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My heart sinks and my hand searches for Chevy’s bear to cling to, but I let my hand fall to the mattress. Dad said I needed to give a proud man an out. Maybe Mom’s proud and needs an out. Or maybe Mom needs an opening and her still standing there, telling me she loves me, maybe that’s her giving me an opening, as well.
“Mom.” Words become stuck in my throat and I have to clear it to continue. “My knee hurts and sometimes I have nightmares, so...” Spit it out. “Can you sit with me? Just for a few minutes?”
“Yes,” she says, yet she stands in my doorway like she doesn’t quite know what to do with my offer. I edge to the middle of my bed, offering her room, and she crosses the room and sits beside me.
She’s sort of touching me, yet not. I want her to hug me. I want all the pain to go away. “I love Chevy.”
“I know.”
“I hurt him tonight, but he hurt me, too. I want to be with him, but we can’t seem to stop hurting each other.”
Tears burn my eyes and I rap the back of my head against the headboard and it’s then that something happens that hasn’t happened in months. Mom’s hand goes over mine, and when she links our fingers together, I choke to keep the emotion that’s been building from exploding out.
“Tell me how to help you,” Mom whispers. “I don’t know how to help you.”
She can’t. Nobody can.
“I miss Dad.” My voice trembles and it should be impossible to feel so much pain.
Mom releases my hand and the coldness left behind crushes me. But then she wraps her arms around me. “So do I. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. I miss him so much, and when I see you hurt, I miss him more. I wish he were here. I wish he were the one holding you.”
Me, too. There’s so much wrong with my life, so many things I can’t control, so much grief, so much sadness, and the more I try to push it all away, the faster and harder it descends upon my chest. I breathe in and then out, short breaths, tough breaths, the sound like that of a woman in labor. The pain rolling through me like waves, but I don’t want to let it out because once it’s released, it’ll consume me, devour me until I’m nothing.
“Breathe, Violet,” Mom whispers. “Please, breathe.”
“I can’t.” My voice cracks and I choke again.
Mom hugs me, arms around my body, her hand guiding my head to her shoulder, and the moment my forehead connects with her, the dam spills open and I sob. Tears streaming down my face, shoulders shaking, all the ugliness festering inside me pouring out.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s all going to be okay.”
CHEVY
TEMPERATURE CONTINUES TO drop and the night is black against the stadium light glaring down on the football field. I’m dressed in my uniform, cleats on my feet, pads heavy on my shoulders, jersey on with my number, helmet dangling from my hand.
Both teams line up at our twenty. We have the ball, third down and we have to move on this play. The clock is counting down in the fourth quarter and we’re losing by six. We need this win in order to be a shoo-in for play-off games. We lose, and we’ll have to pray for a wild-card spot. It’s my senior year and I’ve worked too damn hard to watch our winning season go down in flames.
But I watch because I’m benched. May be benched, but I’m standing, walking the sideline with my team on the field.
Better man.
Not sure what that means anymore. Allowing Violet and me to be kidnapped because we love Stone? Defying the club to tell Violet things because I think their decisions are wrong? Hurting Violet because I’m torn between promises I made to her and the club? Starting to wonder if my goal of being like my father is trashed. Not sure if he was the better man I was raised to believe in.
This week, being the better man means killing what’s left of my pride.
I did what Coach asked. Spent time training Ray so he can take over my position. He improved, but it’s not enough. The kid doesn’t have a fast connection between his head, hands and feet. But he does have the right connections with the right people. Has a bigger mouth to push the powers that be to give him what he wants. He and his dad are the type who if they yell loud enough for long enough everyone caves to their demands. He’s shiny and looks a hell of a lot better on paper than me. Guess the old sayings are wrong. In the end, talent doesn’t win.
“Put McKinley in!” someone from the stands shouts, and there are agreements and a few boos. It’s been this way the entire game. Our own fans can’t decide if they should be more frightened of the Terror or of losing.
The entire game, I can feel Cyrus and my mom burning a hole into my back and into Coach’s. I refuse to look. I can’t stand to see the disappointment and anger in their expressions. Can’t stomach to not see Violet watching me in the stands.
She’s avoided me since our fight last night and I don’t blame her. I reached out to her last night when I got home from the bar. One text: I’m sorry. I was wrong. I choose you. Please give me another chance.
Nothing in response. Just maddening silence.
Our quarterback, Brad, scans the defense, trying to read the other team’s play. Out of habit, he glances to where I should be. He’s searching for a signal on whether he needs to call an audible and why. I can read subtle ways guys move
. Feet and bodies angled a certain way tips off where they’re going and why. Ray can’t get his own shit straight, much less have the ability to read the guys on the other side of the line.
