Fourth and Inches

by Kata Čuić

  It must be nice to watch these games with no more vested interest than cheering on a fantasy football player or rooting for a rookie on your favorite team.

  No matter how much time goes by, I watch three particular players with a boatload of emotional baggage none of these other spectators can even imagine.

  “You really haven’t spoken to Rob since your grandfather’s funeral?” Alyssa pries.

  “I really haven’t.” Lying by omission is second nature these days. What good would it do anyone to admit the circumstances surrounding our parting words?

  “I told you asking Rob to be a groomsman was a bad idea.” Alyssa reaches around me to smack Jeremy on the shoulder.

  “I can’t not ask him,” Jeremy volleys back. “We’ve been friends since kindergarten. Or at least, we used to be.”

  “You’ve done your due diligence. If he isn’t returning your calls, then there’s nothing more you can do. Pick someone else.”

  “I’m not going to pick someone else until I hear it directly from Rob’s mouth that he isn’t interested.”

  I sigh and tune out their bickering as the final seconds tick away on another losing game for Rob’s team. This brings the Rushers’ record to 1-4. Next week is an away game—in Albany.

  No matter the date is circled on my calendar in red, somehow it still managed to sneak up on me.

  I have a choice to make.

  I tune back into a new debate between the lovebirds about whether to take a honeymoon in Paris or Bermuda. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly they go from arguing to planning the rest of their lives together. As if they already accept they won’t agree on every little thing, they move past obstacles as quickly as Rob and I made new ones.

  Sliding off the stool, I slap a ten down on the bar top to cover my measly drink.

  “Aww, you’re leaving?” Alyssa whines.

  “I don’t really want to be a third wheel for your honeymoon planning.” And I have a prior standing appointment.

  “What if we need a tie-breaker?”

  I have to laugh at Jeremy’s dead-serious expression. “You’re getting married. You don’t need a tie-breaker; you need to learn to compromise.”

  Alyssa raises her eyebrows. “Maybe you should take your own advice. You’re constantly fighting with Mike, Alex isn’t speaking to you since you blew him off for the umpteenth time when he offered to fly you to Orlando for a game, and don’t get me started on what’s going on between you and Rob.”

  Those neatly worded truths stab me so hard, it further lodges the knife I plunged into my own chest.

  “I never thought I’d see the day the four amigos broke up.” Jeremy shakes his head.

  “The what, now?” Curiosity keeps me here, even as my mind is already racing out the door.

  “The four amigos,” Jeremy repeats. “That’s what everyone called you, Rob, Mike, and Alex in high school.”

  Alyssa wrinkles her nose. “I never heard that.”

  Memories of Alex’s foursomes in college dance through my mind. “No one ever thought…anything more was going on, did they?”

  Jeremy shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly ask. I was too busy being bitter over you replacing me. I guess it’s come full circle.”

  Alyssa reclaims my abandoned stool next to Jeremy and rubs his shoulder. “Aww, honey. You still have me.”

  He leans over, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. “And I’m going to keep you. You’ve always been more important to me than those schmucks, anyway.”

  That’s my cue to leave. “See ya later, kids. Keep the PDA to a minimum until you get home.”

  While I’m pushing my way through the busy bar, my phone rings. Right on time.

  As soon as I clear the door, I swipe at the screen and lift it to my ear. “Injury report?”

  “I’m hauling ass to the airport to get to a hockey game for another client. The least you could do is greet me politely and maybe offer up some small talk.”

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “I’m well aware of how valuable your time is, Shawn. I’m not going to take up more than necessary with meaningless platitudes.”

  “Fair enough,” he chuckles. “When I left they were running him through concussion protocol after all the hits from ninety-seven. Confirmed broken finger on his left hand, and the usual joint pain, bumps, and bruises.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. It could’ve been worse, though. At least nothing’s broken on his throwing hand. “Mental status?”

  “Pissed off at the world. The usual these days. So, I’m sure he’s not concussed at all.”

  As if that’s supposed to make me feel better. Jeremy’s frustration over Rob blowing off his calls has anxiety gnawing at my gut.

  “Is his father causing problems?” Maybe that’s what’s making Rob act so weird.

  “Negative. You haven’t approved those photos yet,” Shawn reminds me. “I need to let the magazine know by tomorrow, so get on it.”

  “You don’t need my approval for that stuff.”

  “According to my boss, I do. You know his rules. If you don’t sign off on it, it doesn’t get printed. Oh, I almost forgot. He also wants to know why you haven’t seen a doctor since you moved.”

  I’ve been in New York City for four months since moving out of the apartment I shared with Mike at State. It feels more like an eternity. Long enough to find mediocre health care, but not so long that I’ve put down roots.

  My breath swirls around my face in white puffs of steam from the early October cold snap as I make my way through the constantly crowded sidewalks. It’s amazing how alone I feel in a metropolis, teeming with millions of people. “He’s never going to speak to me again, is he?”

  I didn’t want this. Never imagined our friendship wouldn’t survive the end of our relationship.

