Saving the Halfback

9. Ethan

9

Ethan

“ G ot a problem?” I snapped at John. He stood, staring at Bailey, his fucking mouth hanging so wide, I could practically see his tonsils.

“Shit, Ethan, man, I wasn’t, it’s just she—”

“She’s what?” I challenged him, stepping up until my chest pads bumped him. The guy had to crank his head up to look me in the eye.

“Nothing.” He turned back to the practice at hand and began running through the obstacle.

Damn it. Bailey showed up to afternoon practice wearing nothing but spandex shorts and a black tank top. John was the fourth fucking guy I’d caught leering at her at practice alone, never mind throughout the whole damn day. I thought I was the only one digging a girl with meat and muscle on her bones, but apparently not. News spread of a girl joining the team, and if I heard one more comment about her ass, I was going to be splitting heads.

It would be—no, it was —easier to watch her back if I actually talked to her, spent time with her, but damn it if my father’s voice didn’t echo through my head. I needed to keep her at a distance. It was better that way.

Coach had her running and working with Nolan on throws and catches, since she had no gear. I’d been hoping she wouldn’t come, hoping she would chicken out or some shit, but she hadn’t. Bailey had gotten timid over the years, but the other day, in history class, when she squared up to me and told me off, it took all my strength not to smile. That just went to show how much of a badass she still was. Something was up with her today, though.

It had been years since Bailey had talked to any of us, and though I wished it was me she’d come to, I knew it couldn’t be. Lachlan was good. Lachlan would stick with her. However, at lunch, she wasn’t stealing Lachlan’s breadsticks like the day before, instead keeping her distance from him. I stopped myself multiple times from pulling Lachlan aside and asking him if he screwed things up already. The problem was…no one even knew I was watching her.

Every time I passed her in the halls today, she had her head down and that damn baseball cap pulled low, covering her face. After getting used to seeing her smile, seeing color in her cheeks, the last couple of days, her altered behavior put me on edge. I found myself watching for anyone that looked at her wrong or talked to her, ready to come to her defense, but no one stepped out of line. What the hell had happened today?

I turned my attention back to running through the obstacle course, but I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder now and then, eyeing her and glaring down any guy stupid enough to get caught staring at her ass.

Bailey McCormick was off-limits. It was the message I was ready to beat into any idiot stupid enough to treat her less than any other player on this team. She didn’t need some asshat, horny, high school dicks trying to get to her.

She was a good friend. We hadn’t deserved her then, but if it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have had any friends in grade school. Chase and Lachlan had only followed her lead to let me in; I was sure they hadn’t been too keen on letting me join the group. No matter what I did to her when we were kids, she’d gotten up and shrugged, like it was no big deal, until eventually, she cornered me and demanded we be friends. Was that what I had wanted? A friend? No. I pushed people away so they wouldn’t be targets to my father… She hadn’t let me push her away, though.

I’d paid for it. I still remembered my thirteenth birthday, when I had the three of them over. Bailey baked a cake, and we each fought through the taste as we shoved a slice down our throats, telling her it tasted great between grimaces. It wasn’t long before the others ran outside, blowing chunks in a nearby bush while I booked it to the bathroom.

I was startled when I burst through the door, seeing my father standing there. But the vomit was coming up, no matter what, so I mumbled an apology as I ran to the sink. Once the cake had made its second appearance, I was rinsing my mouth out in the sink when I saw it. The needle. Just sitting there. I turned off the faucet and was almost afraid to look in the mirror, like maybe he would jump at me or something. I was used to my father getting drunk—he would get angry, belligerent, charging around, looking for something or someone to drive his fist into. When I turned around, though, this was a different side, a different addiction than I had seen before.

He just stood there, looking as if he were asleep. I remembered my father’s friends acting like this, as though in a zombie-like state. His mind fought to open his eyes, but his body was so drugged up, it didn’t want to respond. He had told me they were just nodding out and not to stare, leave them be, and whatever I did, do not call for help . Never call for help. Here he was now, hunched over, his face sagging, like he didn’t have the energy to even hold his facial muscles in place as he swayed.

Hearing Bailey and the guys come back into my small house, my eyes returned to the syringe briefly before I backed out of the bathroom, closing the door.

I cleared my throat as I turned to my friends, telling them we should go to the pitts, the local park. They all agreed, obviously seeing something in me, in my expression, that had them agreeing. They wouldn’t understand. They all came from normal families. I knew my father wasn’t normal. I knew I had to keep some things to myself. This was one of them. I had to protect the others. I had to protect Bailey from it. I could never let him touch her, ever.

I remembered going to the pitts and thinking , if I just told them or told an officer, maybe things could be different. Maybe things would turn out better. Or maybe it would turn worse. That was when I knew I could never talk to anyone. The thought of it getting better was a fantasy; the thought of it getting worse would always be a reality to me.

