by Kata Čuić
I can’t overlook what I’m seeing with my own eyes tonight.
His life is supposed to be better now without me in it. He’s supposed to be on top of the world, living a dream so few peewee football players will ever attain.
He should be the center of his team, laughing and joking with the offense while still paying attention to what the defense is doing on the field. He should be all dimpled smiles, sparkly eyes, and waving to the fans who follow him—even to away games.
He definitely should not throw the bottle of water the trainer hands him across the bench.
This isn’t the man I used to know.
The last quarter shreds me. My anxiety ticks up a notch with every second the clock winds down. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ll get the chance to speak to him. He’ll shake hands with his opponents, then go to his locker room and prepare to board a flight back to California.
Security arrives to escort me to the field as the final minute burns away on the clock. With my family pass securely around my neck, I make my way to the Wolves’ sideline, intending to stay on the fringe of activity until Mike asks for me, like I did for his first game.
The scene on the field is the usual controlled chaos. Albany players dance around, celebrating their win. Reporters vie for interviews with the big play makers of the night. Family and friends scurry around, getting autographs, pictures, and handshakes from their favorite players, all while looking a bit star struck over it all.
I watch, unfazed after so many years on the sidelines, as Sacramento’s team gives interviews on their side of the field, players slowly trickling into the visiting locker room without much fanfare.
Now that I’m at field level, and much shorter than many of the people here, I’ve lost sight of number ten. Searching frantically for him, a part of me cries out over not being ready to say good bye yet again, even if only from a distance and without words.
And then I see him. He’s in the middle of the field, speaking with reporters. He glances toward the Albany sideline and does a double take.
His gaze sears me, and I know, without a doubt, I’ve made a mistake being here.
The uncontrolled fury on his face causes the sports journalist to step back from him. Without any words of parting, he stalks toward me, my heart pounding in time with every measured stride he takes across the field.
Oh, no. Not here. Not now.
There are too many witnesses.
I can’t hide. He’s already seen me, and there’s nowhere to take cover.
I’m frozen in place, awaiting his wrath, and for the cameras to catch it all for posterity.
And then he’s here. He doesn’t invade my personal space like I expect, but his chest is heaving like…well, like he’s just played three hours of nasty football.
“Your hair,” he breathes. His hand hovers in the air between us, though he’s too far away to reach my curls.
As if it’s my duty to complete the task he set out to do, I lift my hand, toying with the bottom fringe of my unruly mop, which falls just above chin level. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something completely stupid, such as, “You don’t like it?”
Rob beats me to the punch. “I couldn’t find you. I knew you were here. I could feel you, but now I know why I didn’t see you.”
His admission slices through me. He once told me he really saw me for who I was beneath whichever mask I wore.
It was all a lie.
His willingness to jump into Julie’s arms and his words now only prove that.
I suck in a harsh breath and cast my gaze to the turf beneath my feet, unsure of what else to say in this moment that feels like an out-of-body experience.
“You didn’t sign off on that last magazine spread.” He clears his throat, like this is any other business conversation he doesn’t really want to have, but knows must be done. “Was it too racy? I told them I wouldn’t pose for the Body Edition. Shawn was mad as hell about it.”
“He’s doing a good job.” I’m not sure he hears my whisper over the din of the still-buzzing stadium. “I’m glad he’s watching out for you.”
“He’s supposed to be watching out for you,” Rob grits. “Why haven’t you been to the doctor? Are you having trouble accessing the bank account, the insurance?”
“It’s your money, Rob. I’m not going to use it.”
“It’s our money. You worked just as hard for it as I do. I wouldn’t be earning it if you hadn’t supported me the way you did in college.” He steps closer, forcing my chin up to meet his gaze. He reaches his hand out once more, then drops it to his side. “I…” He breathes deeply, holds it for a beat, then lets it out in a rush. The faint smell of alcohol unsettles me further. “The least I can give you after everything you suffered through is access to the best possible medical care and money for grad school if you ever decide to apply.”
So, I’m still his pity project. I didn’t think the pain could go any deeper.
At least that answers my questions about why he secretly treats me like his wife, even as I wonder why I haven’t been served with divorce papers.
“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.” He doesn’t really want to know my plans, anyway. That would cross the line of our business relationship.
He nods. “It’s not like you need to rush. There’s nothing holding you down anymore.”
The edge in his voice prompts me to look at my shoes again. “You, neither.”
“I’m not supposed to be over here. I should go.”
I nod, swallowing down the emotion in my throat as I glance around. My surroundings come back into focus, and I breathe a sigh of relief. No one seems to be paying attention to our interaction. “Okay.”
He heaves out another deep breath that forces my attention to his face. His previous expression of anger has been replaced by hurt and unmistakable sadness. “Take care of yourself. Please.”
I’m vaguely conscious of nodding my head, though I can barely feel anything at all. “You, too.”
A wry chuckle escapes his lips, though his expression doesn’t change at all. “Yeah, sure.”
“What does that mean?” Dammit. I shouldn’t have asked that.
