Pain & Redemption

by Kat Kenyon

  Coach said suck it up, because the fans love me, and there are worse things that could happen.

  It’s a big machine.

  Dad is back to calling nearly every damn day, making sure to remind me what he’s owed, what I’m owed, and how I need to make sure everyone pays. He doesn’t have to worry about making Mom happy anymore, so I’m getting hammered again. The championship game was coming, and the only thing he had to say was life was screwing him.

  He’s such a little bitch. After years of being afraid, I’m disgusted by him, his level of petty something I didn’t realize before. He’s fucking exhausting.

  Which is all this week has been in the run-up to the game…exhausting.

  Last classes, final prep, film study for the game, practice and extra position review squeezed into every spare minute.

  One moment…One moment this week, I felt a spark of life when she really looked at me. Our connection jump-started and I could feel her lighting up all the dark spaces…and then it died out, the brightness disappearing when she pulled back.

  That’s why I left her a birthday present with Tate. The pendant is a small phoenix rising out of the flames.

  I had to let her know one last time that I loved her. No matter what. She deserves freedom and rebirth, something I know she got on her birthday, something I want for her. She gets to control her life no matter what her mother does, and her decision to turn away from me was something she gets to do, too. Her new life is one I accept.

  Fuck.

  My nerves today aren’t about the game. It’s about facing forward when all I want to do is go back. I’d give anything to be the thing to bring her back to life, but I can see how much I hurt her. She’s thin, frail. Her skin’s pale, and her eyes are bloodshot and dark every day. Going back isn’t possible, there’s just too much pain between us for me to bring her peace. It guts me, but what’s best for her is all that matters.

  If I love her, I have to let her go.

  “Time guys.”

  The person behind me slaps me in the helmet as we move as a unit, running out of the tunnel, through the smoke, onto the end zone, the players around me pumping their arms and jumping as we pour onto our chosen field of battle.

  The game is a blur of crunching pads and groaning bodies, of yards under my feet and crashing limbs. I’m an unstoppable force the defense hasn’t met and I leave behind a trail of pain. I try to excise my own pain, letting the hits on field replace the hits that land every minute off field. They’re easier to take.

  In the last quarter, my hand flickers, waiting for the count.

  Snap.

  Run, spin out, look for the catch, pivot, catch—

  Crack!

  Something slams into me and…black. My body aches from my knees up, but I can’t see anything.

  I’m not moving.

  I know…I should be moving.

  I try and—Pain.

  Shit, my head hurts. I feel like my skull split open. Insta-headache hit.

  Shit!

  I must lose time because Coach Mills is beside me talking. Several hands move over my neck, but I don’t move, the blackness fading from my vision as a wave of nausea rolls through me.

  “Son, you okay?”

  Flexing my legs and arms, I breathe out a puff of relief. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  I’m starting to feel everything again, and except for a headache, I feel fine. The team trainer and specialist run a hand down my arm and demand I squeeze. I let out a pained breath as my body responds.

  “Can you get up?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Coach, I’m good.” When I sit up, I realize the ball is still in my hand. The roil of nausea makes me shudder, but I’m not going to throw up. I may feel like hell, but that kind of weakness isn’t happening.

  A hand on each arm helps me start to climb to my feet, and the lights feel like hammers on my head as my balance wavers.

  “Blackman, you don’t look right.”

  “I’m not a hundred, Coach.”

  “Nope, and that’s okay. You’re done for the day.”

  I can’t risk moving my head, because each time I do, my balance goes off, but Coach Mills and the trainer help get me moving.

  A couple steps and I realize the crowd is cheering, thunderous applause and screams fill the air.

  I’m glad I’m on my feet too.

  I need to make sure the people who matter know I’m in one piece. I raise my hand for the crowd even though I’m unsteady because they need to see it. Plus, Mom came to this away game too, and she needs to see I’m okay.

  The missing person digs into my chest, but I know she isn’t watching, she won’t ever again. She doesn’t even know I got hit.

  Why am I thinking of her right now?

  The long walk back to the guest locker room is followed by confirmation that I’ve got a concussion. Our team doctor takes a look, but isn’t worried, because this one is only a little worse than the one I took in Oregon.

  I’ll be fine, but I’m out of play for the last few minutes of the game. He lets me back on the field to watch my team take the championship. A game I helped get us to. I helped bring us here, so I want to watch. I earned this. As the seconds tick down and the score is out of the opposition’s reach, my team celebrates.

  This is what I worked so hard for, and I’m happy for us.

  I am.

  But I’m no stadium god. The invincibility I had, the cyborg…that disappeared with her.

  Now I’m just the walk-on. It’ll have to be enough for me and everyone else.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rayne Mathews

  I should never have watched the game. I know better. When the time came, something made me close my textbook and flip on the television in my room. And I’ve never been so scared in my life.

  I love him.

  Fuck!