In the end, it did get worse.

“Ethan,” Chase yelled at me, snapping me back to the present. He was holding up a tackle bag. “Head outta the gutter.”

Fucker . I ran at the bag, got low, and threw my body into the tackle. Chase didn’t have a moment to step back and came down with me. “Asshole,” he yelled at me.

“Fuck off, Jacobs.” I pushed off him and got to my feet.

“Stop eye fucking Bailey.” He stood up so we were toe to toe.

“What? Getting jealous?” My eyes traveled up the guy who used to be my best friend. “No, not even she can get you out of Daddy’s pocket.”

Chase’s eyes flared behind his helmet, and next thing I knew, I was being knocked back on my ass.

“What is going on?” Coach Bryer yelled at us.

Chase glared down at me, like the dirt I knew he always saw me as, before looking up. “Nothing, just practicing.”

“Yeah, well, how about you practice with some extra suicides? Go!” Bryer blew his whistle.

Fucking Chase, the dickhead. I had a busy night tonight, and I knew the extra suicides were going to hurt later. I got up and stood on the line next to him. Bryer blew the whistle, and we took off. Of course, Chase made it into a competition by sending another glare over his shoulder before pushing himself harder. I could feel the sweat dripping beneath my gear, but I refused to bow down to him. Rich boy was nothing but a pussy puppet for his father.

I pushed harder, but Chase only matched my speed. By the time Bryer blew the whistle, indicating our punishment was done, we were both dripping and huffing. Still, I tried not to show it. I took a deep breath and stood straight as my legs shook. I tried not to let pride fill me, but a certain smugness spread across my lips when I saw Chase’s calves trembling as well.

“Well, I like the enthusiasm, but just remember, we are a team. We play as a team. There will be no fights on this field against one of our own, got it?” Bryer tried to be stern, but he wasn’t as scary as Coach. We quickly nodded at him, and he went back to running the drill with some of the defense.

“You’re a dick.” Chase breathed hard.

“Maybe, but at least I’m a fucking loyal dick.”

“What does that even mean?”

I turned to him, ready to chew him out for choosing money over our friendship, and that's when I noticed his eyes drifting over to Bailey. Nolan was chatting with her, and she threw her head back, laughing, her fingers curled around his upper arm. Nolan grinned as he demonstrated his arm movement when throwing the ball. He put emphasis on how he held the ball, his finger placement. When she went to copy him, he put his hands on her hips, guiding them to a throwing stance, then adjusted her shoulders. I growled when I watched his hands linger on her longer than necessary.

“Fuuuuck.” I stretched out my wrists, rotating them as I balled my fists, feeling the cracks.

“Yeah, well, she made her choice,” Chase said. There was a beat of silence as Chase locked eyes with me, and instead of the privileged rich kid I had decided he was, I saw a flicker of the guy I’d once known. The one who snuck me out of my bedroom window when my dad was drunk off his mind, when furniture was flying as hard as fists. The one who hid me in his room for days on end, so I wouldn’t have to go back home until Dad ran out of alcohol and money and sent the police out, searching for me.

His gaze searched my face, and it pissed me off. It pissed me off that he was making me second-guess where we stood with one another. My wall had grown thick over the years; it's the way I needed it. It didn’t matter if the better far outweighed the worse; if there was ever a slight chance of worse, I would always avoid it.

“What happened to us?” he asked.

I laughed. There was no fucking humor in it. He knew exactly what had happened. On the field, we all had an agreement—we were teammates, nothing else. We played the game, and we ran the plays. The football field was the neutral zone. I turned and walked away before I ended up breaking something. Though, truth be told, I wasn’t exactly sure if it was him or me that would be breaking.

After practice, I made quick work of showering and gathering my things. I was ready to walk out when I heard Lachlan talking. “She said nothing to me. But it was weird, right?”

“Yeah,” Nolan said. “I got her to loosen up during practice, but did you see her shaking in art? Think she was nervous about football?”

I nearly scoffed. Not Bailey.

“Not Bailey,” Lachlan said, echoing my thoughts. “She used to play football with us all the time growing up. She's always up for a challenge.” Their voices started to fade, as if they were walking away.

I spotted Bailey getting into her truck as I walked out to my car-for-the-day, an older Mazda. I could go up to her and demand what was going on. I bet she’d talk to me, too, the way she was making changes from the past few years. But then what? Talking wouldn’t keep her safe. Talking it out kept no one safe. She might be a bit sad today, a bit different from the last couple of days, but that was nothing compared to the danger I’d put her in just by being around her. No, keeping her away from me was just as good as keeping her safe.

I drove back to Cloverton.

