvis towards the bar and moving his hand like he was giving a little spank.

  Mason chuckled, knowing he had to get out of the bar, and back to the condo before Clive got further out of control. “I’m going to take the bottle with me.” He quickly stood up to leave, and the room began to spin.

  “You are some fucked up, man.” Clive motioned for the valet. “Let’s take you round back to catch a cab.”

  Mason nodded. “Don’t need to see my drunk ass in the paper.”

  * * *

  The front door opened and slammed shut. Emory ran out of the bedroom to find Mason stumbling into the living room, a whiskey bottle firmly in hand, then seeking to lower himself onto the sofa. He paused to balance himself to ensure he didn’t fall down. She’d never seen Mason so drunk, not even in college. Hovering over the sofa, he fumbled with his keys and dropped them on the floor. She walked towards them, picking them up, then extended her arm to help him sit.