Winning Pass - A Football Romance (14 page)

G
etting
a text from the man you’re in love with—that you’ve only just now figured out—about how he has to suddenly leave is not exactly the best response to a lunch date invitation. The tears were streaming down my cheeks so fast that I was confused for a moment as to why I was crying. My mind hadn’t caught up with it, really, but then again, maybe it refused to.

I had this dramatic vision in my head about how he was going to give some grand heart-breaking speech using a line or two from one of the many classics he has stashed back in his house. One of those nearly priceless first-editions I’d sell my soul for—and why not? He already had half of it anyway.

It could be because I got over my hurt in three seconds flat and went right ahead and called him. A real phone call, who would’ve thought? Texting is definitely not going to get my point across to anyone.

Much to my (sad) surprise, it’s for a completely unrelated reason. The very idea of a bright and burning star of a person like Kevon Williams suffering from a coma is even too much for me to think of, much less for Elijah as a close friend.

I refuse to leave him alone, even though he suggests for me to stay back. After he tells me everything he knows so far, I feel a little stab of understanding.

Thank God Elijah isn’t me. If he were me, then I would be getting a nasty dose of my own medicine by him straight up leaving North Carolina without telling me goodbye or anything. And that would’ve most likely killed me inside.

He’s standing here, nervously running his hand through his hair over and over. It reminds me of how he used to constantly push his mop of dark hair out of his face whenever we were going on any of our little adventures. Maureen would always bug him to let her cut it, but he’d scowl at her and mumble something under his breath about homemade bowl cuts. It used to make me giggle, but now, not so much.

“I’m sorry that it’s such a quick thing. I don’t exactly know what’s going to happen next, but I just can’t think about anything else but my friend right now, you know?” Elijah’s words are rushed and desperate, him repeating them to himself and to me with a guilty look on his face.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Of course, you need to get back to Texas. I don’t blame you for wanting to go. And, thank you. Thank you for telling me and not just leaving like some asshole would,” I say with a small smile on my face. But he doesn’t catch it—he’s too worried about Kevon.

“I mean, Lazure isn’t texting me or anything, so that’s probably a good sign. Haven’t heard from either Coach or Johnny, which is surprising. I really don’t know anything about it, but when something like this happens, people will tend to just suddenly tell everybody. I’m probably last on the long list of people to tell. And that’s fine, that doesn’t matter or anything—”

I steady him with my hands. “Hey. I’m right here, and it’s going to be okay. You’ll see him soon enough. Hell, maybe he’ll even have a smile on his face waiting for you. We don’t know how bad his injury is yet, but I’m sure you’ll find out once you . . .” I let my voice trail off because something slides into my thoughts, blocking out the rest of my sentence.

It’s rather odd that, given the number of people who would probably call or text Elijah first, his father is the one who beat them all to the punch. I know Nathan Witter is actually Elijah’s agent too, but still. Something about the way Elijah has just described the phone call from his dad isn’t sitting well with me.

“You haven’t tried to call Kevon’s phone since you heard from your dad, have you?” I ask him slowly.

He shrugs at me, only half-paying attention. “Why would I? It’s not like he’s going answer it if he’s in a fucking coma.”

I put my hand over his and squeeze it softly, wanting to let him know that I really am here to help him in whatever capacity he’ll let me. “I know. That’s probably a weird question, but I’m just curious if anyone else has tried to get a hold of you besides just your dad.”

Elijah finishes sitting up his suitcase and looks at me over his shoulder. “They’re probably too busy right now.”

Now . . . I’m sitting here, trying to think about everything logically. I know Elijah is really emotionally invested in what’s going on, so I’m just trying to take a step back and work through it. According to Nathan, Kevon was in the middle of practice, and he somehow sustained a head injury. Those things happen, obviously, but then, he said that he’s been sent to the hospital and “they” told Nathan that he is in a coma. At least he thinks that’s what has happened. Going by what Elijah says, that is.

What’s weird about the situation is that no one else has bothered to check in with Elijah. I know he’s kind of what everyone else on the team considers a lone wolf, but everyone knows that he and Kevon are close, and from the little bit that I’ve gotten to know about Kevon, he is a type of person that you would tell everyone and their mom about if something were to happen to him like this.

After taking all those courses in psychology back in college, things are definitely not adding up. “I’m sure everyone’s busy trying to find out what’s going on. I’m just surprised that no one’s said anything to you yet. I mean, they all know that you would want to know, right?”

I’m straddling the fine line of not trying to upset Elijah, but at the same time, I want him to see where I’m going with this.

