Holding On

by Allie Everhart

  "So who's the kid?" I ask. "Is he a senior?"

  "I'm not here to talk about him. I'm here to talk about you."

  "What about me?"

  "Your leg." He points to it. "Is it better yet?"

  Seriously? He acts like a fractured leg is like the common cold. A few weeks and you're better.

  "It's the same," I tell him as I sit on the couch. He remains standing, his eyes focused on my leg, as if staring at it will magically heal it.

  "But you're not in the chair anymore. That has to mean it's better."

  "You tell me." I say, annoyed. "You keep talking to my doctor behind my back. You probably know more than I do."

  "He wouldn't tell me anything," he scoffs. "Said you asked him not to."

  I smile. So Dr. Livingston actually listened to me. I didn't think he would. I'm sure my dad offered him money for info, but the doctor must have turned him down. Guess some people still have integrity. Thought that trait died out long ago.

  "There's nothing to tell," I say. "It's healing like it should. That's all he said."

  "How much longer?" he asks, still staring at my leg.

  "Until what?"

  "You know what," he snaps. "How much longer until you can play?"

  "How the fuck would I know?" I ask, angry that his only concern is football and not his son's health. He's always been this way so I shouldn't be surprised but it still pisses me off.

  "Don't take that tone with me," he hisses. "I'm looking out for you. You don't get your ass back on that field and your career is over. Everything we've worked for. All the time and money we've invested will all be for nothing."

  We. Our. I hate it when he takes credit for my success. Acts like he's part of it. Tries to lay the guilt on and make me feel like I owe him.

  "I've told you a million times I can't control how fast it heals. And there's a chance it may never be the same. I may not even be able to—" I stop, knowing I shouldn't say it. It'll set him off and start a fight I'll never win.

  His eyes narrow and he gets those lines in his forehead that appear whenever he's angry.

  "Don't even THINK you won't be playing again. I don't give a damn if your leg isn't a hundred percent. No athlete plays injury-free. It's part of the game. You get hurt, you man up and play through the pain. Just wait till you get to the pros. Those guys are twice the size of some college kid so you better get used to the pain. What you're feeling now is nothing compared to what you'll feel when some 320-pound linebacker slams into you."

  He says it without the slightest hint of concern. In fact, he'd probably like that to happen to me. He'd say it's good for me. That it'll toughen me up.

  As for me? That's the part of the game I hate. Always worrying if some huge guy is about to come barreling down on me and knock me unconscious, my brain smashing against my skull. I know all about concussions and the long-term damage to the brain that comes with repeated blows to the head, but my dad doesn't give a shit about that. I'm sure my mom does, but she pretends it'll never happen.

  "Have you been training?" he asks.

  "I do what I can. For now all I can do is lift weights."

  "And throw the ball." He waits for me to confirm it.

  I keep quiet because the truth is, I haven't thrown the ball since before the accident. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I love it. The feel of the ball in my hand. Watching it soar in the air. I love it but I don't deserve it so I don't let myself do it. After letting my friends die, I don't deserve to live out each day, doing the things I love.

  But fuck, I miss it. I miss the game. The pure, unadulterated game, free of contracts and money and pressure. If it were just a game, I'd be doing everything possible to make sure I could play again. But it's not just a game. It's my life, and my future career, which is why I have a love-hate relationship with it.

  "You HAVE been throwing the ball, right?" My dad's anger is rising again. I can see the veins bulging in his neck as his jaw tightens.

  "Of course I have. But throwing it from a wheelchair isn't the same as throwing it on the field so it's really not that useful."

  "Now that you're out of the chair, I expect you to be on the field every day with your coach."

  "I can't be on the field. People will see me."

  "I'm talking about the indoor field. The practice area. You get your ass in there this afternoon and start training. I'll drop you off when I leave. Did they say when you can drive?"

  "No." I look to the side, trying to remain calm but wanting to scream at him to leave me the fuck alone. I can't take all this damn pressure. I'm not ready to go back. Back to the field. To practice. Back to my old life. I'm not there yet. I'm still trying to get over the accident. Still trying to deal with the guilt. The shame. But all my father cares about is some goddamn game.

  Does it even matter anymore? I ask myself this every day. Every hour. And I keep getting a different answer. I know football is what I'm supposed to do, but it seems so damn stupid now. I go on a field, throw a ball, and people see me as a hero? I'm not a fucking hero. I let three people die that night. Heroes don't let their friends die.

  "Ethan!" my dad yells. "Did you hear me?"

  "Yes. And the answer is no. I'm not going to train. Coach knows I'm not ready. He should've told you that."

  "I talked to him before I got here. He said you're more than ready. You just haven't shown up to practice, which is why I'm here." He leans down to me, his finger in my face. "Listen to me. You're going to get your lazy ass off this couch and get to the training facility and work until Coach tells you you're done. Then you're going to come home, lift weights, go to bed, and do it all over again tomorrow."

