14. Booker
Booker
I’m distracted, playing like shit. Colt is absolutely carrying us this game.
I hate playing Maryland for multiple reasons, but one of them is their damn jersey color. The surrounding sea of orange shirts is overwhelming on a good day.
Today isn’t a good day.
I talked to Colt on the bus ride down, telling him I was sorry for being a shitty mentor and an even shittier friend.
I should’ve known something was going on with him, but he assures me he’s fine and that he didn’t want anyone to know.
The conversation made me feel marginally better, but then my thoughts drifted to Maya Winchester, and the dark cloud of uncertainty and guilt returned.
I keep going back and forth. I shouldn’t have indulged in talking to her, but suddenly she was there, right in front of me, and I had a bone-deep urge to apologize for how I’d treated her.
But talking to her like that, so openly, was worse for my psyche than almost hooking up. At least the latter was all alcohol and lust induced. The conversation in the park was pure emotion. I bounced right back into my old habits, relying on her how I used to when my head was too loud.
I need to—as Coach so appropriately put it—get my head out of my ass and focus on this game.
I look over to see Colt take the puck, and before I can shout out a warning, he’s slammed so hard his helmet goes flying, and he’s falling back, head-first, onto the ice.
I hurry to skate closer before an arm goes around my torso: a ref, keeping me away.
Beau kneels on the ice, yelling for help. Screams echo from the rafters.
Oh, God, there’s so much blood.
So much fucking blood.
The team bus is silent as the grave on the ride back to Saint Augustine’s.
Maybe that metaphor is a little insensitive.
The entire team was in the waiting room of the hospital for hours. When the doctor finally came out, and Beau’s parents updated us on Colt’s condition, Coach told us we had to go, despite the protests of every guy on this team.
“I can’t believe he’s in a fucking coma,” Drew whispers, picking at his nails. The man has never been one for anxious behaviors; that’s how I know how messed up this whole situation has him.
I can only nod alongside his statement. I should’ve been paying attention. I could’ve warned Colt sooner if I’d been present in the fucking game.
“He’s gonna wake up, right?” Drew asks, unable to tolerate the silence.
“Yeah, he’ll wake up,” I assure him. “They said he didn’t have any bleeding in his brain.”
“Right. Yeah. That’s good. But, damn, there was a lot of bleeding outside of his brain.”
I nod again, knowing I’ll most likely never get that image out of my head.
Looking over at Drew, I notice he’s pulled off his hoodie. My eye catches on a fresh tattoo ringing his bicep: a detailed viper curling up under the sleeve of his t-shirt.
“When’d you get that?” I ask, inclining my head toward his arm.
“Uh…last Monday,” Drew says, cautiously, which can only mean one thing.
“You went to see her.”
“You told me to!” he argues in defense.
“What the fuck did you say to her, Andrew?” I interrogate, staring him down. One thing about Drew Mattingly? He never knows when to mind his own damn business.
“Nothing! I swear…” he pauses, looking ready to bolt to another seat on the bus to escape me. Finally, he relents. “I really did want a new tattoo. She’s good. You should go to her for your next one.”
Ignoring his suggestion, I say, “You’re deflecting.”
“I was just asking her what was going on between you two, okay? No big deal. I didn’t say anything I wasn’t supposed to. Hell, I don’t even know what the fuck is going on with you to tell her.”
He gives me an angry glare, and this time it’s my turn to look guilty.
“There’s nothing going on,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what she told me, asshole. But I know you’re lying. I know you knew her and Coach when we were kids. So, spill.” Drew crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation I cannot provide.
When I refrain to speak, he sighs, exasperatedly, and throws up his hands in defeat. “Fuck it, I give up. I don’t know how Crosby and Warren talk deep all the time. Talking to you is like talking to a brick fucking wall.”
This makes me chuckle, earning a smirk from my annoying best friend.
“If you aren’t going to talk to me, you should at least talk to her,” he says, face becoming serious once more.
“I did. Accidentally. Twice.” At this admission, Drew nearly stands in his seat.
“What the hell, Book? You just acted like nothing was going on.”
“Nothing is going on!” I look over the headrest of the seat in front of me, seeing Coach up front, eyes shut but likely not asleep despite the late hour. He’ll be up for hours worrying about Colt.
I lower my voice, worried about any of our other teammates hearing the rest of this conversation, though everyone around us has headphones on.
