Sacked (Gridiron #1) (22 page)

“
O
h no
. Oh no.” I press my palms to my face. I stare at the television as if I can will more time on the clock. The game can’t be over. It can’t. There has to be a few more seconds left.

I pick up the remote and try to fast forward it, but it’s at the end of the game. I rewind it only to have to watch the end again, and the outcome remains the same. It’s a loss. Their perfect season is done. If Knox hadn’t hated me before, he does now. Same with Jack. It’s one thing to forgive when the one thing in your life you really cared about goes well.

When Jack got his D1 scholarship, Dad was elated. He treated everyone with his certain brand of kindness, which ranged from effusive praise for Jack to offhanded compliments to Mom and me all spring and then into the summer. The demon came out when Jack struggled. The year before junior college was a nightmare.

“Is it bad?” Riley’s on the edge of the sofa, a foot curled under her. She’s folded over a pillow that she’s alternatingly bitten and squeezed.

“Yeah, it’s bad.” I reach up and feel sweat across my forehead. It’s part from shame and part from agony.

The team started off terrible. Fumbles, turnovers, missed opportunities. Knox had allowed a weaker, slower offensive line to manhandle his defense for two quarters. Their days at the top of the polls are over. The question is how far they’ll fall.

I blow out a shaky breath.

With this loss? Any chance I had at getting back together with him after the season ends is done. Nail in the coffin, the vampire’s exposed to sun, done.

I force myself to watch ESPN where the commentators talk about the Warriors laying a big fat egg on the field.

“Masters played himself out of the Heisman with that game,” one smug bastard says to another on the set.

“They don’t give them to defensive players in the first place, and secondly, if they gave it to him, it would have been the result of an exceptional season. This game showed him and the Warriors as average.”

“God, did you fuckers even watch the fourth quarter?” I yell at the television. “A sack, five hurries, three tackles, and a safety, and that’s average?”

Riley peeks her head out of her bedroom. “I have Xanax. Do you want me to slip one into your Coke?”

I throw a pillow at her, and it nearly knocks a picture off the wall.

“Seriously, these assholes say Knox played an ordinary game. Did that look ordinary to you?” I gesture toward the television.

“Um, no?”

“Exactly.” I flip the picture off. “Fuck.”

“Why’s this so bad?” she asks from the safety of her doorway. She’s afraid of me. She probably should be. I’m a destroyer of things. “It’s one loss. I understand they’d be upset that they aren’t perfect, but is it that bad?”

“In college football, yes, one loss can devastate you. Only four teams get to play in the BCS title game. It’s a four team playoff for the national title. They call it the BCS National Championship or Bowl Championship Series,” I explain at her puzzled look. “With Auburn and Oregon having perfect records, a bunch of one loss teams will have to battle it out for those last two slots.”

“But there are four more games,” she points out.

“Right, four more times they can lose. Then the conference championship. Plus, it’s a late in the season loss. The team they lost to was ranked, but lower than them. It could mean that they dropped out of contention for the national title.” I throw myself onto the sofa. “It will depend on the polls Tuesday. If they fall too far…” I can’t even bring myself to contemplate what that will mean.

“Tuesday, when?”

“8:15 p.m. EST. They are announced on ESPN.”

“Okay, I’ll prepare the Xanax cocktail for 8:16 p.m. then.”

“Thanks,” I say sourly. I stomp to my bedroom and crawl under the covers, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up with a redo of this day. Of this whole week.

Jack calls me a couple hours later. His voice sounds so heavy and sad that it’s hard for me to keep from breaking down.

“How are you doing?”

“Shitty,” he admits. “I hate that I wasn’t out there.” He’d gotten his results back on Friday, but his professors didn’t get notified soon enough, so he’s out at least another week. His weary inhale goes so long and loud, I can feel the wind sucking through the phone. “The team is demoralized. Half of them have gone out to drink themselves into a stupor and the other half is trying to castrate themselves in their rooms.”

I don’t need to guess which half Knox falls in. The loss no doubt kills him. He probably thinks it’s all his fault and is mentally going over every play, examining where he could have played better and how he let his team down.

“I’m sorry.”

“Coach reamed us a new one. We’re not going to be able to sit down for a few days. Said he saw pee wee football squads execute better than us.” Jack cracks his neck to relieve tension. The awful sound makes me wince. “We have to win next week and hope everyone ahead of us slaughter each other.”

