by Vanessa Fox
Certainly, all things considered, the future looks bright. I was fine before Kade came back into my life, and I'll be fine again. Eventually.
But that doesn't make the present any easier. I feel like the life force has been zapped out of me. For a brief time, I had a taste of something— something really good. A taste of genuine happiness. Genuine, intense emotions the likes of which I've never felt before, and may never feel again, at least not in the same way, or to the same extent. And all of it wrapped up in the colorful, noisy cacophony of flashing camera bulbs, bright stadium lights, impossibly green grass, rambling commentators, and screaming fans. Fancy high-rises, rumbling motorcycles, celebrities galore: a taste of the high life, the fame-hungry American dream.
Regular life just feels so drab in comparison. So quiet. So muted.
But that's just the way I like it, normally. The noise and the craziness, the center spotlight with all of America tuned in, was never for me. Even if Kade and I had found a way to make it work, eventually I would've cracked under the pressure. I wouldn't have been able to handle it.
So I guess it's better that it ended now rather than later, when I'd be even more in over my head.
That's what I keep telling myself, at least. Believe me, the second-guessing hasn't stopped. I question myself constantly. Did I do the right thing? Did I overreact? Am I the one in the wrong? Should I apologize to him? Should I call him and try to work things out?
I try to keep myself in the present moment, focused on whatever task is at hand. I've been listening to guided meditation recordings, trying to calm myself. Trying very hard to pull my attention away from where my mind inevitably wanders: to thoughts of Kade, wondering what he's doing, what he's thinking. Wondering if he's already drowned his sorrows in the arms of another woman, or multiple women. Thinking about the sound of his voice, the deep manliness accentuated by his charming Southern drawl. His magnetic green eyes, the bumps and ridges of his perfectly chiseled, hard body, the way his breath hitches and he moans when he slides inside me. The feeling of total safety, comfort and security I feel wrapped up in his arms in a warm bed. The sweet nothings he whispers in my ear as his hands travel all over my body.
It's... agony.
But I'm working through it.
Both Katie and Mrs. Cooper are trying to lend their support. Providing me with wine, chocolate, cheesecake, and sushi to dull the pain. Netflix marathons on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket.
I appreciate the sentiment. But it's like slapping a Flintstones band-aid over a gaping, hemorrhaging wound.
Only time will heal me.
I hope.
Kade
The center snaps the football, and I take a few steps back, scanning the field for an open receiver. Coach called a slant play, with Dylan Black meant to cut across the field horizontally to catch a quick pass for a short gain of a few yards. But Dylan is being blocked by a corner, and far downfield all my other receivers are running in heavy traffic, the white and blue stripes of the Hawks doing their best to sabotage our chances. To my right, a hulking defensive back pushes an offensive lineman out of his way like a ragdoll, and hurls towards me with the intensity of a freight train.
To avoid a sack, I quickly spike the football on the ground and the play slows to a stop before the defensive back has a chance to pummel into me.
A moment later, a yellow flag sails to the ground.
Goddamnit. I know they're gonna call me for intentional grounding.
This is the ninth penalty we've received, and it's only the middle of the third quarter. The score is 24-7 Hawks, and we damn well better step it up if we actually want to win this playoff game. I'll be so fucking pissed to go 16-0 only to lose our first playoff game, to a wildcard team no less, that's leagues below us in terms of talent and discipline.
But I have to keep a clear head and a steady hand. There's an eternity left before the clock strikes zero in the fourth, and I'm hellbent on making sure we get this win, and not by a few points. I want a large margin. I want to show the world that we're not a flash in the pan team. I want them to know we mean business.
The teams shuffle around. The Alpha players form a huddle around me, and I tell them the play that Coach has just broadcast through my headset. We position ourselves on the line of scrimmage, the penalty pushing us back five yards from where we were on the previous play. It's a read option: after the snap, I'll have the option of handing the ball to my running back, or passing it downfield, depending on what the defense looks like.
We ready ourselves as the play clock winds down. I yell out the audibles and after a few counts, the center snaps the ball into my hands.
I step back, scanning the field. My running back is jogging towards me from the right, prepared to take the ball. But I see my tight end running his ass off a good twenty five yards downfield, and it looks like he'll be completely open. I decide to pass instead.
The running back passes by me, but I hold on to the ball. He keeps his arms positioned so it looks like he has it, fooling a few of the defensive lineman as he rushes through them.
I start to snap my arm forward to release the ball, but hesitate when I notice in my periphery, a linebacker barreling towards me from my left. I spin around and run to my right, trying to scramble away.
But he's just too damn fast. His eyes are fierce and hungry, like a wild animal hunting his prey. He leaps forward and hits me hard in the chest with his shoulder pad. I careen to the ground. As I fall, my head hits something hard and for a moment my vision goes black.
I lay there in a daze. I don't even know what happened. Suddenly it dawns on me— the football! It's not in my hand anymore. I feel heavy bodies climbing and scrambling all over me. Men grunting and cursing. I try to sit up on my elbow, but my head screams with pain and I drop back down. For a second through my blurred vision I glimpsed a pile of bodies fighting and swatting at each other, and refs approaching to pull them apart.
