BENCHED

by Abigail Graham

  He offers me a hand, and I shake it.

  “Hell of a grip, there,” he says.

  “I work out.”

  “I can tell. Frank LeSalle. You know Phoebe?” There’s a sly, joking tone to his words I don’t like.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m her brother-in-law.”

  “Small world. You ready?”

  “Ready to kick your team’s butt? Yeah.”

  I tilt my head to the side and glare at him. They don’t need to hear shit like that, they’re just kids. Not my problem. I turn and walk back to the sidelines after the coin toss and stand next to Eddie.

  “Fold your arms and look tough,” he says, looking down at his clipboard.

  “What, why?”

  “It strikes me as funny.”

  I sigh and do as he says.

  The peewee teams borrow the high school’s football field. There’s bleachers on either side, nothing huge, but they’re completely jam packed. I spot Phoebe, seated close to the fifty yard line. She gives me a neutral wave.

  I suppose that’s something.

  McGinty is doing all the work. I just stand around, and the kids look at me like I’m a god.

  This whole thing is so strange. They’re out there huddled on the field. We’re playing offense. The other team doesn’t punt the ball. They’re too small. They just start at the fifty yard line.

  It’s funny to watch. They look silly in their little uniforms. They can’t really throw a pass either, so the little quarterback tosses the ball, laterally, to Carrie, who runs with it.

  She’s fast for her age, a natural runner. She makes it pretty far, weaving between the other kids. Then a kid from the other team grabs the flag from her belt, and it’s over.

  There are a lot of people with cameras in the stands. While I was watching the play, more people showed up. The bleachers are full and now the whole field is surrounded, people crowding in to watch.

  Are people really this into watching six-year-olds play football?

  McGinty gives me a worried look.

  Oh, of course, they’re not. They’re here to see me.

  I frown and stare out at the field while the teams get set up.

  This time a different kid carries the ball. One or two more plays and they’ll be in the end zone. I don’t know what that jackass on the other team is teaching his kids, but they have no cohesion.

  They’re six-year-olds, I remind myself.

  Still, ours puts them to shame. I find myself yelling encouragement at them. Carrie has the ball again, and this time she makes it into the end zone and spikes it and starts doing a little dance.

  I laugh out loud. Those dances have been banned by the pros for years as unsportsmanlike, but watching her cavort around with her oversized helmet bobbing on her shoulders as she tries to do the robot is about the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

  I glance back at the bleachers. Phoebe is on her feet, whistling and clapping. She’s so happy, sporting a big grin on her face.

  It makes her look completely different. When she’s sullen, she’s pretty, when she’s happy, she’s gorgeous. I mean a knockout. She makes my heart pound in my chest, even in jeans and a long sleeved T-shirt.

  “Wright,” McGinty grunts.

  I turn back to the field and watch. Carrie is on the bench as the defensive lineup plays. She’s taken her helmet off and she’s all sweaty and red-faced and panting for breath. I walk over to her and she looks up at me with big, wide eyes.

  “Good run, kid. You’ve got hustle.”

  She smiles so wide it looks like it hurts.

  I turn away quickly. When she grins at me like that, it warms something in my stomach. I almost feel proud, but why should I? I didn’t do anything.

  When I turn back, Phoebe is waving at Carrie, who waves back. The kid is so excited, she bounces in her seat. Her mom gives me a curious look, then smiles.

  I smile back. I can’t help it.

  Our side has a strong defense, too. It’s strange watching them avoid hitting each other. They only ever pull on those little flags. After barely budging the ball, the other team has to give it up. The rules are a little weird with no punting or kickoff. They end up back on the fifty yard line with the ball in our team’s hands.

  Across the field, their coach Frank stands with his feet spread, gripping a clipboard in his hand, an angry look on his face.

  Calm down, man. It’s a bunch of kids. I don’t even know why they bother keeping score.

