It’s Always Us (Abandoned Brothers #3)

Chapter 13

MARK

LEX: *voice message* Hey. I wanted to tell you good luck today. I wish I could be there. Pause . Remember that time when we stood in the middle of our high school field, and you’d just lost the game to the Panthers? I told you one day you’d make it all the way. Mark, you did it. I knew you would. You should be so proud of what you’ve accomplished. I am. I’m proud of you. Go get’em today. I’ll be watching.

______

SEAN: Good luck today, bro. I expect to see you in two weeks.

ANDIE: Two weeks, Mark. We want to see you two face off.

SHANE: Don’t get your ass sacked. Stay on your feet and protect your arm.

MAGGIE: I’m so pissed I’m not there. Get those boys running circles.

______

Eight. I was only eight years old the day I was yanked from our trailer and taken to the hospital with a concussion, dislocated shoulder, internal bruises, and a slice above my eyebrow that took twenty stitches to close up.

I lay on the hospital gurney, listening to the nurse through the thin curtain talk to some lady from Child Protective Services. I didn’t know where I would sleep or end up or if it would be worse than what I’d just been taken from.

I was terrified and tried to ignore the unknown, envisioning some superhero breaking into the hospital and stealing me away. The ones from the comic books I’d hide behind a box shoved in the closet. I imagined them taking me to a place where I never had to be afraid or worried again. It isn’t what happened.

All I knew was watching my mom cut a line and snort it, or drink herself unconscious. Each time, I was terrified she’d never wake up. Or sitting next to my dad while he drank and injected himself with whatever he could get off the street. He introduced me to pain.

He dragged me through our small trailer and threw me against the wall enough times I no longer felt it when it happened. I’d become numb to the only world I’d known, but then I was tossed into a new one where I had no idea what to expect. It was almost more frightening than going back to the only life I knew.

It took years before I could sit in a room and not wonder where the next blow would come from or fear that I’d wake up and find myself right back there or somewhere worse. Trusting people wasn’t something I did. Until two boys just like me moved into the group home I ended up in, and we found football. It changed everything.

Now, I stand surveying the stadium filled to capacity with fans, expecting me to help my team claim the division title. I close my eyes listening and remembering laying in that hospital bed, thinking I didn’t even have a chance.

I jog to my place on the sideline and listen to the tones of the anthem, taking it all in.

Then, there was a girl who believed in me. Who told me I’d make it all the way and then stepped away so I could—the same one who’s waiting for me now.

Her call yesterday shook me. Whatever was going on at that moment, she needed me. It reminded me that she might need me just as much as I need her.

I pull my helmet on and jog out onto the field as the fans roar with excitement and expectation. The adrenaline and anticipation never get old. It’s exhilarating and addicting, and there was a time when I survived on it. Like an addict waiting for his next hit, I longed for the next game, the next win.

I want to win this game and take my team to the Super Bowl, but these past few months, that high hasn’t been as effective. It’s not the only thing I long for anymore .

I want this surgery to be effective, and I want to be able to get back out on the field next season, but Lex isn’t just a season. She’s the rest of my life.

I hit the thirty-yard line, ready to call plays and do the job I was born to do despite where I started. But it’s time I figure out how to be a husband. I don’t know shit about how to do that, but I know it involves sacrifice. It also requires being together, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.

______

“It took you a while to get up after the sack in the third quarter, and then strategy moved to short, quick passes before you left the game. Your shoulder has been a recurring issue. Did it contribute to the outcome of today’s game?”

With my arm in a sling and feeling like it’s no longer attached, I look around the room, wondering how much longer I have to endure this. Most times, I don’t mind the barrage of questions, but today, after losing this game, I want to get out of here.

There was a moment in the third quarter when everything went silent, and my world almost went black. It was the moment I’d feared for the past two seasons—the moment when my shoulder finally had enough.

The pain that tore through my arm was like no other, and I knew I was done. I’d given it my all this season, but now it’s over, and the pain is just as unbearable as the disappointment. I can’t help but think this was my last shot at making it to the end, and that thought has a knife piercing straight through my chest.

“There were a lot of things that went into the outcome. Our receivers weren’t able to make their routes. We gave away yards that we couldn’t get back. My shoulder issues are only one of the many challenges we faced.”

“You’re a free agent going into the next season, and we understand you’ll be considering all opportunities. With the Kingsnakes losing their veteran quarterback, the rumor is they might be interested in picking you up. Are you looking to move or hoping to stay with the Liberties?”

“I’ll be weighing all opportunities, and we’ll see what next season brings. ”

“Are you concerned about the impact your shoulder will have on negotiations with other organizations or if you’ll return next season?”

I have so many concerns at the moment I don’t even know where to begin. My usual confidence has taken a nosedive this afternoon, and having to answer this question isn’t helping.

I force my lips upward, feeling like it’s tearing up my face. “I’m taking one thing at a time and looking forward to stepping out on the field next season.”

The reporters laugh at my dodge, and I take that as an opportunity to step away from the mic, allowing the next person their chance to relive our loss.

I join my teammates in the waiting area with their families and friends. Stepping into the area with a smile on my face has never been a problem. Today, it’s more apparent than ever that the one person I want to see isn’t here.