  I feel his stare and look away as he rises back to standing. There's nothing to say. Arguing with him is pointless. Ever try to argue with a lawyer? If not, I'll tell you now, don't bother. It's a complete waste of time. Their goal is to win and they'll wear you down until they do. Having grown up with two lawyers for parents, I know this better than anyone.

  I sit there in silence, chewing the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood.

  "Get changed," he orders. "We're going. Coach is waiting."

  He's lying. Coach would've told me if he were expecting me to show up there today.

  "I'm not going," I say. "My shoulder hurts. I overdid it on weights this morning. If I toss the ball, I may end up doing more damage."

  "What did I just say about playing through the pain?"

  "It's not just the pain. I told you, I could damage my shoulder."

  "Your shoulder is fine. You're just making up lies to avoid training."

  He's right. It was a lie, and as usual, my dad didn't buy it. He knows when people are lying because he's an expert liar himself, and he lives in a world where people lie constantly to get the upper hand in negotiations, which never works with my dad. If they even attempt to lie to him, he retaliates. Big time. He goes after them with tactics that are most likely illegal but he knows his way around the law so he gets away with it and ends up getting an even better deal for his clients.

  He breathes in and out, loudly, as his hand runs over his dark, slicked-back hair. "We're not arguing about this. You're going to the college to train with your coach."

  He says it like I'm a child and I suddenly feel like I'm ten years old again, back home in my room, being scolded by my father. I hate feeling like this. Like I'm a child with no control over my own damn life. My own damn body.

  Beyond pissed, I blurt out, "I'm not going. I'm a fucking adult and if I say I'm not going, I'm not going."

  I prepare for him to yell at me. Maybe pick up a lamp and throw it against the wall. That's his style. Make a scene. Put a scare into people. He does it all the time during client negotiations but I hate it when he does it to me. As a kid, it used to scare me.

  Oddly, this time, he remains calm and says, "Ethan." He takes a deep breath. "You DO want to play again, correct?"

  He stares at me, and I can't read his expression. His face is bla
nk, but his jaw is still tight and I can feel his anger.

  I should keep quiet. Or lie again. But instead, for some stupid reason, I say, "I don't know."

  He's silent for a very long second, then lets out a harsh laugh. "You don't KNOW?" He huffs. "You don't know if you want to make millions of dollars? Have beautiful women fall at your feet, begging to be with you? Have children idolize you? Grown men chant your name when you walk on the field?" He shakes his head. "You must be joking. Either that or you suffered a head injury in that car accident."

  "I've just been thinking that—"

  "It's not your job to think," he says, leaning down and getting in my face, his eyes fixed on mine. "I'm your manager and I will do the thinking for you. That's how this fucking works. You've been around this business long enough to know that. You play ball and I do the rest. Are we clear?"

  Again, I should keep quiet but I've come this far, so what the hell? I might as well keep going. "You're not my manager. And just so you know..." I pause, knowing I shouldn't say this, but then the words spill out. "I might do something else...instead of football." I mutter it under my breath like a fucking coward. If I'm going to tell him this, I need to just say it, loud and clear, with conviction. I need to stand up to him.

  "What did you say?" he asks.

  I straighten up and force my eyes to his. "I said I might do something else."

  He pauses, then laughs again, this time in a humorous way. He thinks I'm joking. Or delirious. Or both.

  "I'm not kidding, Dad. I'm not sure football is what I want to do. I've been giving this some thought and—"

  "And what exactly would you do?" There's a grin on his face. He still sees this as a joke, which pisses me off. Before I can answer his question, he says, "You're not smart enough to do anything else."

  I stare at him in disbelief, shocked that he would say something so cruel to his own son. I could ignore it but I don't.

  "Who the fuck says that? To their own damn kid?"

  "A parent who cares enough to tell his son the truth." He crosses his arms over his chest.

  I work my jaw back and forth, my hands clenched in fists, wishing I could punch him. He's said bad things to me in the past but not this bad.

  "Would you rather I lie to you?" he asks. "Coddle you with undue praise like all the other parents? Why would I do that? That would be setting you up for failure. Instead, I've set you up for success. And for that, you should be grateful."

  "You're wrong," I spit out. "I can do more than play football. I'm not stupid. I do well in school."

  "You get decent grades," he emphasizes 'grades' like he's making some kind of point.

  "Yeah, which proves I'm not stupid."

  "Ethan, you can't be serious." He smiles slightly.

  "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?" My gut tightens, not liking the sound of his tone.

  "You play football."

  "Yeah? So?"

  "You're the star of the team. You're the reason they win."

  "And?" I ask, still not getting his point.

  "Your grades are based on your wins on the field, not your efforts in the classroom."

  I swallow. That can't be true. I know I'm not stupid. I don't always understand the material but I study and do well on tests. At least I thought I did.

  "You don't know that."

  "Everyone knows that. Especially you. You've heard me talking about my clients. You know every damn one of them would've flunked out of college if not for their skills on the field."

  "That's not me. I'm smarter than that."

  "That's what they all think. But get them out in the real world and they're lost. They can't handle it. They aren't equipped to. They don't have the knowledge or the skills because all through college, their mind was on the game, which is where it has to be in order to make it to the pros. The same is true for you. Honestly, Ethan, you can't tell me you truly believed you were maintaining a B-average on your own."

