Chapter Eleven
Jaxon
“Blue 52! Blue 52!”
My quarterback makes the call to switch the play, and I take a breath and get ready to launch off the line. I’m trying to concentrate, but Germaine has his eye on me. He’s gunning for me. I can tell already.
“Hut, hut, HUT!”
The scramble begins behind me as I take off running. I don’t get very far before Germaine catches up and blocks me from catching the ball. We jog to a stop as the whistle sounds and Coach starts yelling instructions. Thankfully, they aren’t at me, despite not being at my best.
There is no way I’ll be called to dress this weekend. Not with the shitty way I’ve been playing lately.
Germaine slaps my helmet, but with my lack of sleep, it feels more like a punch to the head.
“What’s going on with you, Hart? Are you sick or something?” he asks as we make our way back to the line of scrimmage.
“Nah, man,” I say as I roll out my right shoulder. I took a hit wrong yesterday, and it’s still sore. Not sore enough to make a visit to the trainer. But one more issue to deal with. “I’m just tired is all. I gotta cut back on my time at night with the ladies.” I waggle my eyebrows, but he ignores me.
“Don’t bullshit me. You’ve been having fucking nightmares half the night for the last week.” I stop walking. I knew I was having nightmares, but I didn’t realize he knew that. “You need to get some sleep aid or rub some lavender on your feet at night or something… Where’d you go?” He spins around when he finally realizes I’m not beside him anymore.
I quickly catch up and try to play it all off. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll have to look into that.”
“And buy me a fucking cup of coffee while you’re at it. You’re keeping me up at night,” he adds, swatting me on the ass as I walk by, getting back in position.
“Red 71! Red 71! Hut, HUT!”
The quick snap throws me off my game this time, and I fall a full two seconds behind where I should be. So much so that Germaine intercepts the ball and takes off the other way. It should be easy to catch him, but I can’t do it today.
“Fuck!” I bellow, getting really irritated at my inability to keep up.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steven Timen, one of the biggest douchebags on my team, yells at me. “Aren’t you a fucking Hart? Isn’t football in your blood? Stop bringing us down, man.”
I get ready to bolt after him, all the anger and rage from the last week finally about to break free, but before I can, Germaine is in my face. “Don’t listen to him, man. He’s pissed that he got benched for this week’s game because of grades.” I take a deep breath, trying to control my anger. “He’s just a dick who thinks being raised by the great Jason Hart automatically means you’re the next super star. That’s not your dream, man. You’re not a meathead like him. Let it go.”
Looking him in the eyes, I nod once. Germaine doesn’t say anything this time, just looks at me. He knows my issues with my dad better than anyone. Knows how much bullshit has sprung up over the years.
That’s the great thing about having Heath Germaine as my roommate. He’s my best friend and doesn’t expect me to be anything I’m not. I help him study plays and know stats. He’s a neat freak and keeps our room spotless.
The bad thing about having Heath Germaine as my roommate is he knows me almost too well...including my medical history, and I can see the concern for me building. Normally, it doesn’t bother me. He’s my best friend, and he doesn’t make an issue out of it. But once my dad found out that he knew, he gave Germaine his phone number, with strict instructions to call any time, day or night, if I ever got sick. I was fucking mortified. Before I could tell Germaine to lose his number because I didn’t need a fucking babysitter, he turned to my dad and said, “A buddy of mine had ALL in high school. I know what to look for.” He never asked me about it again.
Even though he’s never mentioned it, though, doesn’t mean it’s not in the back of his mind these days. I know him well enough to know he’s wondering what a reoccurrence would look like and if he needs to make that all-important phone call now. Honestly, I don’t know if I’d rather him think my health is at risk or to know that it’s more likely my sanity falling apart.
I thought when I dropped Annika off, I wouldn’t feel angry and upset. She’s not dead. In fact, her injuries seemed pretty minor. I only spent a small amount of time with her, but she came off as strong and resilient. Hell, she kicked the social worker out of the room and had no qualms about getting into a car with me. Annika is fine.
But I’m not. I hate sleep because as soon as I doze off, the nightmares begin. Sometimes I relive that night over and over for hours. Sometimes it changes up and I’m too late, and Annika is dead. Sometimes I let my rage take over, and I kill her attacker in cold blood. Sometimes I can see her, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get to her. That’s the worst version because when I can’t get to her, I have to stand there and watch her be violated.
I never know what I’m going to see when I close my eyes, but it’s never good. I tried going for a run before bed to exhaust myself, but it didn’t work. So I stopped going to bed at all. Now, I stay up studying for as long as I physically can until I fall asleep with my head on my desk. Doesn’t make a difference if I’m sitting up or lying down, though. The nightmares still come.