Let go, Evie. Just let him go. Let him live his amazing life. He just needs a little more time for all the pieces to fall into place.
“It means,” he leans forward into my personal space, the sour aroma of alcohol on his breath more noticeable than before, “I’m no longer your problem.”
As he walks away, it occurs to me he lied.
Even if he doesn’t realize it.
Rob Falls will always be my problem.
I stare at the phone screen until it blurs, my thumb hovering over the contact. She looks nothing like this old picture anymore.
I should call.
And say what?
Sorry I was a fucking ass to you at the game. It ate me alive to see you in his jersey, not mine. Come home now. I’ll make it up to you.
Sure. Just like I can make up for being unfaithful.
Sorry about that, baby. Let’s take a trip to Tahiti and I’ll make you forget all about it.
Insane laughter loud enough to scare the cats spills out of my mouth. I can’t even touch her, so I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make her forget anything.
I take another swig of champagne straight from the bottle. This stuff tastes like shit. Why it’s the gold standard for celebrating is beyond me.
The kitchen is cold and dark. Not a single meal has been prepared in this place. No aroma of Greek spices hangs in the air. Special cookies will probably never be baked in the ovens. The coffee maker laughs at me. I don’t fucking drink coffee. I haven’t made breakfast to serve in bed even once.
My workout clothes lay in stinking piles all over the floor, stripped off whenever and wherever I felt like it. There’s no one to clean up for. No one who cares if this place is immaculate or a pig sty.
The thing that eats away at me the most is the untouched be
d in the master suite. The one she asked for the night I won the Heisman. It’s made up, the sheets never slept in, the comforter never turned down. If it isn’t used, no one can ever tell me if the five-million-count Egyptian cotton was worth the price. I don’t know anything about sheets. The lady at the store said they were the best, so I bought the best.
While the shower stall in the en suite bathroom is lined with dank towels from the few nights I needed ice to douse the fire in my veins, the bathtub hasn’t ever been filled. The bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and bubbles are still full.
Her special lotion is on the nightstand. In high school, I would have slathered that shit all over myself and jerked off until my dick was raw. I can’t even bring myself to sniff the stuff now.
I could close the door. Shut it all out. I never close that fucking door.
Why?
Patch hops up onto the couch and uses my leg for a scratching post, causing me to spit champagne all over my chest, where Evie’s name serves as a permanent reminder of my biggest failures.
“God fucking dammit!”
The bottle explodes against the wall right next to the bedroom door.
Patch and Felix run for cover.
That’s the last straw. How could I ever be a good father if I can’t even fucking manage not to scare my pets?
The television is the first casualty. I don’t want to watch that footage of her even one more time.
She caused all this.
Not me. Her.
Fuck this stupid kitchen. I don’t need it. I can’t even cook anything other than eggs.
The bathroom is next. All the stupid, girly smelling stuff I’ll never use gets dumped down the drain. This shit has an expiration date, right? It can’t be good anymore.
When the last drop is emptied, I tear into the closet, ripping out the pile of blankets and pillows. What the hell was I thinking? She probably doesn’t sleep in closets anymore. Another man likely keeps her safe at night.
My chest heaving, and all the problems taken care of, I turn to the bed.
The perfect, all white, never-slept-in bed.
I’m sick of seeing Julie’s face in my dreams. No one will ever sleep in this bed.
And then I remember.
I still have another bottle of champagne.
It’s not midnight yet, so I pop the cork. The sound of it ricocheting off the wall and glass shattering in its wake barely registers.
But, the pounding at my door is kind of hard to ignore.
I’m not that drunk…yet.
“Falls, you dickhead! Open up!”
Huh. Shawn’s here.
Why is Shawn here?
He wasn’t invited.
His face is fifty shades of red, a vein pulsing in his forehead when I let him in.
It’s almost comical the way his expression changes from rage to shock as he looks around the place. Not funny enough for me to ask him to stay.
“Go away. I’m busy.”
“Yeah, I can see that. I wasn’t aware trashing your condo was on your schedule for the day. You know what was, though? Practice.”
“I gave myself the day off.” I shrug. “It’s a special occasion.”
He shoves me aside, closing the door behind him as he stalks into the living room. “I don’t know if I’d call it special, but losing your fucking mind is definitely an occasion.”
“It’s my anniversary.” I take another swig from the bottle. Champagne must be like cheap frat-house beer. It gets better the more of it you drink.
“The anniversary of what?” Shawn’s holding his phone.
I’m not sure who he thinks he’s going to call, but I’ll fight him for it if he thinks what I think he’s thinking.
Shit. Maybe I’m more drunk than I realized.
“It’s November fourth. You know. Special.”
Shawn shakes his head, staring at me like I’m insane.
Hell, he might be right.
“Oh, shit, Falls.” Again, funny the way he goes from scared to sad looking. “I didn’t realize…”
“No one does. But, you see why I can’t ask you to stay. I’m busy.”
He strides toward me, not stopping until we’re nearly chest to chest. The way he looks at me should phase me more than it does. I’m pretty sure he’s disgusted.