  The plays run like before, except the other side seems even more confused and befuddled. Frank the coach yells at his team while Eddie remains calm and collected, relating the plays to his little quarterback.

  Carrie gets the ball in a lateral pass again and runs it in.

  One of the kids on the other team runs at her too hard, and too fast. I tense up. It looks like a pro play, like he means to hit her.

  Eddie yells, “Hey!” a moment too late, and the other kid bashes into Carrie and shoves her down.

  He goes down on top of her, and a high-pitched shriek cuts through the air like a knife.

  I’m halfway there by the time I realize I’m running. I lift the other kid off her and she rolls onto her back, clutches her ankle, and starts screaming.

  I drop to my knees and gently probe the joint. She cries out even louder. It doesn’t feel broken.

  I scoop her up in my arms and rise to my feet, and charge down the field. Behind me, Phoebe runs down to the bottom row of the bleachers, vaunts the rail, and runs after me. I’ve met pro players that don’t run like she does.

  “Mommy!” Carrie screams, as she draws near.

  “What happened?”

  “He tripped me,” she wails. “I twisted my ankle!”

  That’s all she can manage before she breaks out into screams and sobs.

  “She’s scared,” I say.

  Phoebe lifts her daughter out of my arms and holds her close, rocking her back and forth.

  “She needs ice and--”

  “Shh,” Phoebe says, “Shhh.” Then she looks at me. “I’m taking her to the car.”

  “Go.”

  I turn, and see that little shit Frank standing on the sidelines.

  “We gonna play or what?”

  I close the gap so fast he almost falls when he flinches, but I don’t let him. I grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him up, popping stitches with my grip.

  “What the fuck was that,” I snarl in his face. “They’re playing flag football, you fucking asshole.”

  He gives me a shove, or tries to, anyway. I don’t let go.

  “I ever see shit like that on the field again, I’ll make you scream like that little girl did, do you fucking hear me, you piece of shit?”

  I shove him back and let go. He plops on the turf and sits there with an expanding stain on his crotch.

  “Wright!” McGinty yells. “What are you--”

  I brush past him and run to my car. Phoebe is already leaving, on her way to the hospital. I start it up, throw it in reverse, chirp my tires pulling out, and peel out after her. She puts her lights on and screams through red lights and stop signs, and I keep on her tail.

  Damn, she can drive. All this running and driving and shit is starting to impress me. Or it would, if I could get that girl’s screaming out of my head.

  I park askew in the first spot I find at the hospital and run over to Phoebe’s car. Carrie is still crying and sobbing, but at least she’s stopped screaming.

  I throw open the door and pull the little girl into my arms.

  “What are you doing? I can--”

  “I’ve got her,” I say sharply. “Come on.”

  I carry her through the automatic doors and up to the desk. Phoebe strokes Carrie’s head and tells the receptionist what happened and a nurse takes us back. I lower Carrie onto a gurney and my throat tightens as they snap one of those identifier wristbands on her.

  The nurses raise her foot and put ice on it. Eve
ry time Carrie moves her leg, she whimpers. Her eyes are red and her cheeks streaked with tears. Phoebe holds her little hand tightly and strokes her hair.

  “You’re going to be fine, honey,” she tells her.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I hate hospitals. Absolutely hate them. I can barely stand being in here, it makes my skin crawl. The bright lights, that chemical smell, the dry air. My hands twitch.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Phoebe tells me.

  “I want to.”

  I follow them into a room. It’s really just an alcove with a curtain. I pace the floor while Phoebe hops onto the bed and sits with her daughter, holding her hand.

  “Mom, it hurts,” she whimpers.

  The words strike my back like a whip. It feels like my spine is clenching. I hate hospitals.

  Can’t they be any fucking faster?

  Carrie ends up getting a juice cup and sitting there for two hours before they wheel her away.

  “You may as well wait here,” the nurse tells us. “She’ll be fine. We’ll do an MRI, no pain.”

  Phoebe nods.