“But if they’re too busy to tell me, then that’s that. I’m not going to get all up in arms about it. It’s not like we’re actual family or anything. Although—”

“Although what?” I give him an apologetic shrug.

“Although his sister lives in San Antonio too. She would probably be the first person anyone would call, and she knows me pretty well. Or at least, she would call and tell me, I think. But then again, when things like this happen, I don’t expect everyone to drop everything and start calling everyone.”

“I can see why you would say that. And you’re right. In the middle of these situations, people don’t stop and think, oh my God, I need to call so-and-so, but still. Someone would tell you something, right?”

Elijah braces himself against the small desk in the suite. “What exactly are you trying to get at, Paige? Are you telling me you don’t believe my dad?”

And there it is, the attitude I just knew he was going to give me. “I’m not trying to really get at anything in particular. I just want to make sure you have all the facts straight before you fly out to Texas.”

He flashes his eyes at me, and I know I’ve lost him. It’s a quick death of any rationalization I can think of. “I’m pretty sure I got the facts straight, thank you. This is not something I want to have a fight about. My friend is really hurt, something could be really wrong with him, and I need to fucking go. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

He quickly moves around the room like a tornado, throwing his two suitcases up next to the door, while grabbing a few stray items to shove into his carry-on bag.

“Please don’t be angry with me. I’m not trying to make any assumptions or anything here. I’m just trying to think rationally. It doesn’t make sense for him to be the one to call you when you have your team manager and coaches, right? And then Kevon’s sister. Don’t you think one of those people would be the one to tell you about Kevon if this happened?”

Fuck, as soon as I say it, I know I’ve just shoved my foot my mouth. Elijah turns on his heel to face me, a quiet rage boiling under the surface. “
If
this happened? What the fuck? You’re essentially calling my dad a liar about something so . . . I don’t even know. Something so macabre to make up a story about. My dad may be an asshole, but he’s not a liar. Especially not in a situation like this.”

I can already tell he is shut down to anything else I want to say, but I’m not known for shutting up when I need to. “The way you’ve been describing how your dad talks to you and what he thinks about you and your football career, it all kind of makes sense. If I am wrong, and I pray to God that I am, then yes, by all means, be angry with me. Then I am totally sorry in advance. But this is weird, Elijah, and—”

He holds his hand up for me, and I stop talking, gulping the last bit my words down. “No. I’m not listening to any more of this, sorry. I’ve gotta go. I’ll . . . call you when I can.”

T
rying
to convince myself not to be pissed with Paige is like trying to hold back a flood with a couple of buckets. I don’t know where all the anger is coming from, but it doesn’t have anywhere to go but in everyone’s faces. And I mean, who the hell does she think she is, anyway? She may know me better than anyone else, but she definitely does not know my dad, and although he is his own brand of fucked up, I just can’t see him doing something like this. Lying to me about my best friend. People just don’t do that kind of shit, you know?

It’s so unlike Paige to make accusations like that. Out of everyone else I know, she is the person who has the most faith in people and truly looks for the best in them. Me, on the other hand? I don’t trust anybody further than I can throw them. And there’s a reason I’m not a quarterback.

Thinking about Paige in any capacity right now is not where my mind should be, and I tell myself that I’ll deal with her later. There are bigger things going on here.

Like the fact that I should’ve been there with him. I should’ve been there doing my rehab with the team’s group of doctors and specialists rather than here with her. It doesn’t matter much now, since he’s in a coma, but at least, I could have been there when it first happened. All this not knowing shit is killing me. Even after basically telling Paige off for wondering why no one else was telling me what was up, I have to wonder why I’m not getting a single text from anyone. I see my teammates a few times a week, and everyone knows me and Kevon are pretty tight. You’d think someone would have said something by now.

The flight’s over before I realize it, and I practically leap over the turnstile to leave, causing stares from the people around me. But I don’t give a single fuck about them, not when I have no idea what’s going on with my best friend.

I pull out my phone when I get to the curb and wait for the driver to come pick me up, trying to figure out who I should call first. Probably the one person who seems to know everything about everything that happens on our team—Johnny Maine. I let it ring a few times until it goes to his voicemail, some chick with a British accent trying to sound ultra-professional. I don’t like leaving voicemail messages, so I hang up, going through the list to the next person.

It’s more than likely that everybody’s caught up in what’s going on, and maybe they just don’t have their phones with them, or maybe they’re just so preoccupied with what’s going on with Kevon that no one can hear their phones. I quickly dial Maine’s actual office number, letting out a sigh of relief when the phone picks up.

