Playing The Game

by Jeff Shelby

  “They're paying you back because you told your coach,” she said. “You know that, right? Either he said something to them—”

  “I told Derek I told him,” I said. “But Derek already knew. Or said he did, anyway.”

  She looked at me like I'd grown a third eye. “Why would you tell him that?”

  “Because I was pissed off.”

  She shook her head. “So now they're paying you back. Totally screwing you.”

  “I hope they're at least worried,” I said. “Not that anything's gonna happen. Coach clearly didn't do anything other than ask them, and they lied and he believed them. Derek told Raymond I was jealous because you were his ex-girlfriend, and now he's going out with Cameron and I'm just a massive liar and I was trying to get him in trouble.”

  She took a bite of her sandwich, glanced at it with disgust and dropped it. She wiped hard at her mouth with her napkin. “So you're going to throw away scholarships just to be stubborn?” she asked, frowning at me. “Why?”

  I didn't say anything.

  She sighed, exasperated with me. “Well, you may get your wish. Your coach is going to have to say something.”

  “How do you know?”

  She chewed on her lip for a second. “Teachers are required to report something like that if they learn about it.”

  It was the same conclusion I’d come to, the main reason I’d decided to tell him in the first place. “How do you know?”

  She hesitated again. “Because I've been reading about it. So he has to say something.”

  “Or not,” I said.

  “You told him,” she said. “He knows. He's legally obligated to say something.”

  “Yeah, well, pretty sure he's gambling, then,” I said. “Because I told him exactly what happened and the only person he told was Derek, who gave him the biggest load of bullshit possible. So I don't think Raymond is too worried about the legal ramifications here when he's got three guys saying I'm a liar.” I thought it through for a second. “And I'm sorry. I didn't know that. I wouldn't have said anything if I'd known that.”

  She balled up the napkin in her hand and dropped it on the tray. “Yeah, well, it's done. And guess what we both got out of it? Jackshit.”

  “I really didn't know,” I said. “I'm sorry. I know you don't want to—”

  She held up her hand. “It's done. You can't change it. And, honestly, I doubt you wouldn't have said anything even if you had known.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you've been hell-bent on 'fixing' this ever since it happened,” she said, leaning across her tray. “Even though it's not yours to fix and even though it can't be fixed.”

  “Of course it can be fixed,” I argued. “If you went to—”

  “No, Brady,” she snapped. “It can't be fixed.” She pushed her tray away and stared at me. “I can't be fixed. No matter what happens to them, I'm not going to forget it happened. It's not going to make me forget what it felt like to have those assholes on top of me, what their breath smelled like, how their dicks felt inside of me as I was telling them to get off of me.” She blinked. “None of that can be fixed, no matter who you tell or who I tell. It's not going away.” She shook her head. “So they go to jail or whatever. Yippee. I still get to see their faces every time I close my eyes. That isn't going away. I'm trying to let it go, but you won't let it.”

  Her words cut into me like tiny knives. Because they were true. I had thought I could fix it. But I hadn't looked at it from her point of view. Because I couldn't. And I suddenly realized that I'd been selfish in trying to do what I thought was right because it wasn't mine to make right. It was hers, and I hadn't listened to her and now both of our lives were screwed up because of it.

  “I'm sorry,” I muttered.

  “I don't need you to be sorry,” she said. “I just need you to listen to me.”

  I nodded and swallowed hard, feeling as low as I'd ever felt. I wasn't angry with her for what she said, though. I was just mad at myself.

  She glanced over my shoulder, then lowered her voice. “And judging by the looks your former teammates are throwing your way right this second, you need to keep an eye out.”

  “Are they all giving me the Justin Bieber wanna-be hard guy stare?”

  She forced a smile. “And then some.” She shook her head. “And I can't believe you can make me smile when I feel so unbelievably shitty.”

  “I'm not afraid of them,” I said.

  She laughed and shook her head. “I know you aren't, Brady. I know you aren't.” The smile faded and I thought for a second that she might cry. Then something else flashed through her eyes, something I couldn't read. “I know you aren't.”

  SIXTY

  The guy in the bleachers was making everyone nervous.

  I'd zoned out again after lunch. I thought about just ditching the rest of the day, but I didn't know if my dad was home, and I wasn't ready to explain to him everything that was going on. There was also a small amount of pride that hadn't been completely squashed from my body and I didn't want to go run and hide. Not that I wanted to sit on the bleachers at practice, but until I told my dad and figured out exactly how to deal with anything, I didn't want to act like I was embarrassed about it.

  Because I hadn't done anything wrong.

  No one had said a word to me when I walked into the gym. Everyone knew. But not even Ken had anything to say to me. I didn't know if that was because they were all pissed at me or they'd all been instructed to stay away from me. I'd like to say I didn't care, but it sucked and I hated having to watch them.

  So I was sitting in the bleachers behind the scorer's table when the guy in the gray slacks and navy sport coat showed up halfway through practice and talked to Coach for a minute. And just like that, things started getting a little tense. Coach went back on to the floor, his expression totally different, like he was ready to punch everyone in the face. He'd glanced at me, just to let me know he wanted to punch me, too. But he didn't say who the guy was or why he was climbing up the bleachers to watch the rest of practice. The man went to the top row and sat facing the court, his back against the wall.

