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“Sorry, Coach!”
We all get our heads back in the game and talk through any adjustments the lines need to make. I rehydrate with my favorite sports drink and try to ignore my sister almost being old enough to date.
The rest of the game is just as rough as the first period, but we manage to win with two goals in the third. Wasn’t the prettiest game, but a win is a win. Though I try to shower and clean up as quickly as possible, I have a few new cuts and bruises that take some additional attention. Tonight was brutal, and I took the end of the stick to my jaw as proof. It looks worse than it feels, thankfully. Still, it’s bad timing. Callie always hated seeing me beat up when she was younger.
She doesn’t notice when she launches herself at me as soon as she sees me exit the locker room area.
“It’s good to see you, baby sis,” I say into the knit cap that’s containing her mass of hair. “Did you have fun?”
“Yes! Mom cried.” I set her down and give my mom a hug next.
“How was I supposed to help that,” she asks, a few new tears leaking out of one eye. “I’m so proud of you, Zander.”
“Thank you, Mom. And thanks for driving down.”
“Oh, you know I’d be at all of your games if I could,” she says. We both know what stops her from coming to more, of course. My father. My manipulative, volatile, and needy father. He hates it when she’s not there to tend to his every need and continue to fill his cup with vodka. It’s been the way of things for as long as I can remember.
“You got two assists tonight, Z! It was amazing,” Callie squeals, throwing her hands in the air. The sleeves of the jersey she wears, the one I sent her only a couple of weeks ago, slide down her arms, chilling me to the bone.
Around one of her small, pale arms is a dark and ugly bruise. Gently, I reach for her as she hurriedly tries to cover the slipup.
“Callie, let me see.” Something in the way I say the words stills her and I fear I’m scaring her. But I have to see. When I pull her sleeve up, it reveals exactly what I expected. A clear imprint of fingertips that held on far too tight. “When?”
“It happened when I was playing volleyball,” Callie starts to say, her voice trembling.
“No, it didn’t. When,” I ask my mother again.
“Last week. Callie accidentally knocked over a cup,” she says, sensing I won’t let another lie pass.
“Are there more,” I ask Callie, and she shakes her head vigorously. “Have there been other times?”
Now, her eyes fill with unshed tears. If you could feel your heart break, surely, I’d be on my knees in pain right now. I pull her into my arms and glare at my mother. How can she continue to let this happen? It was bad enough he treated me horribly, but Callie is small and sweet. She doesn’t fight back like I always did, and she can’t stand on her own.
I can’t remember a time when I liked my father. Now, all I have for him is vitriol. Her small body shakes in my arms. Red colors my vision as I focus it on my mother.
“It hasn’t been often,” she says apprehensively.
“Once is too often,” I grind out through a tight jaw. “What did I tell you?”
“Zander,” she hisses because my voice is rising and there are so many people still lingering.
“What did I tell you,” I ask again.
“Hey, is this the little sister I keep hearing about?” Cillian says, stepping up beside me and placing his hand on my shoulder. Callie’s eyes widen.
“It’s Cillian Wylder, Z,” she whispers.
“Yeah, Callie, it is. Maybe we can get him to sign your sweater.” I look at him for a little help, and he nods in understanding.
“I’d be happy to,” he says. “Come with me. We’ll find a few of the other guys, too.”
“Thanks, Cill. Go have fun, Callie, I’ll find you in a few minutes.” I wait for them to walk away before I pull my mother to a secluded corner. “She comes to live with me.”
“How would that even work, Zander? You’re on the road as much as you are at home,” she whines, and it frays every one of my nerve endings.
“That’s not anything I can’t figure out. Besides, I’d quit the game if that’s what I had to do to keep her safe.”
“Zander,” she begins to argue.
