Nothing Else Matters

by Leslie DuBois

  Relieved to have a nearly senile coach who was more concerned about getting his next nicotine fix than the actual details of the game, I closed my eyes and tried to relax again. I basically ran the team anyway. I was the one that had gotten us to the playoffs for the past four years. Now all I had to worry about was Sam.

  The next interruption came from Derek Strong, a defensive tackle and the unofficial "pharmacist" of the team.

  "Told you it would work, man. That was good stuff wasn't it?"

  "Yeah, yeah," I said groggily, looking to make sure no one was listening.

  "Are you gonna need some next week for the championship?"

  "Um, I don't know. I'll let you know."

  Derek ran a hand over his freshly shaven head while checking himself out in the mirror. Why did black men always look so cool with shaved heads? When I shaved my head in tenth grade after losing a bet with Reyna, I looked like a cancer patient.

  "Hey, is Reyna out there?" I said suddenly needing to see her.

  "No, but Sam's out there raving like a lunatic because you didn't make that last throw. Like you’re gonna have any trouble getting into USC. That SI article alone will get you into any college you want."

  I groaned. I didn't know what I feared more, scouts finding out about my shoulder or the wrath of Sam Kincaid.

  "Don't look so worried, Scott. I'm sure you just have a strained tendon or something. You'll be alright." Derek reassured me. I nodded. "I'll see you at the party. Don't forget to dress up. I'm going as a light bulb."

  I stared at him blankly. I knew there was some corny joke hidden in his words, but I wasn’t sure what it was.

  “So I can get screwed,” he said with a sly grin.

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes as Derek left the room chuckling to himself. It was cornier than I thought.

  I lifted myself out of the tub putting all of my weight on the right side of my body. The sharp pain in my shoulder had subsided a little, but I noticed that my left wrist and knee were completely numb.

  I stood in front of the mirror studying my once perfect now failing body, the body that so many girls had compared to that of a Greek god. Did only Greeks have good-looking gods? I'd have to ask Reyna later. She had probably done research on that. She did research on everything.

  In the middle of my rambling nonsensical thoughts, the door to the rehab room flew open.

  "What is it we've been working toward all these years?" Sam Kincaid yelled.

  "God, Mom, I'm naked!" I screamed reaching for a towel. I wrapped it around my waist as she entered the room further.

  "Like you have anything I haven't seen." My mother, Sam or Samantha Kincaid, rolled her eyes. "What was the point of little league, weight training, private camps, huh? I'll tell you the point. To get you into a good college, to get you into professional sports, to make you the best. Go for the gold. Do you hear me? The gold! No one cares about number 2!

  She sat down on a bench and took out a notebook. "You were sloppy out there Scott. You were off balance, unsure, and just plain sloppy. In the second quarter, you ran up the middle instead of throwing to a wide open number 17. You could have gained an extra four yards and a first down. Instead, you were almost sacked on the next play and ended up throwing an incomplete."

  "Mom, we won! Lay off."

  "Lay off? You want me to ‘lay off?’ Do you know what happened in the 1988 Olympics when I ‘laid off'?" she asked mockingly, complete with air quotes.

  I leaned on the mirror and crossed my arms. "So you got silver, big deal. Millions of people would love to have a silver medal in track and field."

  "Second place is losing. How many Olympic silver medalists do you see advertising sports drinks or selling athletic shoes, huh? None! Because no one cares about number 2." Sam closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She always got emotional when talking about the 1988 Olympics. After a few meditation techniques taught to her by her guru, Sam opened her eyes. She tightened the pull strings of the jogging suit that covered her slender muscular body and continued, "You may think I’m being hard on you, but it’s for your own good. We are so close to everything we’ve dreamed. Now, we're gonna sit here and fix your mistakes so you don't repeat them next week and blow the championship. Coach Reed gave me the play book and we're going to make some changes to make sure you shine for the Notre Dame scout."