  They ran through several half-court defensive drills and Coach was getting red-faced, barking at everyone for being late, being slow, being in the wrong place. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the spectator. Derek was trying to act like he didn't see him, but when they lined up for free throws, I caught him looking as he tugged his jersey to his sweaty face.

  The guy stayed in his spot up on the bleachers, looking mostly bored, occasionally checking his phone.

  He stayed there for the entire practice. Coach didn't get any happier and continued to stay red-faced and irritated, even as they finished up running lines and everyone beat the clock.

  They came together, did their little, “hey we're a team thing so let's put our hands together,” and headed toward the locker room. I picked up my backpack from under my feet. I had to go into the locker room to pull my clothes and other stuff out, and I wanted to do it quickly.

  “Stoddard!” Coach barked.

  Derek stopped and turned around. Coach motioned him back, and Derek walked over to him. Coach lowered his voice and gestured to the spectator, who was slowly making his way down the bleachers. Derek turned and looked at the guy, then shook his head.

  Coach's face went red again. “What do you mean no?”

  Derek said something to Coach that I couldn't hear, and Coach's face went entirely crimson. The guy from the bleachers joined them and didn't look excited or upset or anything else. He was just...there.

  Coach realized the other guys still standing there at the end of the gym and waved his arm in the air. “The rest of you! Did I tell you to stick around?” He glanced at me. “You, too, Mickelson. Out.”

  They shuffled through the doors and I followed them into the locker room.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Ken said, as I walked in.

  “No clue,” Ty s
aid, then he shifted his gaze to me. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

  “Getting my stuff,” I said, walking to my locker.

  “Why are you even allowed in here?” Ty said. “You aren't on this team anymore.”

  The anger boiled in my stomach. I wasn't going to start a fight, but if he wanted to start one, I was ready. Pounding his face in would've been a great way to burn off steam.

  “Chill out,” Ken said. “He's getting his stuff. And you know it's all bullshit, anyway.”

  “All I know is that fucking pussy isn't on this team anymore, and he needs to get his ass out of here,” Ty said.

  I pulled my sweats out of my locker along with my shower stuff and was stuffing it in my bag when Derek came into the locker room. Ty immediately joined him at his locker. Derek was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Blake sat on the bench behind them and listened. Ty bit his bottom lip, listening intently.

  Derek slammed the door on his locker and turned to the room. “All right, listen up. That guy out there is trying to fuck up our season. It's total bullshit, and everyone needs to keep their mouths shut.” His eyes narrowed when he saw me. “And what the fuck are you doing in here?”

  “Leaving,” I said, closing the locker door.

  “Who was the guy?” Ken asked.

  “A fucking cop,” Derek said, staring at me.

  A cop. Which was weird, given that Raymond didn't seem to know who he was and told me himself that he didn't believe my side of the story.

  The color drained from Ty's face and Blake looked like he'd just crapped his underwear.

  And that made me smile, which wasn't the smartest thing in the world to do.

  “A cop?” Ken asked. “About what?”

  “About what else?” Derek said, his face screwed up, like he'd swallowed a lemon. “Mickelson's bitch of a girlfriend, Amy Mitchell, and the party at Ty's house.”

  It felt like every eye in the room swiveled in my direction.

  “He wanted to interview me,” Derek continued. “I told him no way, not without my dad here. He kept trying and I finally walked away. Telling you right now, he's gonna come to each of you and you better do the same thing. Because there isn't shit to tell him.”

  “Mouths shut,” Ty said, looking around the room, trying to maintain his cool. “Everyone.”

  “Mouths don't need to be shut,” Derek said, annoyed. “Because everyone knows nothing happened.”

  Right.

  I pulled my bag over my shoulder. It was heavier now with my sweats and locker stuff in it.

  “You fucked up,” Derek said, eyeing me. “You just don't get it.”

  “Guess I don't,” I said. “But thanks for the heads up.”

  “I thought you'd figured it out,” Derek said. “That getting suspended would get it through your fucking head. But I guess not.”

  I stopped at the door to the locker room. “Guess not. I'm a slow learner.”

  “Or just really stupid,” he said.

  “Or that.”

  I nodded, then looked around the room. It felt like I'd never been there, like I'd never belonged. And maybe that was the truth, that I'd just been treading water the whole time and that I'd just been some sort of fill-in part. I wasn't sure, but right at that moment, I wasn't sorry to be leaving.

  “It only gets worse,” Derek said.

  I looked at him. If he could've strangled me right there and gotten away with it, I was sure he would have. Choked the life out of me and buried my body and then told some bullshit story about how he'd never seen me. He had it in him, I had no doubt. The way he was looking at me, I knew he would've been thrilled to see me die. Which seems harsh.

  But he wasn't lying.

  It got worse.

  SIXTY ONE

  “You made dinner?” my dad said. “Jeez. What do you need?”

