42. Beckett
Beckett
I’ve kicked a rugby ball, a soccer ball, and a volleyball through the uprights, and I’m moving on to a tennis ball, propped up on a tee when I see her.
Hair pulled back into one of those braids she likes, hands tucked into the pockets of a shiny black bomber jacket, and navy scrubs hugging the curves of her legs.
None of us are wearing helmets, so the press can see us and get shots of us having fun out here, laughing and smiling, a cohesive team despite the devastating loss, while we all wave at our families.
The only part of mine interested in showing up were my brother and sister, and I asked them not to.
Drew a line in the sand like that girl up there told me I should, and they respected it.
She shines under the sunlight as she walks down the stairs to the edge of the field, the barrier temporarily removed for the event and replaced with gates, and she leans forward, resting her arms along the metal rung.
One hand comes up in a tiny wave that’s just for me.
I don’t know why I do it—it’s the sort of thing she’d hate—but I grin, holding my hand against my chest, and point at her before I line up to kick this stupid tennis ball.
It goes through.
People clap and cheer, Nowak knocks his head against mine like it’s a real game, and cameras from all the desk reporters who got stuck covering this event flash from around the gates.
Some of them start to call my name, and I’m sure they have a whole host of riveting questions lined up about the difference between kicking a tennis ball and a football, how events like this boost morale, and what that means before Sunday.
Old me would have walked right over, grin and dimple on display, but I hold up a hand instead and jog over to the girl standing there with my heart in her hands.
“Great legs,” she rasps, raising her eyebrows. “I’m sorry I’m late. Surgery ran long and I have to be back at the hospital in a couple hours.”
I grin, pointing towards her hospital badge, a picture of her that looks too serious, with her name and credentials on display, clipped to the pocket of her scrubs. “Need to make sure everyone knows you’re the smartest person in the stadium?”
Greer’s eyes flick down before she rolls them at me. “I was in a rush. Someone dragged me to a weird cottage made of metal shipping containers for two days and now I’m behind on my charting.”
“Yeah? Who would do that?” I swipe a hand through my hair. “Was it at least worth it?”
This tiny, little smile blooms on her mouth, and it’s not quite like anything I’ve ever seen when she whispers, “I’d say so.”
“I missed you these last two nights,” I offer, voice rough when I reach out, tugging on the end of her braid.
She blinks, but I think she grabs onto one of those ropes I’ve thrown overboard and out to her. “I missed you, too.”
“Can I...” I scrub my jaw before angling my head down towards her. “Can I kiss you?”
Full lips part, those features soften, and she lifts her chin towards me.
It’s probably inappropriate—my hand sliding around the back of her neck, tongue meeting hers, and everything I feel for her out in the open.
Someone calls my name while I kiss her, a lot of people do. Some of my teammates whistle, and I can see the flash of cameras against my eyelids.
Reporters try to get my attention.
“Beckett!”
Doesn’t work. I don’t think I even know my own name.
“Nineteen.”
Don’t care. I’ll be whatever number she needs me to be.
“Who is that? Is that your girlfriend?”
Just the love of my life.
“Near Miss. How do you feel about the game on Sunday? Are you going to try for another record?”
That one works.
But not on me.
Greer pulls back, whipping her head around towards the reporter who stands just one gate over. Her voice doesn’t sound the way it usually does—it’s sharp, harsher than I’ve ever heard. “What did you just say?”
His brow creases, and he has the audacity to look confused, like he doesn’t understand why she’s answering him and not me. “I asked him if—”
“No,” she interrupts with a sharp jerk of her chin. “Before that.”
He tries again. “How do you feel about—”
“Before that.”
I grip the back of her neck and run my hand along her shoulder, dropping my voice. “Baby, leave it.”
“No.” She doesn’t look at me, and for the first time, I can see why my brother and the other residents are terrified of her. Cheeks that could probably cut through glass, skin, and bone; eyes sharp and lips in this sort of amused smile that somehow doesn’t look like she’s enjoying anything at all.