  "No, no, no. I'm not going through this again. We won the game! Leave me alone. There's a Halloween party tonight and I'm going."

  "Okay, okay, okay. I forgot you're Mr. Big shot quarterback. You can’t be seen cowing to mommy." Sam stood and tightened her blond ponytail. "Look, you did win. I’ll give you that much. I’ll let you off the hook this one time. Go to your little party, hi-five your thick-necked friends, screw your little cheerleader, and we'll start in the morning." She approached me and pointed a bony finger at my chest. "Touch a drink and I'll kill you. Snort, smoke, or shoot anything into your body and I'll kill you. We'll do weights at five a.m." She tousled my hair and put on a smug grin, “Have fun,” she said before rushing out of the room without so much as a ‘good job' or ‘good bye.'

  Chapter 4

  I dressed for the party feeling slightly victorious. At least Sam was letting me go out and have some fun. But how much fun could I possibly have knowing that my mother would definitely discover my ailment during her tyrannical workout session in the morning. I decided I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

  Andrew Walters, the captain of the football team, had a beachfront house on Wadmalaw Island where he hosted a number of high school parties. Either his parents didn't know about the rampant drinking and drug usage that took place at these parties or they didn't care. I suspected the latter. I think Andrew's parents may have donated a keg or two for the events.

  "That was such a great game, Scott," Amber whispered as she straddled my lap in one of the bedrooms. It was like my success on the field made her even hornier. I stared past her and checked out the room. I noticed a few trophies on the mantel of the fireplace. Andrew had probably won them over the years, but I wasn't close enough to read the inscriptions. I wondered if perhaps they belonged to Mr. or Mrs. Walters.

  At the Kincaid house, we had a separate room to display athletic achievements. There was a wall for me, Sam, and my younger brother Stu. Stu's wall was noticeably empty since he wasn't the athletic type. Recently, I had convinced my mother to put up some of Stu's music awards. My wall, on the other hand, had started to rival Sam's. I still had a little catching up to do considering she had trophies, medals and awards dating back to the age of five in dancing, cycling, track, soccer, weight lifting, basketball, and softball. My mother was a phenomenal athlete. I wondered if I would ever be able to live up to her expectations. She would never be happy until I attained the Olympic Gold medal she let slip through her fingers.

  "Do you have something?" Amber asked.

  "What? Oh, yeah." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a condom. I didn't know why I was so distracted. I had a beautiful practically naked cheerleader sitting on my lap but I just wasn't in the mood. Between my malfunctioning body and my fanatical mother, I had too much on my mind. I kept thinking about what she said in the rehab room. "Go hi-five your friends and screw your cheerleader." That's exactly what I was doing. Had my life gotten that meaningless and predictable? It was like I was living in a bad made-for-TV movie. And Sam had noticed my sloppy performance? I wondered if the scout noticed too. I probably killed any chance I had to get into USC. Maybe the painkiller Derek gave me put me off my game. But I was still able to win. It couldn't be that bad, right?

  "That last play was brilliant. You fooled everyone. I thought sure you were going to go long. How did you know not to?"

  How did I know? Reyna. Great, now I was thinking about Reyna while making out with Amber. This was not going to work.

  "How about I let you ‘go long’ now?" She unzipped my khakis and stuffed her hand down my boxers.

  "Hey, Amber, why don't we just tak
e a break and talk or something," I said, pulling her hand out.

  "Talk? We are talking." Amber replaced her hand and started kissing me.

  "No, Amber, I mean really talk." I pushed her away, got off the bed, and zipped my khakis back up. "I mean, we've been together for what, two weeks, and I feel like I barely know you."

  "It's been two months." She crossed her arms and pouted obviously angry that I didn't know how long we'd been together.

  "Oh, well, exactly. Two months and I've never even met your parents or anything. I don't even think I know their names."

  "We're about to have sex and you're thinking about my parents?"