“Johnny Maine’s office, how may I help you?” A pleasant voice answers. I know it’s Lisa, his secretary.

“Hey Lisa, it’s Elijah. Has the boss been in today? I’m trying to find out what’s going on with Kevon.”

“Hello, Mr. Witter. I haven’t seen Mr. Maine come in yet, but I can certainly let him know that you’re looking for him if he does. Have you tried his cellphone?”

“Yeah, I already did that. He’s not answering that either. Sure, he’s probably just busy dealing with everything right now.”

“It has definitely been a busy day. Like I said, I’ll let him know if I see or hear from him.”

I thank her and hang up, kind of aggravated by how she didn’t sound worried about Kevon in the slightest, but that’s how neutrally polite she is no matter who calls. She’s like a fucking robot sometimes.

I run my hand through my hair, aggravated that I’m having to make a third phone call just to find out what the hell’s going on. My finger stops on Lazure’s cellphone number, and I try it, but still no luck. He’s not picking up either, and now, I’m really worried. My dad said it was a coma, but that could quickly lead to something even worse. What if everyone’s at the hospital and that’s why no one’s answering?

If it was a rookie player or even someone who isn’t as widely beloved as Kevon is with the team, it wouldn’t make any sense, but everybody cares about him and everybody would be incredibly worried, so maybe it does make sense, after all.

But I call my dad’s phone as a last resort, knowing that at least he knows what’s going on somewhat, and when he doesn’t answer his phone after four rings, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. You see, my dad . . . he always answers the phone when I call. Even if he’s in the middle of sleeping, eating, whatever. He’s very neurotic like that, and that’s putting it mildly. I can’t even think of one time where he didn’t answer his phone, because he always has it on him like it’s an extension of his body.

And when he doesn’t answer the phone? Paige’s words start to break down this stubborn ass wall I put up between me and the extremely unlikely possibility of my father being a step or two worse than I’ve ever imagined. There’s no way.

I know it’s a futile attempt, but I dial Kevon’s number by heart, my chest tightening with each ring.

“Yo! What’s up, man, I haven’t heard from yo ass in days!”

The phone slips out of my hand, landing in the car seat with a soft thud. I can hear Kevon’s voice calling for me, bitching at me because I’m not talking to him, mentioning the words ‘butt-dial,’ before hanging up on me. All I can do is stare ahead at the back of the seat in front of me, trying desperately to hold in the rage that’s filling me, burning me from the inside.

My father. My fucking father. The moment when you’ve gone past angry to enraged is when the tiniest line of human decency is crossed, blurred in the sand. I always knew that no matter what my dad did, there was always that line, that line that he wasn’t willing to cross because deep down, he was a good person. He just had a bad way of showing it. It didn’t matter that he was a shitty father who only cared about me making it to the Pro League. It didn’t matter that he was still filled with bitter resentment over sustaining his own massive injury at the end of his college football career, making it impossible for him to play in the Pro League himself, and it damn sure didn’t matter that he rarely took anything I said seriously.

No, none of that mattered before, but it all adds up now, weighing down so heavily on me that I’m sure I’ve been crushed to the bottom of the car seat, pinned down.

“Sir, did you find out where we are going?” The driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I look at him slowly, formulating the words with careful consideration. “Yes. We are going to drive to my father’s house. 5690 Handley Way.”

–

E
verything is
a blur as I make my way up the heavily landscaped front entry to his house, mentally ticking off everything that I pretty much help pay for. But I have to stop because hell, I pay for all of it, the bastard. How have I not seen all this before? How could I not . . . no. This is not about me. Not this time. I make it to the door, and I knock loudly and ring the doorbell a few long times just for good measure.

My phone rings in my pocket, the melody telling me that it’s Kevon calling me, probably trying to figure out what the hell I just called him for. Even in the middle of my anger and loathing feelings for my father, I have an overwhelming relief knowing that my best friend is fine. It’ll become a bigger relief once I settle the score with my dad.

The door opens, and he’s standing there, pulled up to his full height as if he’s been expecting me this whole time. He lets out a long sigh, looking over my head before inviting me in. He doesn’t realize what a stupid idea that may be.

“Before you start, let me just say—”

“Fuck you.”

He’s taken aback, clearly not expecting my first response. “Okay, I think that’s a little harsh.”

I shake my head slowly at him. “No, I don’t think you understand my words here. Fuck. You. I can’t even begin to fathom what the hell is wrong with you that you would even consider doing what you did. I’m pretty sure they lock motherfuckers up for that kind of shit. And let me tell you, Dad, I’m not exactly above doing that myself.”