He swallows. “Near Miss.”
“You know what?” Her smile shifts, and it’s not friendly. “Why don’t I hold on to your little microphone, you go out there, and you see how far you can kick?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Or better yet—why don’t you tell me about a time you screwed up at work. I’ll make up a little nickname to commemorate the occasion, write a news story about it, and I’ll make sure everyone forgets you’re a real fucking person and no one ever says your real name again.”
I don’t like the way he looks at her—eyes narrowed when they sweep over her. I’m about to mouth off to a reporter for the first time in my career and tell him to fuck off, but he turns and starts shoving his microphone in someone else’s face.
“That wasn’t necessary.” I slide my hand around the back of her neck again and press my mouth roughly to the crown of her head. I murmur, “I can see why everyone in that hospital is terrified of you, though.”
Full lips tug into a flat line, and I feel a bit like pressing my mouth right at the precipice of her Cupid’s bow. The rasp of her voice is firm when she says, “You’re worth defending, Beckett.”
I know that , I think, because of you.
“I know,” I answer, the corner of my mouth kicking up. “I have to go play tic-tac-toe with a football against Nowak now. Make yourself comfortable. I’m sure it’ll be riveting. But ... Sunday?”
“Sunday,” she repeats, holding her pinky up, and I take it with mine, pressing it to my mouth before jogging back towards the field.
I win the dumb game, they place balls farther and farther down the field for me, she stays and watches, rolling her eyes when I point at her before each kick, and I think I’m enjoying it for the first time since I became me.
I even enjoy our team meeting Saturday morning. It should probably be more stressful than it is, given who we’re playing tomorrow, but everyone laughs and we toss miniature footballs across the conference table while Coach Taylor talks and makes us watch the same tape until our eyes bleed.
I enjoy the hour and a half of dynamic stretching the conditioning staff make me do, and the deep tissue massage on my kicking leg doesn’t hurt as much as usual.
But it all gets spectacularly fucked up when I’m walking to my truck to leave for the day.
I muted most of my social media over the summer. I didn’t need to see the memes or the messages from everyone in the city telling me how much I let them down, how they wished I’d fallen and broken my ankle when I swung so we’d have to trade for someone else.
It was probably aspirational, but I turned my notifications back on last night, and now my phone won’t stop vibrating in my pocket.
And I want to die a bit when I finally take it out, one hand reaching towards the door of my truck, the other about to throw my phone into the ground and smash it into a million pieces.
Because it’s not just me they’re talking about anymore.
She answers the door after I smack the glass for the fifth time.
I thought about just using the code and opening it, but her privacy was already horrifically violated today, and I highly doubt she’s overly keen on seeing me either.
The horrible irony of the whole thing is that the photos of us are nice. In another world, I’d probably have printed them off, papered my whole apartment with them, and thrown them into the streets so everyone knew Greer Roberts belonged to me.
But we’re in this world and the people of the internet can be fucking cruel.
That reporter posted a photo of us, complete with some stupid headline about the big reveal of why I’m so inconsistent—my priorities clearly aren’t in check and Coach Taylor should find someone more focused. But her hospital badge was on full display, and then he used whatever scrap of brain power he must possess to find out everything he could about her, string a story together that was none of his fucking business, and then he posted all those pictures, too.
Pictures of her and her sister, still bruised but smiling, happy to be alive and to have each other, in side-by-side hospital beds—pictures that look like they were stolen from someone’s social media. Photos of the car accident, which also make me want to die in an entirely different way because seeing the destroyed bridge railing and mangled wreck being brought up from the lake was probably something I could have lived without. A picture of her and her dad, in hospital gowns post-transplant. An award she got from some donor recognition program, ironically, for giving the gift of life when she was so young.
Another stolen picture of her in a sports bra after one of those races where they cover you with mud, standing between Willa and Kate, bare stomach and scar, fresh and pink, on display.
And somehow, a copy of the police report that detailed her father’s blood alcohol level. How he wasn’t over the limit when he was tested, but he would have been when the accident happened.