  At first, it was bittersweet, because I know what the sideline was like today, all pumped and single-mindedly working for that win. I was happy for them. This game was what they’d been aiming for and they all played so well. They earned it. I wasn’t there, instead, watching from home as Mike and Bay held the line, and Dylan’s arm was unstoppable. Lark and Ty were catching everything Dylan threw their way, and they looked like the ultimate powerhouse team of athletes they are.

  And then he went down.

  It felt like they hit me.

  My scream bounced off the walls. Tate rushed in and found me on my knees. I could barely see through my tears, wanting so badly to be there. She held me while we waited for him to move, whispering he’d be okay.

  It took so long for him to get up, every second pulling more tears.

  I don’t believe in God, but I prayed. I begged whatever force in the universe that has failed me so many times, to not fail him. Let him get up and I’d give anything for him. I’d do anything to make him move.

  I couldn’t breathe. I still can’t. When he sat up, tears of relief followed the tears of fear, and I grabbed my phone, keeping an eye on him as they tried to get him up. The visible imbalance he had when he walked off scared me.

  He’s taken hard hits, but this one was a direct helmet-to-helmet shot and the entire crowd gasped with me, staying silent as the staff gathered around him.

  I don’t care how mad or hurt I am; I love him and nothing bad can ever happen to him. I’m still his, even if I walked away. I just wanted to touch him and make sure he was okay. When he disappeared into the tunnel, my fingers flew.

  I don’t know why I texted Dylan, except I know he would let me know how bad it was and not grill me. He’d know what happened because he was a team captain, and I couldn’t depend on the television to tell me what was going on.

  As the game ticked down, they showed him on the sidelines and announced he had a concussion, but I still needed that answer from Dylan, because the brief statement didn’t tell me how bad it was.

  I got my answer right before the news conference: Dylan’s message saying he had his bell rung n
ice and hard, but he wasn’t permanently damaged.

  He’ll be fine.

  I won’t.

  Looking in my closet, nothing looks good because clothes can’t cover the ache. Riffling through the hangers, red pops in the light.

  Ty’s jersey. The feel of it under my fingertips is home. The only home I ever chose.

  The Warriors’ rich, dark red looks so good on him, and I felt whole with his name on my back. Which is so stupid.

  Stupid tears.

  I want to put it on, and let memories of laughter, foot massages, whispers in the dark, hands, and happiness take over. Own the part of him that’s mine. Not that he is mine.

  Mine.

  It’s dangerous for me to wish for things that can’t be, so I grab the black long-sleeve T-shirt behind it, the color matching my mood. Shrugging on a gray Warriors dance department sweatshirt over it, I remind myself there was always more going on than our relationship, not that it changes how I feel. But it gives me focus.

  Turning away from the Blackman jersey laid out on my bed, I walk out my door and force myself to move.

  When I hit Dixon, the smell of athletes and sweat bombards me like it always does. Sitting behind the desk, I open my laptop, chatting with the people who have become my friends. It’s something I didn’t have before I came to school, and it gives me a boost that I need to keep moving through my day.

  The flow of athletes is a trickle for almost two hours, and I’d die of boredom if I wasn’t allowed to study. Everyone is buckling down for finals and it shows. There are fewer people, and they’re showing up at different times than their normal routine, allowing me to see a few people I normally miss.

  Soon, everyone will go home, except me, the championship teams, and the select students who need to stay behind.

  Slipping through the doors, the man of the hour looks happy.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Dylan says. Clark Kent himself.

  “Hey, champion.”

  He played like a god during the last game and it will see him drafted in the first round, if not first pick. He’s earned it. Next year, I’ll watch him on TV.

  Casually walking toward my desk, he smiles wide, a hint of darker humor glinting, and I smirk in return.

  “Whatchya doin’?” He leans across the desk, muscled forearms bare because his sleeves are pushed up, he taps the desk, then looks at my screen. He really is Superman, shockingly good-looking and disarming, always up to save the day, and yet when he locks those baby blues on me, I’m wary.

  “What’s up? You’re in jeans, so I know you aren’t working out.”

  “How are you?” Those long, strong fingers keep tapping on the desk. Dylan sucks at keeping his moods hidden, and I can tell he’s up to something.

  “I’m fine?” My skepticism and question linger in the air.

  “Really?” His head drops and he looks up at me from dark lashes. He’s gorgeous and distracting, or he would be, except he’s digging. Something he doesn’t normally do, and I know I don’t want to have to face the shovel he’s going to use to get inside my head. He’s a great guy, and he’s tried to be a good friend, but I can tell he’s heading for a topic I don’t want to talk about. Not with my head so messed up.

  “Dylan, what do you want?”

  “Why’d you text me?”

  Because I was scared.

  The moment of terror, the look of him falling like a tree, makes me shudder.

  Because I love him. I love him.

  “It was a bad hit,” I whisper.

  The fingers stop drumming as he gives me a sad smile and grabs my hand. “He misses you.”

  I know.

  I miss him too. I miss his jokes, his confidence, and his kiss. He cheated, but it doesn’t look like he’s playing with me or anyone else. His guilt weighs him down.

  “Rayne, he’s worked really hard to be a better person. You don’t need to worry about a replay.” Kissing my palm, he grins. “Just think about it, okay?”