I find an isolated spot in the corner, trying to block out the excruciating pain radiating from my shoulder through my back and down my arm. The pain has been bad, but after taking the hit, any amount of movement brings a wave of dizziness followed by feeling like I’m going to pass out.

As my teammates hug their wives and girlfriends, I try to remove my phone from my pocket, needing to talk to the only one who can remind me I still have something to fight for.

I tap her name, putting the phone to my ear.

“Hi.”

I close my eyes, her voice is a balm to my sorrow-filled soul. “Hey.” I hear laughter and yelling in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Slade’s. The guys are here. We watched the game.”

She’s at Slade’s, her best friend when she should be here where I can hug and kiss her and have her tell me it’s all going to be ok.

I suddenly want to chuck my phone across the room, but I can’t because my freaking arm is shot.

“I’m sorry about the game. Are you ok? That hit was . . . ” Her voice is soft and quiet, like she’s hiding in a corner.

“I’m pretty sure my arm is packed with ice and being airlifted to the surgery center.”

“Where are you? ”

“Waiting for my team to get done hugging and kissing their families so I can go home.” I didn’t mean to spit that out at her, but I did, and I’m met with silence. “Shit, Lex, I’m sorry.”

“What’s going on?” The background noise is gone.

“Nothing.” But it’s not nothing .

I want you here. I want to know that my shoulder will be fine and that I can play again, but I also need you with me.

“What happens now?” Her tentative question hits me square in the chest.

“I’m going home to pack my stuff, and then I’ll be in Phoenix, prepping for surgery. After that . . . ” I have no choice but to be honest. “I don’t know. It depends on how the surgery goes and my therapy schedule.”

There’s a long beat of silence and it’s full of disappointment and broken promises.

When she speaks next, her voice is different. The tenderness is replaced with a stony intonation I’ve not heard before, and I hate it. “How long will you have to stay?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve rented a house. Shane’s coming to stay a couple of nights to help me get in and out of the surgery center. Then, his family is coming to watch Sean play for the division title.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all taken care of. I hope it goes well.”

“Dammit, Lex. Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like we’re casual friends catching up and wishing each other well.”

“That’s not what I want us to be, but that seems to be exactly what we are. You’re having surgery and living in a new place, a new house. I don’t even know where that is or when we might actually see each other.” She pauses. “I don’t think this is how it’s supposed to be between husbands and wives. Hell, that’s not how it is with friends.”

“I don’t know how to fix this. I thought . . . ” A teammate calls my name and waves me over. I nod but turn away.

“You thought what?” Her question is clipped.

“I’m not sure I was thinking clearly about the reality of our situation.”

A beat of silence is deafening, and my already throbbing body is one unit of pressure away from bursting.

“What does that mean? Have you changed your mind about— ”

“No.” I cut her off. “Lex, no. Never.” I take a breath, knowing if there’s one person I can be vulnerable with, it’s her. It was always her. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, trusted anyone enough, and I’ve kind of forgotten how.

I turn, facing the brick wall, my chest flowing in and out too quickly as my gut churns with pain and fear.

“Lex.” I push her name out like I’m being strangled with my own damn hand. “I’m . . . scared.”

I let it hang there, trying to gather the balls to give her all of it.

“I don’t know if this is it. If I’m ever going to play again. I don’t know how to do all of this. I don’t know how to be what you need me to be. Who I want to be for you. For us.” I suck in air through my closing windpipe to admit that last of it. “I’m terrified. Not just to go into this surgery, but I’m even more scared that I’m losing you.”

I rest my head against the wall, the rough brick is cool against my hot, sticky forehead. I wait for her to say something. Anything. It takes some really long, quiet seconds, but then I finally hear her voice. The one I’ve held onto, tucked away for years. The one that gives me hope when all is lost.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always,” I release the long breath I was holding, then bring in oxygen that eviscerates my throat.

“I’m freaking scared out of my mind.” She says it so quietly, like it’s a secret.

A little laugh escapes while I blink that shit away that’s making it hard to see. I need her so much. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We have a lot to talk about. If I plan ahead, maybe I can sneak away from the garage and come see you?”

“Yes. I can’t stand this. I’ll have appointments and therapy after surgery, but I’ll be recovering. If you can’t, I’ll come as soon as I can. I promise.” Friends and families begin to disperse as we’re ushered to the bus. “I have to go. They’re loading the bus.”

“I know you’ll be busy and out of it, but can you text me when surgery is over.”

“You want me to text you?” I tease her, inhaling a full breath for the first time in weeks, and it feels good.

“Yeah, a thumbs up or something, so I know you’re still alive. ”

I smile, a portion of my anxiety falling away. “Baby, I’ll text you something.”

There’s that pause again, and I can imagine the slight pink tint to her cheeks, and it warms my cold insides.

I’m not ready to hang up, but I have to. “I gotta go.”

“Hey, Mark.”

“Yeah.”

“I miss you, too. So much. I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m still scared shitless about a lot of things, but I hang up with a renewed sense of hope that somehow this might actually work out. It has to. It just has to.