Game On

Jack, October

On my way to school Monday morning, I can't stop thinking about Peyton's expression when I tried to approach her on the bus after the Magnolia game. I've seen her eyes full of ice before, and I've seen them full of fire. They've been sad, angry, wry, knowing, passionate, and even haunted. But I've never seen her look broken. And that's what I saw in her eyes Friday night.

She was broken.

She was sitting with her forehead pressed against the window, and Marshall was on the aisle seat next to her, almost like he was guarding her. 

"Hey," I said softly, trying to get her attention. Marshall shot me a cold, hard stare and gave a slight shake of his head, as if to say leave her alone.

She slowly turned her head and looked up at me like she'd just woken from a dream. But I don't think she saw me. It was like she was seeing someone or something else. And whatever it was she was seeing filled her with terror, as if some monster had come to inhabit her.

I'll never forget that look in her eyes, ever.

I feel sick to my stomach all day long. Nothing I do makes it better.

I finally see her at practice, but she's dressed in regular clothes and talking to Coach Murphy. She hands him a piece of paper, and they discuss something in quiet tones. After he claps her on the shoulder, she walks to the shade and sits down. I want to go ask her what's wrong, if she's sick or something. But I can't make myself. For some reason it feels too invasive.

It's a Monday practice, so we get our asses chewed for a while before we start. Coach C is blaming the O-line and lead blocks for Cash's interceptions. Such bullshit. He could have ten minutes in the pocket and still not make the throw. He lets the pressure get to him, mentally. He doesn't have the athleticism to shift and evade the tackle. Can't really blame poor blocking for that.

But I vow to myself to show the coaches today, to hold my blocks on passing plays so Cash can't hide behind that excuse anymore. After the drills, we line up on offense in a T formation, with Darius and me on the wings. I'm protecting Cash against the blitz, and Darius is supposed to go out for a pass. Marshall's job on defense is to try and get through me to the quarterback.

Not a chance, Bro.

Cash calls the cadence, but before he says "hut! hut!" Marshall pushes through the O-line, lunging at me to get to Cash.

I shove him back, anger triggering a surge of adrenaline. "What's your fucking problem, Man?"

He shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact. He never jumps early. Like ever. He has way too much patience and discipline to jump early. Something's off.

"Offsides on the defense!" Murph shouts. "Run it again!"

This time, Cash completes the cadence, but Marshall plows through the line before the ball is snapped, steamrolling me to get to Cash. I hop up and run over to where they've gone down in a pile. As Marshall is getting up, I shove him hard in the shoulder pads.

"You trying to start shit? Let's go. Right now!" I yell in his face.

He merely steps closer. We're standing nose to nose when coach breaks it up and sends us for water.

I follow Marshall to where he's taken off his helmet, rubbing at his temples with his hands.

"What the fuck, Marshall?" I yell. "Are you trying to make me look bad?"

He probably wants to show me up in front of Peyton. Prove to her what a beast he is.

"Stay in your fucking lane until the ball's snapped, or I'll snap your fucking legs off!" I'm kind of bullshitting now—he'd be a formidable opponent. But I'm so amped up I don't even know what I'm saying.

He's quiet, unresponsive. No surprise there. He stares down at the ground like he's pondering something. Then he looks up at me.

"Cash...hurt her," he says, quietly, nodding in Peyton's direction.

I turn to see her sitting there in the shade, looking so alone and lost. My heart is thudding in my chest when I look back at Marshall. "What did he do?" I ask, seething.

Marshall gives a slight shake of his head. "Just stay out of the way, Chaplin. Let me take care of it."

I nod, put my helmet back on, and walk to the line of scrimmage in a daze.

After the cadence is called and the ball is snapped, Marshall explodes through the line, and I do exactly what he asked me to. I get out of the way, not even attempting to block for Cash.

Cash has his arm back, ready to throw to Darius when Marshall crushes him. The crunching of body hitting body is audible. Marshall pushes himself off Cash who is slow to get up. He's laying there, groaning, holding the shoulder of the arm stretched out over his head. That's when Marshall twists the knife, coming down hard on Cash's throwing hand with his metal cleat as he steps away.  Cash recoils fetal, letting out a high-pitched scream.

There's something very satisfying about the sound of that scream.

I don't even feel bad when the ambulance arrives, and they cart him off to the hospital.

I don't feel bad when word gets around through snapchat that Marshall dislocated Cash's shoulder and shattered his hand.

And I don't feel bad that Cash is sidelined for the rest of the season.

The only thing I feel bad about is that it wasn't me who did it to him.

*****

Peyton didn't dress out for practice all week. Word is she had some accident while running—got overheated and passed out. That doesn't sound like her though. She can run and run and never grow tired. I suspect it has something to do with whatever Cash did to her, but Marshall isn't talking, as usual.

We won our game last night with Darius at QB, which, to be honest, is where he should have been all season. It wasn't a pretty win, but it'll do.

So I'm in my truck early Saturday morning heading to the lake with my fishing gear and cooler. I need to decompress, get my mind off all this shit. And fishing is the best way I've found to forget about troubles for a while.

When I reach the top of the last hill before getting to Lake Livingston State Park, my breath catches. The sun peeks over the horizon, casting gold through the shadows of the trees.

I spy a lone figure, long and graceful, running along the edge of the road.

It's Peyton.

I ease my truck to a slow crawl and roll down my window as I approach her.

She turns, sees it's me, and stops.

"Dude, Thomas, it's Saturday. Don't you ever rest?"