  I'd gone straight home. The ride home cleared my head. I needed to tell my dad what was going on because whether or not I wanted to admit it, I needed his help. With the suspension, with Amy, with everything. I probably should've gone to him earlier, but it felt like everything had spiraled all to hell all at once, and I'd lost control of something I'd never had control of in the first place. So I'd gotten home, saw the note from him that said he'd be home for a couple of hours for dinner before his shift, and threw some food together right before he walked in the door.

  “A Ferrari. And an iPhone,” I said.

  He smirked and shook his head as he sat down at the table. “Yeah, me too.”

  I put the macaroni and cheese on the table. Not the box kind, either. He'd taught me when I was little how to turn pasta into real macaroni and cheese that didn't look like it had just come out of the microwave. I used a bunch of different kinds of cheese and then put some leftover bacon across the top. I'd picked up a few of his tricks over the years.

  I sat down across from him. “Just figured you didn't need to make dinner before you went to work for the night for a change.”

  He squinted at me. “You get hit in the head at practice?”

  I handed him the serving spoon. “No.”

  “Maybe you just don't remember it.”

  “Whatever. Eat.”

  Despite the knot in my gut, I was hungry and I ate half the pan of macaroni. When I finished, I looked up from my plate and my dad was staring at me, his arms folded across his chest.

  “What?” I asked, setting my fork down.

  “You make dinner and then you don't say a word for ten minutes while you shovel food into your mouth,” he said. “What's going on?”

  I finished the water in my glass. “Nothing.”

  “Brady.”

  I pushed my plate away. “Can I ask you a hypothetical question and actually have you pretend it's a hypothetical for a while before you start interrogating me?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That's not my style.”

  “I know. That's why I'm asking if you'll do it.”

  He thought for a second. “Okay. Deal.”

  I tried to get comfortable in the chair, but just shifted from side to side. “Alright. So, you always say do the right thing, right?”

  He nodded.

  “What if doing the right thing is something that might mess things up for a lot of people?” I asked.

  He thought for a second. “Mess up how?”

  “Mess up like...really mess up.”

  “That's pretty vague.”

  “Just...say no one's gonna like it.”

  “How can no one like it if it's the right thing?”

  “It's complicated.”

  “Apparently,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Doing the right thing is complicated. It messes a lot of people up. But it's still the right thing?”

  I nodded.

  “Are there repercussions for not doing the right thing?”

  I thought hard. “I don't know. I mean, yeah. But I’m not sure they're different, I guess.”

  “I need more, Brady,” he said, frowning at me. “Hypothetically.”

  I shifted again on the chair. “Say you know something. Something that definitely isn't right. But telling everyone that you know will make your life miserable.”

  And that was it. If I were being honest, that was it for me. Ultimately, letting everyone know that I believed Amy was turning my life into a wreck. Selfish much?

  “Does what I hypothetically know hurt someone?” my dad asked. “Did it hurt someone?”

  I hesitated, then nodded.

  He set his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. “Okay. No more hypotheticals, Brady. What are we talking about here?”

  I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I got suspended from the team.”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I was suspended from the team for the rest of the season.”

  He chewed on his lower lip for a moment and I could see the anger building. “Didn't we talk about how important this year was?”

  “Yeah, but�
�”

  “And didn't you promise me that there'd be no bullshit like there was last year?”

  “Dad, I didn't—”

  “I mean, you know how important this is,” he said, his voice louder. “We've talked about this over and over.”

  “No, you talked over and over about how important it was,” I said, looking down at the table.

  “Don't even start with me,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “Don't do it, Brady. Don't act like you don't want to play. We did that last year and you told me, yeah, you were in, that you wanted to play, and that you were just in a funk over the divorce. Which I got. But I'm busting my ass here to make sure we have a place to live and food on the table and money for you to play this summer, so don't you dare try to turn this into something that looks like I'm making you play. Because that is bullshit.”

  I stared down at the table. I remembered that conversation last year, when he was at his wit's end with me, when I'd basically given up on everything. He told me then that if I wanted to quit basketball, he was fine with it, but that I couldn't just half-ass my way through everything. He wanted a commitment one way or the other, and I'd finally admitted it really had nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with him and my mom splitting up. He'd asked me multiple times if I really wanted to play, and I'd assured him that I did. And I'd meant it then.

  “I mean, Jesus Christ, Brady,” he said, slapping a hand on the table. “At some point you've got to grow up here. And stop with the hypothetical crap. Jesus. It's not okay to—”

  “I was suspended because I told the coach that several of the guys on the team raped a girl at a party!” I yelled.

  His mouth was still open but nothing was coming out of it. His hand was still flat on the table from where he'd slammed it down.

  “They raped her,” I whispered, my voice ragged, tears again settling into the corner of my eyes. “And I got suspended because my coach and my teammates are assholes.”

  He shifted in his chair. His fingers curled underneath his palms on the tabletop. “Start at the beginning, Brady. And do not leave a single thing out.”

  I took a deep, unsteady breath and exhaled slowly, feeling like I was on the verge of totally losing it and barely hanging on. Then I started with the night at Ty's party, including me talking with Amy and then feeling like she'd bailed on me and getting together with Cameron and everything that had gone on since that night. I spoke slowly, like I was reliving all of it all over again. And it stung just as much as it had the first time.