  "No, no, I just want to know you. What you're really like. What are your likes and dislikes? Where do you want to go to college?" I paced the room and ran my fingers through my hair.

  Amber looked at me as if I had a foot growing out of my neck. "You're being really weird, Scott."

  "Yeah, I know." I sat down on the bed just as the tingly sensation in my fingers came back.

  "Oh my God," Amber said as her blue eyes widened. "You're breaking up with me aren't you? Oh my God." She started shaking her long brown curls.

  "No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying." I reached for her and rested her head on my chest as she began crying.

  "It's because I'm fat isn't it?" Amber asked as she bolted out of my arms and off the bed. "I knew I shouldn't have eaten that ice cream sandwich for lunch."

  "What?"

  "You think I'm fat, don't you?"

  "Of course not. You're beautiful."

  "Is it my hair? Everyone told me you prefer blondes. I can change."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Your last six girlfriends have all been blondes. I didn't think I had a chance with you because you're so picky. That's why I had to be the captain of the cheerleading squad to even get you to notice me."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I just sat there watching my girlfriend cry her eyes out and degrade herself all because she suddenly felt she wasn't good enough for me.

  "Whoa," was all I could manage to say. Some guys would have felt flattered that a girl had gone through so much trouble to be with them, but all I could think was that this girl had issues. Maybe I really didn't want to get to know her better.

  "I can't believe this is happening to me!" Amber turned around and swiped everything off the dresser behind her like a three-year-old having a tantrum.

  "Whoa," I said again.

  She went into the bathroom and continued her trail of destruction as I heard glass breaking and items falling onto the floor.

  I quietly slipped out of the room not wanting to and not knowing how to deal with Amber.

  "Kincaid! My man!" Ben Stapleton yelled as he slapped me on the shoulder. Damn. The pain was back. I grimaced. "What's wrong man? You know what? You need a beer." Ben looked around and snatched an unopened can from a passerby. "Here you go. And let me know if you need a little herbal refreshment later." He slapped me on the shoulder again. "Oh, can you guess what I am?"

  I stepped back and studied his outfit, which consisted of a frying pan being worn as a hat. "Let me see, you're a pothead."

  Ben giggled his uncontrollable stoner laugh as if the pothead costume had somehow gotten funnier than when he wore it last year or the year before. "Great game, awesome game, man," he said when he composed himself.

  I took the can of beer he offered and held it to my shoulder as I searched for a path out of the house and toward the beach. On my way out, several more players congratulated and hi-fived me, just like Sam said. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, but tonight it annoyed me.

  "Hey," a voice said from behind me.

  "Hey, Reyna." I said without even turning around. I knew it was her. She was the only one who could find me when I didn't want to be found.

  Reyna sat next to me in the sand. In the distance we both heard screeches and squeals coming from the house as two football players dumped a girl in her underwear off the pier and into the frigid water.

  "Idiots," Reyna said under her breath. "In about ten minutes, I'm gonna have to treat that girl for hypothermia."

  I smiled a little thinking about the countless times she had taped sprained ankles, massaged away a cramp, or pulled antibiotic out of her back pocket to treat a cut. She would be a great doctor one day.

  "How's that shoulder?" she asked, eyeing the can of beer I still held to it.

  I quickly removed the can and opened it trying to hide what its true purpose had been. "It's fine," I said after a long gulp.

  "You shouldn't be drinking that. It might react with the Dilaudid you took tonight."

  "How did you find out what it was?" I stared down at the can feeling even guiltier than if Sam had found out.

  Reyna shrugged. "It wasn't too hard. I searched Derek's locker, did a couple of tests in the lab."

  I didn't reply. I knew I could get into serious trouble. I could be suspended and not allowed to play in the championship game. The suspension could even cross over into basketball season. But at the time, I didn't care. The game was about to start and I could barely move my shoulder. Derek said it would work and it did.