  “I don’t get paid enough to be a marriage counselor, too,” Shawn grumbles. He clears his throat, then speaks more clearly, his tone softer. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two. I don’t ask, and he hasn’t said anything. What I do know is this: he won’t let me market him as the most eligible bachelor in the NFL, even though no one knows he’s married and you two certainly don’t act like a couple. He always has a ticket and a family pass waiting, in case you decide to show up to a game, whether home or away. He refuses to let a single article or picture of himself be printed without you okaying it first. And you are the sole beneficiary of his estate. That doesn’t sound, to me, like someone who’s never going to speak to you again.”

  “And yet you’re the one asking me why I haven’t seen a doctor. How would he even know that, by the way?” I cross the street with the light, a rat running a maze as I’m jostled along with the other pedestrians who don’t give a damn I’m in the middle of a conversation.

  I can practically feel Shawn’s frustration through the phone. “You’re also on his top-notch insurance. He knows if you’re getting medical attention or not. He gets the statement of benefits.”

  No, he doesn’t. Because I never use his insurance. If Planned Parenthood doesn’t cover my basic treatment option, I don’t get it. Birth control helped ease my monthly symptoms at first, but the effects seem to be rapidly wearing off. I can’t afford the care I obviously need for my chronic condition. The warnings of the specialist I saw in college constantly weigh on my mind.

  “Are you coming to the game next week?”

  Shawn’s question stops me in my tracks. A few muttered curses are thrown my way as the sea of bodies parts around me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And I don’t know why you two are doing this to yourselves.” Shawn sighs. “What the fuck happened to the woman I used to know, who defended that quarterback through thick and thin, no matter what?”

  She defended him until the bitter end.

  After several heartbeats of silence between us, Shawn clears his throat. “Listen, I gotta go. I’m at the airport and need to get through security. Just l
ook over the damn photo shoot and send me the approval by tomorrow morning, all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He hangs up without any further orders.

  I force my feet to move again as the memory of the last conversation I ever had in person with Rob replays in my mind.

  “Why?” he chokes out, still staring at the door Mike walked out of minutes ago.

  “Why, what?” I’m exhausted, in pain, and emotionally wrung out. Playing twenty questions is, well…out of the question.

  Rob turns his bright blue gaze to me. “Do you hate me?”

  I shake my head, but no words materialize. Nothing I might say matters anymore.

  “I loved you. How could you? You begged me to sleep with her, with anyone. You lied to my face.”

  Maybe it’s his past tense of the word “love” that snaps me out of it. Maybe it’s his accusation. “You always knew when I was lying before. If a part of you didn’t want to be with someone else, you wouldn’t have believed me so easily.”

  His shoulders slump. The towel and ice I brought him lay untouched on the carpet as he continues to bleed. “I guess that’s what hurts so much. I should have known you were lying; I shouldn’t have bought into your story. But, I did. I wanted to prove you were wrong and I was right. It doesn’t matter now, though, does it? You lied and I cheated. There’s no coming back from this.”

  No. There isn’t. He doesn’t need me to tell him what he already knows.

  Still, something is bothering me, and I don’t want to end this with any questions hanging over my head. “Minutes ago you told me everything was going to be okay. That we were going to be okay. What made you change your mind?”

  My gaze follows him as he rises from the floor, staggering a bit on his feet. The urge to help him nearly overwhelms me, but I stay on the ground. It’s not my place to lift him up when all I do is bring him down.

  “Alex was right,” he says quietly. “You deserve better. I’m not it. I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not, too. I always knew I was never good enough. I proved myself right in more ways than one.”

  He walks out the door without a look back.

  I plant my feet on the sidewalk and stare up at the starless city sky, wishing for a miracle, a chance to redo everything that went wrong, as people continue to pass around me without a second glance. They don’t recognize me. Even if they saw my naked body in a magazine a year ago, I look nothing like that woman now.

  I thought sloughing off any remaining vestiges of my old life would help. Would somehow make moving forward easier to handle. While I have the freedom of anonymity I’ve wanted for so long, an invisible weight continues to drag me down.

  I can’t shake it no matter how hard I try.

  I’ll never be good enough.

  My beard itches, so I scratch it. I’m thirsty, so I take another swig of my drink. It burns on the way down, so I wince.

  Cause and effect. Action and reaction.

  My life has become a cycle of forcing myself to take another breath, another step, another mindless activity until I can pass out for the night.

  It’s been months, but dreams are still the only reprieve from my meaningless reality of barely existing.

  “Hey, handsome. You looking for a little fun before game day?”

  I cast a glance to my right where the blurry form of a woman seems to sway on the stool beside me. The dim lighting in the bar masks her features, but I already know what I won’t see.

  No ocean blue eyes. No ebony curls.

  “What kind of fun did you have in mind?”

  She doesn’t seem to care my words are slurred. If anything, her eyes widen and she feels the need to place her arm on my shoulder before leaning in to whisper in my ear, her lips brushing against my skin as she speaks. “Any kind you want.”

  Half my teammates are engaging in the same behavior right now, getting their rocks off before roll call and lights out for the night.

  And, why shouldn’t they? They’re NFL players. Men with needs the plentiful jersey chasers have no problem meeting.