There was only one mechanic in town, Gerry, and he often got overwhelmed, so in exchange for borrowing a car on football practice days, when the rental was available, I would help out around the shop. Plus, he paid me a small amount, which helped when you had a deadbeat parent.

Pushing all thoughts of Bailey and school from my mind, I got to work changing the oil in three cars, cleaning up the shop and organizing some of the tools, then finally closing up.

I pulled out my phone and sent Gerry a quick text, telling him I had finished the work. I didn’t have to wait long before he messaged back, saying my pay was in an envelope on the desk. Thank god. I was starving.

Exhausted and in pain, I made the walk to the corner store that was on the way home. It was only a twenty-minute walk through town, so it wasn’t bad.

I got my usual jar of peanut butter and loaf of bread. It was something I could make stretch for the week. Since I still had to factor in the cost of gas to and from school, I couldn’t spend all my money on food. Even though adding in the calcium from milk would do me good, it spoiled quickly, and there wasn’t a guarantee I could make it to the kitchen on a daily basis. I knew I needed more protein, so I skimmed the beef jerky and pepperoni stick aisle. I had been getting sluggish during practice this week. I was lucky to get breakfast after morning practices, but evening practices were getting difficult. At least they should be stopping soon. I picked out a few bags of jerky and some protein bars and made my way to the cashier. He said nothing as he rang me up, and I passed him a couple of bills.

I chewed on a piece of jerky as I made my way home. While the kids in town called where I lived a trailer park, it wasn't. They were mobile homes, some of which had more yard space than the new condos they were building. Most of the people down the street were working hard at cleaning it up as well. The landscaping was looking better with each passing year, and some really nice people had started moving in. Of course, there were still a few neglected homes…like mine.

I stood staring at my house from the curb. The grass was almost up to my knees. I was going to have to cut it soon before we got another letter from the township. A few washers and dryers piled in the attached carport, which the township stopped fighting my father about. The driveway was cracked and uneven, though I couldn’t see it now because of the number of vehicles parked in it, indicating his friends were over. My grandmother would be rolling in her grave if she saw this now, her home in shambles.

Fuck. I hated him. Art, my father, was no doubt drunk and high if the loud noises pumping from the windows were anything to go by.

I walked up the steps and tried to open the door as quietly as I could, though I was sure the music would cancel out any noise I could make. I stepped into the dark living room, the only lights coming from the TV and the dim dust-covered lamps on either side of the dingy couch. The room was nearly full of Art’s friends, and I used the term friends loosely. It must’ve been check day, which meant they were all only over here to help my father drink and shoot up whatever money he’d gotten for the month.

Most stood, some were slumped on the couch or the floor. One guy was getting a blow job in the corner of the room. A petite hand grabbed my arm. “Hey, big boy.” Tiff, one of my father’s regulars, stepped into me. She was a tiny, thin blonde who looked sickly. “Today’s the day you get your wings.”

Yeah, not happening. I never spoke to them, never had to. I could turn around and leave, and they would all forget about me the moment I wasn’t in their eyesight.

I pulled away from Tiff, causing her to stumble slightly. Quickly, I grabbed her elbow to right her and lean her against the nearby wall. She didn’t say anything, and part of me dreaded another overdose. Though I tried my best not to get involved, and my dad forbade me from calling the cops, I had made a couple of park drops and anonymous calls over the years.

I turned and headed to my room. If I thought about it too much, if I got too involved and wore my heart on my sleeve, they would just drag me under. I didn’t want this life.

Art stepped out of the bathroom as I walked by. “Where’ve you been?” he slurred, his pants still undone as he leaned against the doorjamb for support.

“Work,” was all I said.

He looked down at the plastic bag in my hands and reached for it, but I pulled it away. “Oh, I see how it is. You, you just th-think you’re better than me because you have a job.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Watch out, everybody, working boy here.” From the living room, there were a few hoots and hollers. I could tell from his eyes that it wasn’t the response he wanted. Didn’t he get it? No one had even heard what he said, and no one cared. They were all too stoned to give a damn.

I turned away from him but only made it a few steps before he stumbled behind me. I was larger than Art, and, especially when he was drunk, I was stronger than him. I told myself that every single time we had a fight. I could take him. I could. But I never did.

I heard the belt snap as he ripped it from his pants loops before I felt it across my back. I tripped, wincing against the burning pain. He always capitalized on my moments of surprise, and a fist landed across my cheek. I could retaliate, I could make this better, but there was that chance, wasn’t there?

Once, last year, I had finally fought back. I’d yelled at him and taken a swing, knocking him out with one hit and sending him crashing into the pavement. I’d broken the rule and called the ambulance when blood pooled from his head… It had cost me everything. After a few spewing lies from him, I was diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder and put on medication that numbed my mind. I no longer took it, but it had cost me my only chance at freedom, my only chance at becoming emancipated.