  His eyes catch mine.

  “It sucks to know I’m getting the degree, the draft, the deals, but I never got a shot at the dame. She was taken the minute she saw the other guy.”

  For a second, I shake my head and smile, thinking back to that first day. I know he’s joking, but it’s sweet, really, to say something like that. When I laugh a little to avoid crying, he chuckles.

  “I saw you first, but it took one second to know you belonged to him. Everyone with eyes saw it. And regardless of him being an idiot, he’s yours.” His fingers thump the desk as he straightens. “He’s changed, beautiful girl. Remember that even people who love you fuck up. Guys especially. And you fell for a boy who needed to become a man. He’s just now getting there.”

  He smiles again, Clark Kent becoming Superman, and my eyesight becomes glossy. Because I believe him, or at least I want to.

  Can I?

  His hand comes to my face, stopping the subtle shake, taking in the beginning of my tears. “Think about it. I know him. He’s getting help. He’s not who he was, he’s a better man, and now, he needs you. There’s been no girls, no bullshit, not since the day you left. Trust me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” My heart beats so hard I think he can hear it.

  “You’re his purpose. And you’re the team’s ’Lil. We love you. We missed you when you went away, but you’re so much more to him. And don’t lie and say you don’t still feel the same way about him. I hate seeing people I care about suffer like this. Sometimes you have to stand your ground when people hurt you, but, doll, this isn’t one of those times.

  And I believe him.

  Now what?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tyler Blackman

  I hate those Blackmanion shirts. They look ridiculous. They’re all two sizes too small, tramped up, and they’re on the wrong girl. Two of my “fans” have propositioned me in the last hour wearing them like I’m going to suddenly realize they’re the one. Like I’m going to take them home because of some stupid homemade T-shirt. They don’t know me, and since they’re wearing those shirts, they’re never going to.

  It doesn’t work, girls.

  I just want to study without some desperate coed trying to score a hookup. It’s bad enough I had to move from a study room with a window into one without, just to try to get through my notes before meeting with my tutors later this week.

  The entire campus is restless with one week of finals prep, and I’ve tried to buckle down and focus on getting ready.

  It’s not easy.

  My dorm is partying and my concentration has been for shit. A couple times words seemed to move in front of my eyes, making me feel a little dizzy, though each day it gets better.

  It’s probably ten before I realize I missed dinner. It’s turning into a bad habit. I’ve got no real excuse, except I’m never hungry and too busy. The cafeteria makes me sick, so I avoid it. I spend my time here or working on research for the bowl game, because the more you know about your opponents, the better chance you have of beating them.

  I’m trying to do what McVey suggested: keep the things in my life that are working, working. That means making sure I’m on point in my game and making sure my grades are good.

  Lack of food is making my brain foggy again though, so I’ll need to grab something. I can’t keep losing calories and still function, not with the notes in front of me moving. It’s not a good sign.

  I’m not leaving yet though, because I still hate going back to my dorm.

  Wyatt and I have a “not-really” truce going. His comments aren’t under the surface anymore, but he’s smart enough not to push me too hard. I’m not the person you want to corner right now. Therapy has helped, but I’m still on the edge, and Wyatt’s jealousy pushes buttons that force me to use Vaan’s counting technique to keep from smacking the ever-loving shit out of him.

  I never had any use for someone who blames others for their problems and I have even less now if that’s possible. Scholarship boy’s p
issed he didn’t play this year. The fact that he was recruited and didn’t play makes him snippy and nasty, but I don’t have it in me to be understanding.

  I walked on to this team by busting my ass, never allowed to give an inch for a day, practiced like it was a game every single time. My success was earned the hard way, and his petty bullshit is old. He’s a lineman and I’m a wide receiver. I didn’t have anything to do with whether he played or not, but he acts like my success took something away from him.

  Sorry, fuckhead. Not my problem.

  He’s a bitch, and he needs to take responsibility for not working as hard as the rest of us. And it’s not just me, the team’s lining up with me.

  Buzz.

  My phone flashes and vibrates on the hard table.

  DM: Where U

  Why the hell is McVey texting me?

  I know he has to be busy. He’s graduating next semester, somehow completing his degree in three years, just in time to be drafted into the league.

  Me: Library. Study room 3b

  DM: brt

  It has to be news on the bowl game.

  We know we’re going, it’s just a question of which one. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The guys’ chances of getting recruited won’t be hurt regardless of which one we play, and that’s the only thing that matters to me: what’s good for them. I want good things for the teammates who have been good to me. They deserve it.

  I’ve decided to worry about next year after the game. Whatever happens, I’ve been on a team that worked hard, and this season can’t be taken away from us.

  The reality is though, we’re losing the strongest quarterback in college ball, along with key members of our offense and defense. Dylan, Lark, Randy, Garret, and several others have committed to the Combine and are gone next year.

  During the off-season, we’ll find out how much work there is to do. We’ll learn how strong Brian’s arm is because he’s taking the place of the conference MVP. He has big shoes to fill.