  As long as everything is consensual, I don’t say anything about it.

  It would be so easy to follow her back to her room. I’m drunk enough I could pretend she’s who I want. I’ve certainly done that before. I’m miserable enough to admit fucking her senseless would be a huge release of all the pent-up anger and frustration swirling inside me.

  One more drink should do it…

  A rough slap to my shoulder jerks me out of my deliberation.

  “Fly along, little bumblebee,” a deep voice advises. “This, here, isn’t the flower for you.”

  The woman frowns, but heeds the subtle warning in my team captain’s no-nonsense tone. She abandons her perch, slinking away to find another target.

  I snort into my glass because, well…he called me a flower. I might be dead on the inside, but that’s still funny.

  “You drinking because you don’t think she’ll show or because you’re scared she will?”

  I shrug before draining the last of my tequila. “Not sure.”

  He shakes his head and gestures for the bartender. “How drunk are you?”

  “Not sure.”

  “There anything you sure of?”

  “Not really.” Yes, but it doesn’t matter. She made our bed, now we’re both forced to lie in it.

  “Falls, you gotta quit pulling this shit. You aren’t getting paid millions of bucks to get drunk off your ass all the time and be a cranky-ass motherfucker to anyone who speaks to you.”

  “Fuck off, Davis. Don’t you have a wife and kids to call and bid goodnight before curfew?” He’s one of the players on the team with a family at home. He’s also one of the few married guys who is one hundred percent faithful. I’ve never seen his gaze wander, no matter how many thirsty women surround us in public.

  I feel the bumblebee’s eyes on me from across the room. If I snap my fingers, she’ll be at my beck and call.

  “Don’t you have a wife to call and apologize to before you drink yourself into an early grave?” Davis retorts.

  Goddamn my big mouth.

  For whatever reason, this veteran safety for the Sacramento Gold Rushers has made it his season’s mission to take me under his wing and pass on everything he knows about how to survive the NFL before his likely retirement next year. Making sure I don’t kill myself in one of my drunken stupors falls under the purview of his responsibilities.

  Which is why he knows my life story, while the rest of my teammates are still in the dark.

  I rotate the wedding band I rarely wear around my finger. I feel naked without it on; I feel like a fraud when I wear it. “I don’t know if I have a wife anymore.”

  He turns to the bartender, who’s waiting on his order. “He’s done for the night. Get me two tonic waters with a twist and brew a pot of coffee.”

  The dude who had no qualms about liquoring me up turns to do his newest customer’s bidding without any argument.

  Davis twists on his barstool until he faces me directly. “She send you divorce papers yet?”

  “No.” And I’m honestly not sure why. After so many days, weeks, months of zero contact, living on opposite sides of the country from one another, I’m not sure what’s holding her back.

  She’s the one who lied to push me away, after all. It’s not like I asked for us to separate, to see other people.

  “You wearing that ring tonight, hoping it’ll make her magically appear at the game tomorrow?”

  “No.” Maybe. What if she’ll only be my wife again if I act more like her husband?

  I don’t know how to be that man anymore.

  I don’t know if she wants me to.

  “You’re never gonna know until you talk to her.” Davis slides my cell phone directly in front of me.

  I didn’t even realize I’d said the words aloud.

  “From what I’ve pieced together over the past few months of your drunken outbursts, it s
eems like you both made some mistakes. If you were having the season of your life, I’d say it’s over. Let sleeping dogs lie. But, you are living in the past, and it is killing your future. Eventually, QB, you gotta make the play or face a sack. Your choice.”

  The well-meaning bastard makes it sound so easy.

  None of this has been my choice.

  And I’m not sure if that makes me mad as hell or sick to my stomach.

  With Davis’ back turned, the bumblebee shoots me a wink.

  Fuck it. I’m so far gone, I might as well embrace being the monster I’ve always been.

  The fans surrounding me in Albany Stadium erupt into cheers when Mike breaks through the plane of the end zone for another touchdown.

  Their shouts add to the cacophony in my brain as I remain the lone person sitting in my seat. My palms sweat. No amount of rubbing them on my jeans rids me of the clammy feeling. A traitor, I sit behind the home team close to the fifty-yard line, wearing a blue and red jersey with someone else’s name on the back.

  I’ve abandoned any hope of paying attention to the game in favor of following Rob’s pacing form across the field on the visiting team’s sideline.

  I can’t tear my hungry gaze away.

  Even from a distance, he’s changed so much. He looks larger than life, but the pads which once protected him during play seem to weigh him down. A scruffy beard covers most of his face. I can’t see his eyes from this far away, but I’m honestly terrified of what they might look like up close.

  Throughout the first half and into the third quarter, his play has been haphazard at best. His inconsistent performance coupled with his seemingly antsy behavior on the sidelines makes me rethink my decision to attend tonight’s game.

  Having thrust in my face his train wreck of a life is my worst nightmare come true. It was easy to dismiss media reports of his standoffish behavior as overly dramatized. I could ignore the losing games, chalking it up to being drafted to the worst team in the league.