“Is…Knox doing okay?”

“Haven’t seen him. After the game he disappeared. I don’t know where he is.” I try to keep it in, but a small moan of pain escapes me. Jack tries to reassure me. “It’s not your fault. Masters needs to learn to compartmentalize better, but everyone's emotions are riding high.”

“Which means they blame me, or will once they find out.”

 He hesitates. “No.”

“Don’t lie to me!” My voice comes out shrill and shaky.

“Okay. Okay,” he quickly concedes. “Some of them will blame you, but it’s not your fault. If this is the worst that Masters ever experienced, then he’s lived a pretty fucking charmed life. He’s got to strap on his balls and man up. Everyone has shit in their life they have to shut out. Girlfriends. Home life. Bad grades. Or maybe coming home and hearing your dad tell your sister that she’s a worthless cunt. That can fuck with your mind. And you have to keep reminding yourself that you aren't your dad.”

I cover my mouth to hold in a gasp. “I didn't know you heard that.”

Usually when Dad yelled at me, Jack wasn’t around.

Jack gives a humorless laugh. “I came home early because I'd tweaked my knee. Coach let me go without argument. I think I knew I was finished with the team at that time. I should have transferred to another high school, but I didn’t. Other people's dickhead actions aren't your responsibility. So you broke up with him. It’s still his responsibility to get his head together on the field. If he was in his right mind, he’d be the first to tell you that shit.”

Jack’s tone will tolerate no argument. The matter is done for him. I’m his sister. He’ll always side with me. I guess that’s the difference between true love and infatuation. True love takes up for you—no matter what. It always sees your side of the story. It listens for the truths.

I take a few deep breaths and gather my composure. “It’s only one loss.” I tell him, offering him my own sort of support. “Last year no teams in the playoff were undefeated. The most you’ll drop is to three, maybe four tops.”

Jack makes a sound. It could be interpreted as agreement or disgust. A bit of both I decide.

“Try to put it out of your head, Ellie,” he says wearily.

A beeping interrupts us. I look at the phone and see it’s my mom. “Hey, Jack. It’s Mom. No doubt she wonders why you stood on the sidelines.”

“Don’t take it.”

“I have to. If I don’t she’ll keep calling me.”

“Don’t let her push you around then.” He pauses. “I know she made you do this. I know she’s probably blackmailing you. That’s her style. Don’t want anyone to think her kids are flawed or her old man cheats on her like it’s an Olympic event.”

The phone beeps again.

“I could have stopped.”

“You did,” he points up. “You stood up to me. Now it’s time to stand up to her.”

He hangs up.

My right knee aches around the scar. I rub it, but the pain doesn’t go away. I don’t think it ever will. The agony I felt when that kid—whose face I can’t even conjure—slammed into my knee is nothing like what I’m feeling now. There’s a chill in my blood and a pain in my bones that I’ll have to live with each day.

During the last week, I still held on to some hope that I’d be able to go to Knox and apologize and convince him to take me back after this semester ended. Foolishly I kept this stupid little dream that Jack would successfully pass all his classes by himself, and next semester, after they’d won, I’d go to Knox and apologize. But I know after the loss, there’s no hope left.

I’ve lost him.

M
y mom’s
ring tone starts up again. On the scale of one to negative one thousand, the desire to answer the phone lies somewhere below hell. I brace myself. “Hey, Mom.”

“Eliot, is it such an onerous task for you to answer your phone when I call you?”

Actually, yes, your calls are some of the least desirable experiences in my life
.

“Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”

“I’m your mother,” she continues, “and I pay for this phone. And your apartment. And your tuition. And likely the clothes you’re wearing and the food you eat, so perhaps you can muster a tad more enthusiasm when my identification appears on your phone.

 I pull out a pad and paper. Under “find a job,” I write, “get disposable cell phone.”

Chastened, I mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I didn’t call to argue with you.” Her impatience is evident. She’s probably sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, and drafting comments on all the websites about how the commenters are ignoramuses for blaming the loss on Jack. “I’m very concerned about Jack. We watched the game today, and as you can imagine your father is beside himself that Jack wasn’t playing.”

That’s code for he spent the entire game shouting curses at the team, Jack specifically. I bet Jack could hear those screams and rants inside his helmet. Dad is in Jack’s head.