Somehow, I’ve made it through the last week of practices, but the longer I go without real sleep, the worse it’s getting.
I shuffle into the locker room once we’re finally dismissed. Everyone else jogged, knowing the last guy to make it to the showers is going to have his balls shrivel up from lack of hot water. I want to care, but I don’t. I’m actually hoping a cold shower will do me some good. I have more studying to do, and I need something to wake me up before I go to the clinic and ask for a caffeine IV.
I barely make it through the doors when a deep voice calls my name.
“Hart! My office.”
Germaine gives me a pointed look, and we both know Coach is calling me in because my practice has been off for days. If he’s not even giving me time to strip down and shower off the funk, he’s really not happy about my performance. No one wants to be in a closed room with an athlete before he’s showered the body odor off. This must be really bad.
“Shut the door behind you,” Coach Newsome instructs, tossing his clipboard on his desk.
As coaches go, Coach Newsome is tough but fair. When my dad first found out he was going to be my coach, he expressed approval in his training style and ability to pick a lineup. I’m not worried about him dropping the hammer unnecessarily. But reality is, I’ve been off for the last week. I’d be stupid not to be slightly concerned about what the repercussions are going to be. I worked hard to even get to third string, and I really don’t want to be cut at this point. Not when I only have a couple more seasons left to play competitive football for the rest of my life.
“What’s up, Coach?” I ask with more confidence than I actually feel.
He stands with his hands on his hips, not even bothering to have me sit down. “I got a call from the counseling department today.”
Shit.
I rub a hand down my face. That’s not at all what I was expecting him to say, and I think I’d rather be getting my ass chewed right now. I finally look at him, schooling my emotions. “Uh huh.”
He looks around the room and breathes through his nose before saying anything else. When he finally speaks, it’s clear he’s concerned. “Why didn’t you tell me, son?”
All I can do is stare at the floor while I try and put my answer into words, but what can I say? Because I didn’t want him to know how ashamed I feel? Because I didn’t want him to know that I’m not handling it as well as I thought I would? Because I’m still fucking angry at this guy, I look at every single person on campus, trying to decide if it’s him so I can bash his face in before calling the cops?
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I settle on, “Because it’s not my story to tell, Sir. It’s her story.”
He nods once. “I can respect that, son, but you’re part of that story. And from what I can see, you’re not handling this all that well.”
I can’t deny it. I’m not doing well. But I sure as hell am not going to admit the truth either. This is something I need to deal with on my own. Without all these people looking over my shoulder, trying to get me to sing “Kumbaya.”
When he realizes I’m not going to reply, he gets more forceful. “I expect you to answer their call, Hart. And I expect you to go to that appointment. I have more respect for you than for most of the guys on that field, and I like you being on this team. But you’re starting to crumble, and I’m not going to run the risk of you getting injured because you think you’re too much of a man to get the help you need.”
“What? What do you mean—?”
“Don’t even try, son,” he interrupts, not buying my bullshit. “Your push off is too slow. You’re practically jogging down the field. And don’t get me started on how exhausted you look. Make. The. Appointment,” he commands, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
Nostrils flaring and jaw tight, I nod in resignation, because I’m not getting out of this, no matter how much I don’t want to talk to a shrink. Coach will follow up to make sure I go, and if I don’t, well, I guess he can’t really bench me since I’m not playing anyway. But he could kick me off the team, and I don’t want that.
“Yes sir,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Good. Get out of here. You probably have a voicemail to answer, and you need to take a fucking nap.”
By the time I get back in the locker room and peel off my sweaty pads, everyone else is done showering. My teammates lob playful insults my way about how small my balls are about to be and how they might call me “Jackie” since my penis is going to shrivel into a vagina. I laugh with them halfheartedly, my mind still not really into all of this.
Germaine is the only one who looks at me with real question in his eyes. I nod that I’m fine and thankfully he lets it go. I’m sure he’ll interrogate me later, but for now, I can keep going through the motions.
After taking the world’s quickest shower, I finally grab my phone out of my locker. I have one missed call and a voicemail. I don’t recognize the number, but it’s definitely from one of the campus administration offices. Coach wasn’t kidding when he said I could expect a phone call soon.
I could return it right away, but I don’t. I’m intent on putting this off as long as I can get away with. Instead, a text catches my eye. I don’t recognize that number either. Opening it, it’s the last thing I expected to see, but the only thing I was hoping for all week.
Hi. This is Annika. I finally got my phone replaced. Here’s my number. This may sound forward, and there’s no pressure, but would you like to meet up for coffee?
I blow out a relieved breath then look around, making sure no one saw my reaction. Quickly typing out a response, I suggest a time and place. I want to meet up with her more than anything.
Coffee and Annika are the only two things that might be able to get me through this hell I’m stuck in.