“She’s more than just a girl, Drew,” I say, confessing those words—those feelings—out loud for the first time ever. “She wormed her way into my head nearly fifteen years ago and never left. But I can’t do a fucking thing about it, okay? So, no, talking to her does me no good.”
“But if you talked to Coach, I’m sure he’d understand. The history…” he trails off when he sees my face, sees the hopeless look I know is living behind my eyes. “It’s not about Coach?”
“No. It’s not about Coach. It’s about me.” I don’t know how to explain to him about the feelings I had after my mom passed, or about how growing up under my dad’s harsh tongue and cruel thumb did irreparable damage to my psyche.
I’m not good at expressing my emotions. Never have been.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s probably not worth you beating yourself up over this badly,” Drew says, matter-of-factly.
“You like her. You’ve liked her for nearly fifteen years.
In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never had a girlfriend, Book.
If she’s the reason for that—if she’s the reason you won’t let yourself love someone else—then why the fuck would you ever let her walk away? ”
Coach cancels practice the following day, after Beau calls to update us that Colt has amnesia.
Fucking amnesia.
Not a single one of us knows what to do or how to act after the news is broken. It feels like living in some sort of fucked up nightmare, and none of us are able to wake up.
After everything Drew and I learned about Colt, about his history, it makes me physically ill to think about how this is going to affect him mentally.
I go to the gym, trying to quiet my mind by abusing my body.
While I’m in the weight room, Coach Winchester calls me seven times, all of which I ignore. He sends a text next.
Coach
Coach: Come to my office. I want to talk.
Me: Now?
Coach: Yes, now.
Dripping sweat, I walk through the arena, leaving the training area and head toward the office wing.
Before I can knock, the door swings open and I come face to face with the coach’s daughter.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” Maya says, stepping back at the same time I do.
We stand there, awkwardly shuffling around each other before I step completely out of the way and motion for her to go by.
When she’s gone, I step into the office and shut the door, waiting for him to get to the point about why he called me in here.
“Have a seat, Captain.”
Captain. Not Jamie this time.
I do as he says, lowering myself into one of the leather armchairs across from his desk.
“We need to address a few things. Firstly, I want to know how the team is doing, handling everything that went down. I also want to know how you’re doing.”
“The boys are…just as upset as you’d expect them to be,” I say. My phone has been blowing up with messages from the guys worrying about Colt. They’re also worried about the season, how we’re going to play without him.
“What about you? I know you well enough to know you’re blaming yourself for him taking that hit.” Coach leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, shooting me a piercing look.
I don’t respond, choosing to stare out the window instead of meeting his gaze. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking; he doesn’t get to ask me if I’m okay now, after all this time.
Coach Winchester sighs, exasperated. “That’s it.
” He leans forward, placing his hands down firmly on the desk.
“I’m sick of you acting like you don’t respect me.
I’m sick of you acting like a petulant rich boy.
I do know you, whether you like it or not.
I’ve put up with this attitude from you for three years, and I’m done with it. ”
“I don’t have an attitude,” I reply, keeping my tone level—a skill I’ve perfected after so many arguments with Ross about my “back talk.”
“Dammit, Jamie, that.” He points an angry finger in my face.
“That right there is the attitude. Ignoring me. Acting like you’re too good to talk to me.
You blew up on me before about not telling you about Colt’s dad and his depression.
Well, I’m trying to talk to you now, and you’re acting like I’m worth less than the dirt under your shoes.
I am your Coach and you are going to respect me while you’re on my team! ”
My blood boils in my veins. Before rational thought even has time to catch up, the furious words I’ve been holding back since I joined this team start free flowing from between my lips.
“No, you don’t get to demand my respect. You don’t get to act like you know anything about me when you were with my mom for less than two years. And you sure as hell don’t get to act like I owe you anything when you’re the one who left me!”
Standing, I push away from the chair so hard it tips over, reaching for the doorknob.
Before I can grab it, Coach’s hand is around my arm, and I flinch. I flinch like a fucking scared, wounded child for the first time in years.
I used to get hit harder if I flinched.
And the reaction isn’t lost on Coach Winchester. He releases my arm immediately, his eyes widening in realization.
I level him with a glare heated by enough anger to melt granite. “You knew he wasn’t a good person. My mom told you as much. And you let him take me anyway. So, no, I don’t respect you, Coach. I could never respect someone who stays silent while sending a child into the hands of a monster.”