Fuck. I fumbled the ball.
My head fucking hurts.
"Kade! Kade!" somebody yells. A hand grabs mine and tries to pull me up, but I can't stand. Holy shit, I can't stand. I fall back down on my butt, and lay back down. My head is swimming.
It's so fucking loud and I feel like my eardrums are gonna burst. So many voices, yelling and shouting. On the speakers the announcer says something but I can't make it out. The crowd is going wild, screaming and chanting, their individual voices blending together to form one high-pitched, intolerable static. The lights are so blinding, it hurts to keep my eyes open.
There is a hand on my chest and a female voice speaks into my ear, but I can't make sense of what's she's saying. She's repeating the same thing over and over.
"Kade! Kade, can you hear me?" I finally make out.
I nod weakly.
"Kade, you took a hit to the head, helmet to helmet. We need to make sure you're okay. You need to say the alphabet backwards and call your Dad to tell him you stole that $20 from his wallet to buy weed when you were seventeen. Willow's very disappointed in you, Kade. She's already found a new boyfriend."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" I shout. The force of my voice jostles me, and my head bristles with pain. "Where's Willow?"
Voices talk back and forth solemnly. They're talking about me but I can't tell what they're saying. I think it has to do with Willow. Did my dad find out about the weed thing? Fuck, I hope Coach doesn't find out. He'll kick me off the team.
This is too much. Too much noise. Too much light. I just want to go to sleep.
Chapter 20
Willow
I stroll down the aisles of JC Penney's, browsing the scarves and gloves. I'm not really sure what to get Katie for her birthday this year. My eyes catch on to a stylish red & black plaid scarf that I think might go nicely with the black winter jacket she just got for Christmas. I take it and hold it in my hands, scrutinizing it. I'm so indecisive when it comes to shopping for other people. My gifts pale in comparison to what others give
me— it's almost embarrassing. But hell, it's only $20. I can get this along with a few other things.
I carry it with me as I continue walking, heading to the perfume section.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I root around for it and pull it out. It's Katie.
"Hey, what's up?" I greet.
"Ummm...."
"What?"
"Well, there's been a bit of an emergency."
"What? What kind of emergency?"
"I was watching the game. Kade got hurt... it looks really bad. I just watched it happen."
I drop the gifts I'm carrying and rush home as quickly as possible. I'm in the door barely twenty minutes later, out of breath, all the color drained from my face.
"Did you record it?" I ask breathlessly.
"Yeah."
The DVR is paused. I slump down onto the couch and Katie presses play. It starts normally, like any of the thousands of plays he's done before. He looks like he's about to pass the football when a huge linebacker comes barreling towards him from the side. He turns and runs the opposite way, but it's too late— the lineman hits him hard in the chest. On the way down his helmet collides with one of the Hawks players caught in the fray. I wince at the sound of it— a loud crack that echoes through the stadium.
Both men fall limply to the ground and the football slips out of Kade's hand, causing the rest of the players to scramble after it.
The Hawks player who hit his helmet rolls around in agony for a few seconds before slowly rising to his feet, but Kade barely moves at all. He tries to raise his head, only to drop back down immediately.
The Hawks come away with the fumble recovery, but moments later all attention is on Kade as the trainers rush out onto the field to tend to him.
"Oh my God," I whisper, clasping my hand over my mouth.
The camera zooms in close to Kade laying there as the trainers try to talk to him. He looks totally out of it— like he doesn't know where he is. The TV announcers speak about Kade gravely as the injury timeout lags on and on. Talking about what a talented star Kade's been so far, and how unfortunate it is for this to happen to him. They're making it sound like he just died right there on the field.
The trainers try to help him to his feet, but he immediately collapses to his knees and keels over, spitting into the grass, his eyes wide and glassy.
God, I hate to see him like this. I can't imagine what he's going through.
A motorized cart glides onto the field and the trainers help him climb into the back. His movements are feeble and weak, like he's an old man. He leans back, his eyes dazed, his hair damp with sweat. The crowd claps and cheers as he's wheeled off, but in a very un-Kade-like fashion, he doesn't respond at all. Not with a smile, a wave, or a finger pointed to the sky, not a single gesture to tell the world "I'll be fine, guys". And I know that Kade would do that, even if he knew he wasn't fine.
He just stares off into space, his face blank.
"Fuck," is all I can think to say, my heart racing.
Katie's eyes are filled with tears. "You think he's gonna be okay?"
"I don't know."
"You need to call him!"
"He's not going to answer his phone, Katie. He's probably in the hospital."
"Call his parents!"
"I don't... I don't have their number," I say, disappointed. We never even got that far, to the point where I'm having dinner with his dad & step-mom, to the point where I feel like I'm part of the family again. Sure, they knew me back in high school, but that was an eternity ago.
"What about his coach? Can't you call his coach?"
"I don't have Coach Douglas of the Atlanta Alphas on speed dial, Katie."
"Well then what do we do?!"
"I don't know."