"Been resting all week, Chaplin."

I ask her if she wants to come to the pier with me, and she agrees to meet me there when she's done. She jogs up about twenty minutes later, sweat glistening lightly on her golden skin.  I hand her a water, and we sit peacefully while I cast and reel. It's kind of nice with her by my side. She isn't one of those girls who feels the need to constantly fill the silence with chatter.

The cool October morning fades slowly away as the air begins to warm up, and by noon, the sun is beating down on our backs. I set my pole aside and strip off my shirt.

"I'm going for a swim," I tell her, pushing myself out of my pop chair. She looks up at me from where she's been sitting on the dock watching the minnows and turtles. She's still, studying me, her eyes roving over my torso and chest.

"What'cha looking at, Thomas?" I ask. Please say my massive pecs.

"Oh." She starts. "Nothing."

Deflated, I turn and dive into the water. I take a few strokes towards the floating dock and then turn around to face her standing there on the shore.

"Come on in, girl. Water feels great."

She strips off her loose tank top and joggers, revealing her compression bra and boy shorts underneath. Her body isn't like a regular girl's. Instead of curves, she's all lines and angles, with broad shoulders that taper to sharp cuts where her delts meet her biceps. Her stomach has a faint indention down the middle between her abs, and her hips are narrow for a girl, padded with muscle instead of flesh. I know how hard someone has to work to build an athletic body like that. I tread water, studying her, wondering if her skin would be soft to the touch, or hard like the muscle and bone underneath.

She finally jumps in, so I swim toward the dock and pull myself out of the water.

We lay on the dock in the sun, me on my back and her on her stomach, with arms crossed underneath her head like a pillow. Her eyes are closed, expression peaceful. She sighs, letting out a soft little sound of contentment. 

I'm trying really hard to suppress the urge to ask her what happened with Cash. It's an ongoing battle between my need to know and my need to protect her. Curiosity finally wins in the end. It usually does, with me anyway.

"What, um, did Cash do to you?" As soon as the question is out of my mouth I instantly regret it.

She winces, groans.

"I'm sorry. It's just been killing me, imagining him hurting you. Payne basically gave me nothing."

She takes a deep breath, her eyes still closed, and then exhales. "It's not a big deal. I'm fine," she says softly.

"I don't believe you," I say.

She opens one eye, studying my face. "He, uh...put his hand...you know, like, in my pants. Said he was settling a bet that I actually have a penis." 

She closes both eyes again, but I can see the tears creeping out from under her lids.

I don't know what to do with all the rage surging through me. I want to hit something, but I need to stay calm, for her.

"Did he touch you?"

She nods, the tears trailing down her cheeks and pooling in the folds of her nose before dripping toward her mouth. I ease myself down on my elbow and lightly brush them aside. Her skin is warm and soft, so soft. And I realize in that moment how vulnerable she is. How isolated she must feel. I rest my hand gently on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Peyton. I'm really sorry."

"It's fine," she says. "Just humiliating."

But I know it's more than that. Cash was trying to put her in her place. Psychological warfare to exert his dominance and make her feel weak. I don't think she's the type of girl who has a lot of experience with guys. I doubt she ever saw that coming or had any clue what monsters men can be. But then again, I hardly know anything at all about her.

"Can I ask you something else?" I mean, I may as well go for it since we're here and everything.

"Sure," she says, resigning herself.

"I don't want to offend you or anything."

"Just spit it out, Chaplin," she says, eyes closed.

"Do you...you know...like guys?"

"Of course. I've got way more in common with guys than I do girls."

"No, I mean do you like them like them, or are you attracted to girls?" 

She opens her eyes and studies me silently for a minute. "I really don't know that I've ever been attracted to anyone."

It's a sharp punch to the gut. When will I ever get a clue?

"Seriously?" I finally ask.

"I don't know. I just never thought about it much. I guess that makes me an asexual freak, right?"

"That's not what I meant. I just...never mind," I say feeling like a total asshole.

She props herself up on her elbows and turns to me. "Well, I'm definitely not attracted to girls," she says, almost like she's thinking out loud. "Most of the time, girls are just a big pain in my ass."

"Yeah, mine too." I nod, not knowing what else to say.

"Even Queen Bree?" There's something about the way she says Bree's name, with an edge sarcasm to her voice, that gives me hope.

"Yeah, she wears me out sometimes."

"So why do you date her?"

"I don't know that I'd exactly call it dating. We're friends, so I'm just trying to be there for her after everything that happened with Cash. But I don't think she's over him, to be honest."

"You think she's trying to make him jealous?"

"Maybe. Or she's afraid of being alone. She'll get tired of me soon enough and patch things up with him. She always does."

"Doesn't that annoy you?"

I shrug. It honestly doesn't bother me in the least. In fact, it's kind of a relief. "I don't think she's into me, that's all. She just likes the idea of me."

Peyton smiles, her cheeks dimpling. Her eyes are playful, almost flirty. "I'm sure she likes more than the idea of you," she finally says, looking down at her hands. "I mean, you're funny and smart and athletic, and nice to everybody. And you're pretty hot...objectively speaking."

She thinks I'm hot? Peyton thinks I'm hot! I study her expression, looking for signs of bullshit, but all I see is someone who is being open and honest. Someone who is raw and beautiful and electric.

Our faces are within kissing distance, and I want so badly to lean into her. But then her expression changes, gets serious, almost worried. She jumps to her feet and does a front flip into the water, submerging herself under the surface.

And just like that, she's gone again.