“Jack’s not feeling good about that either.” The one good thing about talking on the phone is that I can make all the faces I can’t when we’re in the same room. Right now I’m making a
screw you
face.

Doesn’t matter because Mom continues as if I didn’t even say a word. I’m not sure why she hates voicemail messages so much, because our entire conversation consists of her talking
at
me. No response but agreement required. “Your father and I wonder why Jack isn’t on the field. I called Coach Lowe and he instructed me to talk to my son. Since Jack isn’t answering his phone, you will tell me.”

A direct command. I might as well tell her.

“Jack’s on probation until it can be determined that he needs special accommodations for his classes.”

“Special?” She says that word as if it contains a disease, and by passing by her lips, she’s exposed herself to a terminal illness.

“I told him what I’ve been doing and he wanted to stop. Immediately.”

On the other end of the line, there’s a swift intake of breath. “You what?”

I could have said I killed children and animals, and she would have responded with less horror. I drop my head into my hand. “Jack has a learning disability. You and I both know it. He needs real help, not me fixing his answers and writing his papers. He needs to learn how to do this on his own, and Western has great programs designed to help students with learning disabilities.”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with Jack.” Her tone comes sharp and angry.

I take a page out of her playbook and power forward as if I’m the one in charge. “Of course not. He’s very smart, but he struggles with reading and writing, and that will adversely affect him for the rest of his life unless at some point we stop enabling him. I won’t continue to hurt him.”

“Are you an education major now? I thought I paid for an English literature degree.” Disdain drips from her words.

I try again. “If Jack is tested, the school would have to make certain accommodations for him. Instead of writing papers, he could do an oral exam. He would be allowed more time to finish a final or he might be allowed to take it home.”

“Eliot, my dear, if you’re tired of helping your brother, I can certainly see if there’s someone else interested in taking your place.” Her voice is anything but loving. The term of endearment sounds like arsenic on her tongue. “But of course, that means I will no longer provide for you in the way that we currently have. Since you’re no longer doing your job.”

I grip the phone tighter in my hand hoping that the clamminess will prevent me from dropping it. “He needs our help.”

My words are met with stony silence. When she speaks, her tone is ice cold. “You should be glad that tuition is nonrefundable. If I could, I would cancel the check and you would forfeit this semester. Don’t expect another cent from your father or myself. Your father never wanted to pay for your college anyway. I had to do it out of my own funds. I sacrificed for you.”

My eyes sting. When I rub my cheek, I’m almost surprised there’s moisture there. I would’ve thought by now I had grown immune to this. After all, I knew it would come. Knowing, though, doesn’t seem to prevent pain.

I’ll get over this pain. It’s the loss of Knox—someone who genuinely cared about me and thought I was special—that I won’t ever get past. The words flung about by Mom? Those are surface arrows. They hurt, but they heal over.

Knox is a soul deep wound. A self-inflicted ruination of my heart. I pushed my heart through a cheese grater and now I have to deal with the fact that all I have left are tiny fragments.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper but those words aren’t for my mother. They’re for Knox.

“You are an ungrateful child. You have always been ungrateful. Spoiled and rebellious.”

I laugh at that charge. I’ve always toed the line for her. After all it had been
her
who told a twelve-year-old to cheat for her brother. But there’s no point. I don’t need her acceptance anymore. I’m done.

“Did you hear me?” she demands. “You’ll not get another cent from me. In fact, when I get off the phone, I’m cancelling your cell phone and removing your name from the charge account.”

“You do that, Mom. You do that.” I hang up the phone then. There’s nothing more to be said between the two of us.

At my desk, I reach inside the second drawer and push aside the tape dispenser, brightly colored paper note flags, and pull out the
Sports Illustrated
magazine. Knox’s brother—wearing Knox’s blue and gold uniform—stands at the forefront flanked by two college players on either side. Knox is one of those players. He’s wearing a silly grin and the red and white of his brother’s team.

I trace my finger around his large frame. Out of all the girls he could have chosen, he waited for
me.
He’d said I was special. He treated me like I mattered. He
cared
about me. He…
loved
me. And I threw that back in his face.

I did it to protect him. I believed at the time, and still do, that staying as far away from him as possible until Jack completes this semester successfully—without my help—is the best course of action. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like the motherfucking devil.

I hug my arms to my sides. My skin feels clammy and goose pimples dot every exposed surface. Idly, I wonder if I’m in shock. I could use that Xanax cocktail right now.