We sit in silence as the TV plays on. There's a new quarterback in his place, and the game goes on as if nothing had happened. It all suddenly feels so morbid and sick, and I don't understand how people can continue to take pleasure watching. A man just experienced a severe, debilitating brain injury in front of tens of thousands of people in the stands, and millions watching on TV. Yet the game just goes on— and now the primary topic of discussion is how this backup quarterback will fare in Kade's absence.
I pull out my phone and quickly text: "Please reply when you can and let me know you're okay."
I hit send and it disappears into the ether. I know he'll get it, eventually. But I still feel so far away. So helpless.
I should've been there with him. I should've been there, at the game. I should've been at his side, holding his hand, telling him everything is gonna be okay.
In a weird way, I feel guilty, like this is all my fault. I didn't watch the whole game, but the Alphas were very clearly losing. Maybe he wasn't himself— he was distracted. Maybe he wasn't focused, because of what happened between us. Maybe if it weren't for me breaking his heart, he could've reacted with quicker senses, and avoided the hit.
I just don't know.
—
Two days pass and I haven't heard a word from Kade despite calling and leaving multiple messages, and texting him constantly. I've been glued to ESPN and sports media, eager to hear updates on his condition. Injury reports say he's in concussion protocol, but don't go into further detail than that.
I assume he's in good enough condition to use his phone. He just doesn't want to talk to me. It's okay— I get it. This isn't about me being validated. I just want to know, from his mouth, that he'll be okay. I need to know. It's eating me up inside and I feel awful. I wish he would just give me this one courtesy, if nothing else. I still care about him deeply. I still... I still love him. Despite myself. Despite trying to will it out of me. I just can't do it.
Kade
It's been a week since our game and I'm still feeling totally out of it, though when people ask I try to pretend like I'm on top of the world. I don't think I'm convincing anybody.
I can't really explain how I feel. I'm just... off. My brain feels like it's filled with sludge. My thoughts move at a glacier's speed. It's like everything I do is in slow motion. You know when you try to think of an actor's name, or the band who wrote that song, and it's right on the tip of your tongue but it just won't come to you? Well, everything feels like that right now. If my mind were a TV channel, it would be receiving pure static. I try in vain to tune in to a clearer picture, but all I get is brief flashes of a vague, distorted image.
It's incredibly frustrating.
I'm at home with my parents. The doctors, and well, pretty much everyone, Coach included, weren't convinced I'd actually be able to take care of myself properly. Now that doesn't mean I'm shitting my pants and can't eat solid food. But they're all worried I'll get blackout drunk or decide to ride my motorcycle at high speeds through downtown. And hell, I can't say they'd be wrong. I feel so impulsive right now. Aimless. Anxious.
So I'm back in my old house, sleeping in my old bed. My room has changed a little bit, but the gist of it is still the same. Only now it's halfway filled with boxes and random junk. It's been turned into a storage room— nice. An old exercise bike sits abandoned in the corner. Stacks of papers and old books risk toppling over if I don't take care stepping around them. But my bed still looks the same, with the same familiar green and black diagonal pattern on my comforter that I slept under all throughout high school.
It brings back memories of Willow ... curled up and cuddling with her under the covers. Kissing, gingerly exploring each other's bodies for the first time. I was so worried when we had sex the first time— worried I was too small, worried I couldn't perform, worried I'd hurt her. I was a virgin, too. But I kept that cocky grin on my face the whole time, and I pretended like I was a regular Don Juan, like it was no big deal and I'd done it a thousand times. She could see through me, though— and that was a good thing. I think it made her feel more comfortable knowing that she was my first as well.
And I'm proud of the fact that she was the only girl I've ever had under those covers, despite m
y "Ladie's Man" reputation.
When I first arrived almost a week ago, memories of her flooded my mind— but it wasn't the usual bittersweet, melancholy reflections that one experiences when revisiting scenes from the past. Instead, it sent me into a severe panic attack that scared my parents so badly they almost drove me back to the hospital to get checked out again. Why? Because I remembered her... so vividly, so clearly. But I couldn't remember her name.
That scared the shit out of me. I wracked my brain. I searched and I searched, and I kept coming up blank. I drove myself so crazy with it that I had to go to the bathroom to vomit. I was sweating profusely. I wanted to cry. I wanted to tear my room apart.
Concussions are terrifying. From the time I started playing at nine years old, I've been lucky enough to avoid all but a couple minor ones, so I guess I always brushed them off like they were no big deal. But this one— this is a big deal. I've never felt anything like this before.
I feel better now than I did, but I'm still not myself. I have a ways to go yet. And I feel like I'm in fucking limbo.
Right now, I'm reclining in my dad's old chair, and my parents are sitting on the couch. My step-mom has cooked up a storm of appetizers— jalapeno rolls, taquitos, chips and dip. But I have no appetite. I'd happily chug some beers right about now, but they won't let me.
On the flat screen, we're watching the divisional championship playoff game between the Alpha's and the Massachusetts Highwaymen. Whoever wins this game goes to the Gridiron Bowl.