  I sit there quietly, trying to figure out if he's telling the truth or just saying it to convince me to get back to training. But what if he's right? He can't be. My professors have never even showed interest in the fact that I'm on the team. Last semester, my English Lit professor even acted annoyed by it and purposely called me out to answer questions about the material that he knew I couldn't answer. And yet I got a B in that class.

  Shit. Now that I think about it, how did I get a B in that class? My papers weren't that great and I turned in two of them late. Fuck. What if my dad is right?

  "Get your things," he says. "I need to get going. I have a conference call in twenty minutes." He takes his phone out and starts checking his messages, making it clear our conversation is over.

  I could refuse to go but now I want to. I need to talk to Coach and find out if my dad is right.

  He makes a call and I go in my room and pack my gym bag, the whole time feeling sick to my stomach at the thought that I might've been deceived this whole time. I know professors rig grades for athletes but I didn't think I was one of them. Unlike a lot of my teammates, I actually put effort into my classes so I thought I'd earned my grades. But maybe not. Maybe it's all been a lie. A big, fat lie to make sure my focus remains on football and making it to the pros. A future I may not even want.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Becca

  "Hey, it's me," I say when Ethan answers. I'm in the van, driving to his house. I got off early from work and want to see him.

  "Hey," he says, sounding down.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." His voice lifts slightly, like he's trying to hide whatever's bothering him.

  "I got off work early so I'm coming over before I head to The Chicken Shack. Can I take a quick shower at your house?"

  "I'm not there."

  "Oh. Well, where are you?"

  "At Laytham. At the gym."

  "You're working out at the gym?"

  "Not the regular gym. The training room the team uses."

  That's odd. He said he wasn't going there until he was off the crutches.

  "What made you decide to go to the gym? I thought—"

  "I need to train," he interrupts.

  "But I thought you said—"

  "I know what I said but I wasn't thinking when I said that. Of course I have to train. I won't have a chance to make the pros if I don't get in the gym and start training."

  What the hell? Am I talking to the right person? For weeks, Ethan's been telling me he isn't sure he wants a career in football, and now he's training for the pros?

  Something's going on but I don't want to talk about it over the phone. "When will you be home?"

  "Probably in a half hour. I'm done with my workout. Just got out of the shower."

  "So someone's giving you a ride?"

  "I called a cab. Coach is here but he had a meeting so can't give me a ride."

  "Then I'll come get you." I slow down and make a U-turn and head the other direction toward Laytham.

  "Becca, no. Just forget it. I've already called the cab."

  "Then call them back and tell them you don't need a ride. I'm heading there now. I'll be there in a few minutes."

  I hear him sigh.

  "What's wrong?" I ask. "You don't want to see me?"

  "I do, but...it's not a good time."

  "Why? What's going on?"

  "I'm just tired from the workout. I need to sleep."

  "Then I'll take a nap with you. I'm tired too."

  He doesn't respond, which annoys me. If he doesn't want to see me, he just needs to be honest and tell me.

  "I'm gonna head home," I say. "Let you be alone. Talk to you later."

  "Becca, wait!" he says as I was about to hang up.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry. I DO want to see you. Can you pick me up?"

  "Only if you promise not to be in a bad mood. I can handle you being tired but I don't want to be around cranky Ethan today."

  "You won't. I promise." His tone lightens. "
What time will you be here?"

  "About ten minutes."

  "I'll wait out by the stadium."

  "Okay. See you soon."

  When I get there, I see him standing in navy track pants and a white t-shirt, his hair wet and a thick layer of stubble on his face. Damn, he's hot.

  "Hey," I say, as he gets in the van. I take his crutches and lay them behind his seat.

  His hand catches my face as I turn back around, and he holds it in place as he puts his lips to mine. Just the feel of his lips as we kiss has my body tingling.

  We may be skipping the nap.

  "Hey," he says, smiling against my lips. Then he kisses me again, and I swear if we don't leave, we'll be doing it in the van. I've been thinking about him all morning. Thinking about what he does to me when we're in bed. Wanting him to do it again.

  "Thanks for picking me up," he says, backing away.

  "No problem." I adjust my seatbelt which got twisted when we were kissing.

  "So you got off early?" he asks as we're heading to his house.

  "Only because I worked like crazy trying to finish. I didn't feel like cleaning today and I just wanted it over with. Plus..." I glance at him, "I kind of wanted to see my boyfriend."

  "You worked your ass off just so you could see me?"

  I glance at him again. "Is that a problem?"

  "No. If it were up to me, you'd quit that job and hang out with me all the time."

  "I can't quit my job." I chew on my lip. "But after working so hard, I could use something to help me relax."

  He chuckles. "I'll take care of that when we get home."

  And he does. Moments after we arrive at his house, we're in his bedroom. Clothes stripped. Sheets tangled. By the time Ethan's done with me, my mind and body are totally relaxed. I just want to stay here the rest of the night, but unfortunately I have to be at work in a half hour.