He got such a kick out of it that, every chance he got, he tried to make me hit back. I never gave him the satisfaction again. No matter how many hits he got in, I would never capitulate. I would take his hits. I would feel the warm blood drip down my face. This was the hand I was dealt. This was the hand I had to take.

I could feel blood dripping down my cheek now, but I ignored it as I stood up, grabbing the plastic bag. I shoved my way past him and into my room as he followed me, shouting and banging on the door. Latching the lock into place, I backed up. With his friends all here—all high—I couldn’t stay here tonight. They would just fuel him even more. I wouldn’t be safe sleeping here, and I had practice in the morning.

My small room consisted solely of my bed and dresser. I kept no valuables in here…not that I had any valuables to keep. I tucked the bag of food into my backpack, then climbed on top of the bed to crawl through the window.

Outside, I walked to one of the dryers in the carport and opened it, pulling out a small black duffel bag. My overnight bag. I learned long ago to keep it outside, where I would have access to it without disturbing him. I also kept one in my locker at school.

My eyes burned with exhaustion as I walked back toward town. My legs trembled and ached, thanks to Chase. A beautiful stone house with an immaculately manicured lawn stood next to the local church. I walked up and knocked on the door.

A middle-aged woman with a sweet face answered it. Beyond her, I could smell whatever they were eating for dinner, and my stomach growled. Mrs. Wallum smiled at me. “Ethan. Did you eat?” she asked, opening the door wider.

“Yes, ma’am. I just need…”

She nodded at me. “Perry!” she called into the house, and soon, the priest came walking over to the door, reaching up and grabbing a set of keys while slipping on his shoes. This was routine for him. “Bye, Ethan.” Mrs. Wallum gave one last smile before closing the door behind Perry.

“Ethan, need somewhere to sleep?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” I followed Perry down the steps, like I normally did in these situations.

“I must ask, are you hurt or in need of assistance?” His eyes roamed over my cheek as he repeated his usual lines, and I answered automatically.

“No.”

“Is there anything you would like to talk about? As you know, everything is confidential. I am merely a listener.”

“No.”

Perry never called the cops, though I’m sure if I asked for it or was in immediate danger, he would. He, like me, had learned there wasn’t a whole lot the police could do, and at times, especially for minors, they made things worse.

I followed him to the back of the church and down a few steps to an old wooden door. He opened it up. “Ethan, may I pray with you?” His soft question was what made me respect the man more. He never shoved things down my throat. Everything was up to me.

“No, thank you.”

Perry simply nodded at me, not demonstrating any disappointment. I stepped into the basement of the building and followed him down the hall to an empty room. Perry was silent while he helped me pull out the cot, and I began making the bed with the fresh linens they kept down here as he disappeared out the door. He came back a moment later with a bin and set it on a nearby window ledge. “We restocked, so help yourself.” It was a toiletry bin. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrushes, deodorant, razors, and shaving cream. The Wallums were good people.

I had come down here before when there were at least five of us with cots out. It was more common in the colder months. Pastor Perry didn’t like to see the homeless cold, on the streets. “Thank you, sir.”

“Ethan, if it is all right with you, my wife and I will be keeping you in our prayers tonight.”

I nodded. It was the one thing I agreed to. I never really had anyone thinking about me, and over the last couple of years, I’d begun to wonder if I truly ever existed. At least if they prayed about me at night, then surely, that meant I existed. Right? It was stupid, but it was all I had.

Last year, Perry and his wife had worked hard to help me get emancipated, but the incident with my father ruined that. In the process, though, they helped me get the job at the shop and said I was welcome here anytime I needed it. I would’ve just moved in, but if I went missing for too long, Art would come looking for me, and I couldn’t draw them into his line of fire. He had put the boot to me hard when he found out about the emancipation. If it wasn’t for the monthly government checks he received for having a minor in his home, I was sure he would have kicked me out long ago.

“Have a good rest.” Perry put his hand on my shoulder briefly before walking out of the room.

I got to work plugging in my phone and setting the alarm. I was somewhat used to this, so I always took advantage of the school showers when I could. I pulled my toiletries from my own black bag and used the washroom across the hall.

As I lay on the cot, it creaked loudly under my weight. I rolled over, taking my wallet out from the jeans I had dropped on the floor next to me and retrieved a small, wallet-size picture. With the other hand, I reached up and held on to the silver cross hanging from my neck, a gift Perry had given me last Christmas.

I stared at the picture. It had been a while since I’d pulled it out of my wallet, but the last couple days of seeing Bailey… Of watching her smile. Of seeing her hanging around Lachlan, and even that damn hotshot Nolan. I found myself staring at the photo more. The scene within the picture seemed so long ago. A different life, even.

Chase’s words echoed in my mind— what happened to us?