She blinks at me, eyes swollen with dark circles that have no business on that face, and visible stains from old tear tracks.
I feel a bit like turning around and punching something.
“Greer.” I reach for her, but her eyes squeeze shut, and I can’t tell if it’s a flinch, so I scrub my face instead.
She doesn’t say anything, but she wraps her arms around herself—she’s wearing my fucking sweater—and turns, walking into her living room.
It’s probably the closest thing to an invitation I’ll get, seeing as this is all my fault, so I close the door behind me and follow her.
She’s not sitting, she’s just standing there, one arm wrapped around her stomach, hand pressing down over her scar, and the other holding her phone.
Her voice cracks, and she inhales, shoulders shaking. “I don’t tell anyone those things, Beckett. It’s not—it’s not only my story to tell. My dad, his sobriety ... it’s the most important thing in the world to him and people are talking about him like he’s this vile, disgusting thing, not a person who struggled with an illness so much bigger than him.”
“I know.” I take a hesitant step towards her, and when she doesn’t pull away, I bring her to my chest and press my mouth to her forehead.
She shakes her head against me. “All the horrible, hateful things I think about myself—” A choked sob cuts her off before she pushes back and takes a measured step away from me. “They’re all saying them.”
“Baby.”
I haven’t been my own biggest fan in a long time, but I don’t think I’ve ever quite felt like this.
She looks back down at the phone, finger jabbing the screen as she starts to list off each one. “‘She must have no self-respect.’ ‘I wouldn’t want her operating on me.’ ‘Who gave her a medical license?’ ‘She should have let her father die.’”
Her voice cracks again on that last one, and I think this one might be irreparable.
“What do you need me to do?” I hold my hands up uselessly.
Her shoulders slump, resigned, and she gives a sad little shake of her head. “Nothing.”
And I think part of me finally breaks, too.
“Do you want me to sue them?” I open my arms and I start shouting. “I’ll fucking sue the stupid website; I’ll sue every person who fucking commented on every single picture! I’ll sue that reporter and take everything he fucking has and give it all to you. What can I do to fix this?”
“This isn’t something you can fix, Beckett!” Her voice rises, cracking on the crescendo of a sob.
“Of course it is. I’ll do anything.” I grip my jaw, shaking my head, before I drop to my knees in front of her. I look like an idiot, but I’m not entirely sure I ever got up off the concrete floor of that closet anyway. “I can fix anything.”
“Well, you can’t fix this.” She throws her phone onto the couch, presses her hand to her face, and starts sobbing.
I bury my head in her stomach, grip tightening around her when I shift the sweater up, pressing my mouth in these tiny kisses I’d like to imagine were Band-Aids or stitches or whatever it is she needs.
My mouth reaches the bottom curve of her scar. I kiss up the entire line, and I hope it hears the words, too. That maybe they’re going to be able to fill up all the empty spaces or just make the whole thing disappear. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She whispers it, and I think, maybe, that it’s all going to be okay, that I can fix this just like I’ve fixed everything else for everyone else, but she says this other thing that splits me open entirely. “Please just go.”
I pull back, and I know I look pathetic. Down here on my knees for her, but I’d stay here all day if that’s what she needed. “Are we still—”
“I don’t know.”
I hate myself a bit for asking, but I do anyway. “Are you still coming tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” she repeats, words flat but still sharp enough to stab through my chest.
She takes a measured step back. It’s tiny, but she might as well be standing across the Atlantic. I scrub my face, feeling a bit like shouting. Not at her—just at the whole thing.
Boy isn’t real. Boy becomes real.
Boy loses the only thing he ever really wanted anyway.
I dig my fist into my leg before pushing to stand.
“This—loving you. Being loved by you.” I jerk my head before pointing at her, and my voice rises but the whole thing shakes. “You’ll be the only near miss I care about.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she clutches her right side again and starts to sob.
“I asked you to go.”
I do, and I catch the door right before I slam it on my way out. I let myself forget, for just a second, that the sound might hurt her.
I hate myself for that, too.