  When Carrie is gone she almost collapses. She’s a complete wreck. For an awkward moment I hold back, then I gingerly rest my hand on the small of her back.

  “She’ll be okay. She probably just twisted it. Screaming because she was scared.”

  Phoebe nods.

  I want to get closer, to put my arms around her. Suddenly she looks tiny and vulnerable. Is she always like that on the inside, under the tough front?

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she chokes out, and the vulnerability vanishes beneath her usual posture, the way she carries herself, like she’ll walk through you if you give her any shit.

  “You don’t have to be ‘on,’ right now. She’s not here.”

  Phoebe gives me an odd look. “What?”

  “You don’t have to wear your game face all the time. It’s okay to be upset. Your kid is hurt.”

  She shrugs off my hand. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”

  “I know, but…” I can’t think of anything else to say. But what?

  I pace the hall while Phoebe sits in the side chair, looking broken and exhausted until Carrie rolls back in followed by a doctor.

  “She’s going to be fine,” he says to Phoebe. “She needs to ice it for a few days and rest. It’s not a sprain, but it was close.”

  Phoebe nods, relief plain on her face.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d give her Advil, but not too much. Don’t give her more than four a day, every six hours or four hours while she’s awake.”

  Phoebe nods.

  “It’ll keep the swelling down and do something for the pain. Otherwise, she can go ahead home now, no need to keep her.”

  I brush the nurse out of the way and lift Carrie into a wheelchair. They put a brace on her foot, but I don’t want her making it worse. Phoebe wheels her outside, and I lift her into the front seat of her Tahoe.

  While Phoebe drives her home, I peel off to a Walgreens and walk inside.

  The clerk at the counter says, “Holy crap, you’re--”

  “Not now,” I growl.

  From the first aid aisle, I grab a big bottle of the ibuprofen. Bearing one of those little baskets in one hand, I fill it with snacks and candy, then scowl at the clerk at the front while I pay for it in silence and walk out.

  “Jerk,” the kid mutters under his breath.

  I resist the urge to flip him the bird and head over to Phoebe’s. She answers the door when I knock.

  “What?”

  I step inside, holding up the bag. Carrie is on the couch with her foot propped up on a stack of pillows on top of an ottoman. She looks better already. The bowl of ice cream propped on her tummy probably helps. Phoebe changed her out of her uniform into a set of pajamas.

  “She’s fine,” Phoebe says.

  I walk into the kitchen and set down the bag.

  “What happened to eating healthy?” Phoebe says, going through the snacks.

  “I find cheese curls are the best thing for a joint injury.”

  She glares at me.

  “She needs it, trust me.”

  I pop open the bag and offer her one.

  “So do you. Here.”

  Phoebe looks at the cheese curl like it’s been handed to her by a leper, but eventually snatches it and tucks it between her teeth. We stand crunching for a few minutes.

  “Go sit with her. I’ll make dinner and bring it out to you. Nothing huge.”

  Phoebe gives me a silent nod, and walks out of the room. Her shoulders slump and she looks so tired. The urge to reach out and put my hands on her is overwhelming, but I hang back and stay in the kitchen.

  Pork chops are quick enough. I plate them up with some kid food, mashed potatoes and boxed macaroni and cheese that I grudgingly allowed Phoebe to keep in her kitchen, and carry it all out.

  I don’t want to crowd them on the couch, so I sit on the floor and eat, silently watching cartoons with Phoebe and her little girl.

  After eating ice cream and dinner and a second round of ice cream, Carrie is getting droopy.

  “I’ll get her,” I volunteer, as Phoebe moves to carry her upstairs.

  We both take her to her bedroom. I step out after I lay her on the bed and let her mom set up the pillows propping up her leg and tuck her into bed.

  “Mom?” Carrie yawns.

  I leave them alone. Downstairs, I turn down the television and sit on the couch, listening to Phoebe’s voice. It’s too soft to hear what she’s saying, but from the cadence of her words, she’s reading her daughter a story.