  “You really shouldn’t have taken a chance like that, Scottie. What if you had taken the wrong dosage? What if you were allergic? You could have had a reaction and died. You can’t just inject random medication into your body. On top of being unhealthy, it’s more illegal than … than —”

  “Than burning a US flag with a Cuban cigar,” I volunteered.

  Reyna tried to hold in a smile as she said, “Yeah, exactly. Illegal. Very illegal. I mean, how did Derek get a hold of that stuff?”

  I stared at the ground without responding. She was right. She was completely right. I wondered what she was going to do with the information. "I know what you're thinking and I'm not gonna rat you out," she said.

  "You're not?"

  "Of course not. I won't have to. All you have to do is fail one of Sam's random drug tests and you're dead anyway. I think I'll just enjoy your last few moments on earth."

  I smiled and wrapped my good arm around her as she rested her head on my shoulder.

  We sat there for a moment staring at the moon's reflection on the ocean.

  “You ever think about dying, Rey?” I don’t know why I asked that. Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly why I asked it. I had this nagging feeling in my gut that all these mysterious ailments in my body were adding up to something serious. Something deadly. But I really shouldn’t have asked that question. Especially since I knew what happened to Rey’s mother.

  Reyna sighed and said, “All the time.”

  “Does it scare you?”

  “Not really,” she said calmly. “La Cienega used to always say that death was just the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. As long as all of your pages have been filled, you have nothing to regret in the story of your life.”

  “And what do you want your pages filled with?” I asked as I hugged her closer to me. I loved it when she talked about La Cienega. After six years of hearing her stories I felt almost as close to the woman as Reyna did.

  “I want to save a life. Hopefully, when I’m a doctor I’ll get to save a lot of lives. But even if I save only one, I’ll feel like my life has been worth it, you know? Like I fulfilled the reason I’m on this Earth.”

  Her answer was so beautiful and eloquent it made me feel like she’d given it some thought before.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What do you want before you die?”

  “I want to be loved.” I actually don’t know where those words came from. I didn’t expect to say that. I honestly thought I would say something about winning both a World Series and a Super Bowl like I told that SI interviewer. But holding Reyna in my arms watching the moon kind of just made the truth pour out of me.

  Reyna slapped me on the chest playfully. “Oh, Scott, everybody loves you. You’re Scott Kincaid. You’re a living legend.” She snuggled
deeper into me.

  That’s not what I meant. As far as I knew, everyone loved Scott Kincaid, the star athlete of Charleston Prep. Would they love me if I was no longer that Scott?

  I sat in silence as I tried to think of the right words to express this. How could I describe the kind of love I was looking for?

  "Do I only date blondes?" I asked finally.

  "What do you call Amber? You're dating her aren't you? She's not blond."

  "Well, I mean normally. Am I picky?"

  Reyna sucked in her breath and blew her cheeks out like a blowfish. Then she let it out. "Let me have a look at that shoulder," she said as she stood and walked to my other side.

  "Hey, answer the question."

  "The star athlete of Charleston Prep who gets articles in Sports Illustrated can't just date anyone," she said as her fingers worked over my shoulder and down my arm.

  "Is that really what you think of me?"

  "Scottie, I know you're a great guy. We've been tight since —”

  "Since you walked into my sixth grade English class."

  "Right. Anyway, since that time, I think your priorities may have changed a little."

  "What do you mean?" I grabbed her hand and sat her down next to me.

  "Somewhere along the way you became this superhuman, bigger than life personality. I mean, you're still somewhat normal around me, but to everyone else, you're a god. That's gotta be a hard standard to live up to. I'm afraid to think what'll happen when it comes crashing down."

  I couldn't respond. I didn't know how to. Once again, she was right. Maybe the pain in my shoulder was psychosomatic, a reflection of all the pressure I endured on a daily basis. I looked down and noticed we were holding hands ... again.

  "Why is it we've never … you know, got together?" I said as I massaged her hand and stared into her eyes.