My dad rolls his eyes dramatically at me as if he’s dealing with some stubborn child. He might be dealing with his stubborn child, sure, but I’m not something he should think to trifle with. “I know you’re angry, Son. But hear me out. This goes back further than you even realize, and I know you want answers, so let me give them to you.”

I shouldn’t even be entertaining his words, but part of what he says triggers something in my brain. “What goes back? What the hell are you going on about now? See? This is why you’re fucking psycho, Dad.”

Now he’s laughing at me, walking away until I’m following after him and we’re both in the middle of the open room he refers to as his parlor room, whatever the fuck that means. “All I’ve ever wanted for you was to succeed on a level that would make you proud of yourself. You’re a stubborn kid, Elijah, and you always have been. It was something your mother loved in you fiercely, but I just . . . I just can’t deal with that that kind of insubordination. I’m sorry. But as we both know, once you’re all riled up and thinking all crazy, it’s hard to get you to listen to anything. So I’ve had to do what I’ve had to do with you, and that’s that. The reason I said what I said about your friend is because I needed you to come home. This is your home, Elijah, not North Carolina. I needed you to be here instead of out there.”

I glare at him, knowing my face is redder than Paige’s hair. “Why?” It’s a simple question, but there’s so much behind it that I’m not sure he could ever fully answer.

“Oh, Son, you know why. You’re supposed to be focusing on your career here, not taking up into bed with that girl. All you wanted to do was play football and make money, and I’m just trying—”

I hold my hand up, shaking from his inaccuracies. “First, fuck you for even thinking that. I don’t give one single damn about making the money. That’s all you, Dad. You’re the one who constantly tells me how I need to be sponsored here and there all over the goddamn place. That’s all on you. All I’ve ever wanted to do was play football to get rid of all the shitty things that have happened in my life. I didn’t care whether it was college football, pro football, or fucking playing football down the street with my friends, which you would never let me do, keep in mind. It was never about letting me have fun doing what I wanted to do. No, it was way more than that for you, and you fucking know it. And if you ever refer to Paige as just some girl I’m sleeping with again? Well, I can’t be responsible for what happens after that.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Elijah, you act like your life was so fucking
hard.
I made it so that it wasn’t hard. I made it so that you were living somewhere instead of getting thrown in the system in the middle of that godforsaken place. Is that what your mother would’ve wanted? Hell no, which is exactly why I stepped up when I did. I didn’t have to take your punk ass in. Hell, I wasn’t even ready to be a father when I found out Maureen was pregnant with you. But shit happens, right? That’s part of life, Son. Your mom died, so I got stuck with you, and I made it so that it wasn’t all bad. You try dealing with the kid who has a learning disability and can’t even make it past the first grade without failing.”

I’m shaking more. I’m shaking so goddamn hard, tears are filling up my heart and eyes. All I can think about is how this is not how was it supposed go down. This is not how things are supposed to end with my dad. Even after he throws insult after insult against me, my mom, Paige, and everything that is important to me. My Life.

But that doesn’t stop him. “I had to make sure that you and that little redheaded bitch of yours didn’t get this stupid notion in your head like you were in love or something. You were just two kids who didn’t know any better, so I gave you the benefit of the doubt. But when she sent that fucking letter—”

My head snaps up, and I look him directly in the eyes. “Did you just say letter? Please, God, tell me you did
not
just say that letter.” I’m begging him, God,
anyone
, because if he goes with this the way I think he’s going to go . . .

“Yes, I said letter. Don’t think I didn’t know what y’all were up to. Sending little love notes back and forth. You didn’t go off to war, son, you moved to another state. Like I said, shit happens in life. And when I saw that you had just finished up writing your letter back to her, I took it and I burned it. You did not need that kind of shit holding you back, because I had good plans for you. Big plans. And I’m happy to report that those plans have gone off successfully without much of a hitch. And I owe it all to the fact that you two were kept apart.”

Don’t, honey. You know the kind of man he is, small-minded, feeble in his attempts at anything great. Don’t do it. Don’t lower yourself to his level.

They’re all thoughts in my head, straight from my mother’s mouth, and while I know she’s been dead for fifteen years, it’s like she’s said them out loud and only I can hear them. I know how she would react if I were standing here and she were next to me, listening to the way my father is treating me, what he is saying.

And with every bit of strength I can gather, I push my fists down to my side, wrench myself from where I’m standing in place, and walk out of my father’s house, not looking back.