  By the time Phoebe comes down the stairs, I’m a little sleepy myself.

  She flops on the couch and doesn’t say anything for a good long while.

  I glance at her but don’t break the silence. She’s still visibly upset.

  “Tough kid. She’ll be fine.”

  Nothing. Phoebe is still quiet. Then she says, “What’s up with the car?”

  “What?”

  “I want to talk about something else.”

  “Oh. It was my mom’s.”

  “You still drive it.”

  “Yeah. The Ferrari is just for joy rides. Wish I’d never bought the thing. You know what an oil change costs?”

  “A lot,” she says, dryly.

  “Yeah. Oldsmobile’s more reliable anyway.”

  “Weird to see a guy with all your money driving a car like that.”

  “Yeah,” I shrug. “Guess you figured I’d have a Bentley or whatever, right? Something flashy and trashy.”

  “Is a Bentley trashy?”

  “Trashier than a Rolls. I don’t think any of that shit makes you look like anything but an asshole with more money than brains. Obey the speed limit and a $500,000 car and a $5,000 car get you there at the same time.”

  “If you obey the speed limit,” she says, a droll touch to her voice.

  “I like to drive fast.”

  She chews on that for a while, then says, “Why?”

  “I’m not sure.” I shrug.

  “There must be a reason. What else do you do?”

  “Exercise. Eat. Sleep. Football.”

  “What about all your girlfriends?”

  “They’re not my girlfriends.”

  “Oh, so you just sleep with famous women.”

  “Not usually. Most of them aren’t interested. I just pick up some bimbo because Lou told me to take her to dinner, then drop her off and don’t bother with her again.”

  “Who’s Lou?”

  “My agent. You saw him in court.”

  “Yeah. Him,” she says coldly.

  “You have a problem with him?”

  She looks at me and scowls. “He threatened me. My career, my kid.”

  I sit up. “What?”

  “He said if I like giving out tickets so much, he’ll make sure I never do anything else. He also said he wonders how I take care of
a little girl with no one else around to help me with her. He said child services might wonder, too.”

  I straighten in my seat and she flinches. Rage pounds in my chest, burns in my lungs, and through my veins. My hands clench into boulders and my shoulders knot up. I’m on my feet already.

  “He said that?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He and I are going to have words.” I reach in my pocket for my phone.

  She grabs my wrist. “Don’t bother. I don’t care. He doesn’t scare me. Sit down.”

  I blink a few times, then let go of my phone and sink back into the couch. I like this couch. I just wish the back was taller.

  “I can concentrate,” I say

  “What?”

  “I like football, exercise, and driving fast because I can concentrate. Forget shit. I have a lot running through my head.”

  She nods. “Yeah. I get that. Focus. Worst part of my job is between tickets when there’s nothing to do but sit and think.”

  “Can’t you do something else?”

  She shrugs. “The guys fuck around when they’re on traffic duty, but I don’t. Feels wrong.”

  “So you sit there and think.”

  “Yeah.”

  “About your husband?”

  She gives me a sharp look.

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “I saw the ring. Just wondering.”

  “You know, I overheard Carrie telling you.”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Hard being on your own?”

  “I’m not on my own. I have my little girl.”

  “Right, I mean…”

  “I’m not going husband shopping if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “It just seems like a lot for one person.”

  She scowls at me. “So what are you trying to distract yourself from? Something in a hospital, right?”

  I flinch. “How did you know?”

  “I’m a cop. You ever read Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Yeah. Don’t look shocked I read a book.”

  She glances over her shoulder. “How many stairs do I have? You’ve been up there what, twice now?”

  “I don’t know. I never counted them.”

  “Exactly. You’ve seen them, but you didn’t observe. I’m a cop. I observe. It’s nine, by the way. The stairs. Nine.”

  “Right. Okay, you got me. I had a bad time in a hospital once. Well, more than once, but you know what I mean.”