“You’re being fined fifteen thousand dollars for skipping out and fucking over your team. I’ll let them know you were puking your brains out and couldn’t leave your place. That might buy you some leeway. If any of the neighbors call the front desk with noise complaints, I’ll tell them…the cats got into their stash of catnip and went a little crazy.”
“I don’t really care.” I shrug again. “I hate football, and I hate this place.”
“You hate football?” Shawn studies me, that initial rage returning to his eyes. “Do you know how many high school quarterbacks would give their whole dicks to be where you are right now? Do you even get that no matter how hard they work, they’ll never be as good as you could be?”
Oh, so that’s what this is about. “Is that what happened to you? You weren’t good enough for the big leagues, so you decided to be an agent instead?”
“Yeah,” he spits out. “Because I love the sport. Even if I can’t play it at the professional level, I can’t imagine my life without it.”
“You’d be surprised what you learn to live without when you don’t have a choice.”
He maneuvers around me to the door, but doesn’t look over his shoulder as he opens it. “Get your fucking shit together, Falls. If this is the kind of man she married, I can see why she left you.”
As soon as he leaves, the bottle of champagne in my hand joins the other one on the floor across the room in a kaleidoscope of sparkling glass and bubbly.
Yeah.
I have one hell of a throwing arm.
I’ve been told I have one hell of a dick, too.
Neither of them have gotten me what I wanted.
I throw my keys on the makeshift table and bypass the kitchen for the dingy bathroom.
The caulking on the tile is moldy in more places than not, the toilet bowl stained a permanent brown. More red than normal tints the water.
Fifteen days and counting this month.
They’re getting longer.
And heavier.
Another wave of pain washes over me. Folding in half doesn’t lessen the vice, but it does increase the stinging sensation on my left hip. I can actually feel the bandage peeling away.
After a small eternity, the pain is manageable enough for me to go about my evening.
I sort through the bills which were in my mailbox—student loan repayment notices, due to begin in two short months, meager copays from Planned Parenthood which mean choosing between paying those or buying groceries, a late rent notice.
I look around at the studio apartment, situated on the top floor of a dilapidated building in Jersey.
This is not at all what I imagined big-city living in New York would be.
Then again, the campus of NYU is a different world from the slum I currently reside in.
At least I made it. Maybe not in the way I’d imagined when I was making grand plans for my life as a teenager, but I’m still here.
Just…living the dream.
I pull the cheap bottle of wine I splurged on from the paper bag and pour myself a big glass. As much as I want to chug it, I’ll probably be throwing it up soon, and I have to somehow drag myself to go wedding gown shopping with Alyssa tomorrow.
If she’d scheduled it for today, God help me, I wouldn’t have been able to do it.
I had my own special appointment to mark today’s date.
Another splurge I couldn’t nearly afford.
I scroll through my phone, looking for a particular playlist to enhance the mood for the evening. It’s laughable how heartbroken I felt when I made this in high school. While the source of the pain is still the same, the stakes are so much greater than they wer
e before.
I suppose that’s part of growing up.
Realizing what’s important changes with time.
Not being asked to a dance felt like such a slap in the face back then.
Being absolutely reviled by the man I love in exchange for sacrificing everything is slowly killing me now.
When I tap back to the home screen, the date on the calendar stares me in the face.
November fourth.
“Happy Anniversary, Rob,” I call out to the empty apartment.
Please. Just be happy. Move on and be happy.
Let something I’ve done in this life be worthwhile.
Since I’m already wallowing in self-loathing, I might as well go all the way.
I grab the manila envelope I picked up from the attorney’s office and shuffle to my bed, wrenching open the rickety nightstand to get to my stash in the top drawer.
Arranging myself in the most comfortable position possible, I flip through the magazines I’ve accumulated during the season. It’s a small selection since Rob doesn’t agree to interviews or photographs often.
They all read the same. No personal information, plugs for the Sing Out foundation, speculation on Sacramento cutting him loose.
It’s not even the end of his debut season and there are already cries for his blood.
Fucking ungrateful fans.
I throw the magazines aside and pick up the calendar. It’s my favorite collector’s item. No football talk, no insults. Just NFL players and animals.
Honestly, it’s the marriage of two of my favorite things.
Mr. November is a rare breed. The only month with cats instead of dogs.
His dimple might be concealed under a scruffy beard, but the smile in his eyes can’t be hidden. Patch and Felix look like newborn kittens nestled in his big arms.
He’s going to be a wonderful father someday.
I hope his future wife agrees to at least six kids. He deserves everything he’s ever wanted out of life.
Although we never talked about it much, I know he wants a big family. He was always so lonely growing up without any siblings.
Worn out on stalling the inevitable, I rip open the envelope I brought to bed with me. Everything seems cut and dry. I’m not asking for a dime. No claim on anything which is rightfully his. All he has to do is sign the agreement. I’ve been assured he doesn’t even need to appear for the court hearing to make it official. The lawyer said he could deliver the papers whenever I’m ready.
