“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.
33 Ellie
My 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.