Chapter Eleven
West
The news.
Social Media.
Blogs.
The story is everywhere, which means I can’t escape it. Every time I turn on the TV or open my phone, some other media outlet is running the clip of me taking that hit in last week’s game. At this point, I’m not sure what’s a bigger source of pain.
My shoulder or my pride.
I’ve been telling myself to get the hell off ESPN for hours, but the closest I’ve gotten is muting it. I can’t turn away. It’s like watching a car crash. Only, in this instance, the wreck that’s unfolding is me.
My life.
I drop my head against the headboard, wincing because even that small motion is excruciating. I’m fucking miserable. My head’s all cluttered, and I haven’t shaved, put on real clothes, or slept in days. This room, this bed, have become my prison.
I let out a breath, trying not to spiral again, but a voice catches my attention. My eyes flash back toward the TV, and a pained grunt leaves me as I sit straight again. I’ve got tunnel vision as I do my best to scramble to find the remote beneath the blanket.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I grumble, cranking up the volume a few more notches.
I hone in on the face of the special guest who’s just popped up on the split screen. It’s Ira—the bloodsucking sports journalist trying to make a name for himself. And he’s chosen to do that by focusing all his attention on me.
“Well, since you asked… this guy’s a trainwreck,” is his answer when the host asks his opinion of me.
“I’m going to keep it real, Omar. In Cypress Pointe, the last name Golden is a bit of a sore spot.
Yes, most people still associate it with the triplets.
People loved watching them play in high school, loved seeing them develop over the years, taking their game to the next level in college.
And on paper, having them play for the Emperors seems like a dream come true.
But their father left a stain on our city like you’d never believe.
And many people haven’t forgotten that. Myself included. ”
“So, in your opinion, West Golden should forever bear the sins of his father?”
“That might be a bit extreme,” Ira says.
“But what I am saying is that maybe it was in poor taste to come back. Think about it, we see posts of this guy everywhere, flaunting his money, buying the most expensive house in his neighborhood, speeding through the streets in his obnoxious truck. Meanwhile, the families of his father’s victims are still here, watching it all unfold as they continue to feel the sting of losing their loved ones.
I’m not saying the guy shouldn’t play. I’m simply saying… take your game someplace else.”
The other host laughs. “Damn, Ira. You’ve really got it out for this guy. More than you have it out for his brothers, it seems.”
“Not necessarily. I’m focusing on West because his name’s been on everyone’s lips this past week, but…
I don’t know… maybe you’re right. His California, hotshot energy does grate on my nerves a bit.
” He pauses while he and the host have another laugh at my expense.
“I mean, come on. The guy clearly thinks he’s God’s gift to football.
And I gotta tell you, my heart goes out to Reed Lawson.
I mean, in what world can a guy have as impressive a record as Lawson and he still gets replaced.
It almost feels like nepotism. Hell, with what we saw come to light about West and Coach Wells’ daughter last week, it damn-near is nepotism. ”
My jaw tenses when both Ira and the host belt another laugh.
“I’m just saying, with all the negative press and bad juju that’s followed this guy, plus the recurrence of his shoulder injury, I challenge football fans to keep it real and ask themselves the hard question. Do you still think West Golden belongs in Cypress Pointe?”
My teeth grit together. All I can think about is how it would feel to squeeze Ira’s throat in my hands.
“Well, there you have it folks,” the host says. “Today’s hot take is that the Cypress Pointe Emperors were better off without West Golden. Visit our forum to weigh in. Thanks for joining us this afternoon, Ira.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
The show fades to black, then goes to commercial, but I’m still seething, filled with unshed rage that only seems to burn hotter every day.
Every day I’m stuck in this bed, unable to do shit for myself.
Every day my career hangs in the balance.
Every day I hear my name getting tossed around by assholes who don’t know shit about me.
“Fuck!”
The remote flies from my hand, barreling across the room in a blur. And it isn’t until a shrill “West!” hits the air that I even realize Blue’s just walked in.
She ducks out of the way, narrowly clearing the remote as the tray she carried in falls to the floor. The remote and its batteries clatter against the wall, followed by the splash of hot soup and the ceramic bowl that holds it shattering against the tile.
And Blue’s staring—mouth open, shoulders heaving with every breath, in complete shock.
“Shit, babe, I… I’m sorry.” I adjust my sling, flinching as I get out of bed, hating how being injured has slowed me down. I stoop down beside Blue, using my one good hand to gather pieces of the bowl to toss onto the tray.
It’s not much help, but it’s all I can offer at the moment.
She glances up at me, and for a moment, there’s a flash of something in her eyes that guts me. It’s like she doesn’t know me, doesn’t know what to expect from me anymore.
I can’t blame her.
We went from hardly talking to each other after the fight, to this. Blue being my caretaker as the world burns down around us.
Shame hits me, and I hate it. Hate being a burden, hate that things have been so fucking hard lately, hate that we don’t feel like us anymore.
“I’ve got it,” she says quietly, pausing to push her hair behind her ears.
I ignore her and keep cleaning, because the mess is my fault.
She doesn’t fight me on it as she walks off to grab towels to wipe up the broth.
She takes the tray back to the kitchen and the towels to the wash.
I take a seat in the armchair while she’s gone, rehearsing an apology in my head when I hear her heading back this way.
But then, when she walks in, that look is on her face again.
The one that makes me feel like she’s slipping through my fingers, like my apology won’t do anything but make her resent me more than she already does.
So, I stay silent, watching as she crosses the room, pushes the curtains open and lets in the afternoon sunlight.
I can’t remember a time I felt this kind of distance between us. Yeah, she’s taking care of me, and I thank her for the meals, the help getting dressed and undressed, and just generally taking care of shit I can’t take care of, but that’s all there is to us anymore.
She wakes up early, showers and gets dressed. She makes breakfast and brings it to me in bed, makes sure I take my pain meds, and then I don’t see her again until it’s time for lunch or dinner.
She’s avoiding me, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
She grabs the empty glass I left on my nightstand after breakfast, and I catch her wrist as she passes in front of me.
“Can we talk?”
I glance up at her, but she doesn’t make eye contact. Instead, her eyes stay trained on the floor, but that’s good enough. I know she’s listening.
“This whole thing has been tough. On me. On you. And… I’m sorry I’ve been hard to live with.”
She doesn’t move as I sit there, hoping and praying we’re not too far gone. Hoping we’re not too broken to fix.
“I… miss us,” she says, and my eyes fall closed, hearing her voice break.
Because I miss us, too.
“Even before the injury, things were hard, West. And sometimes, I can’t help but to wonder if we’re…”
My stomach twists when her voice trails off, filling in the hole in her statement with words I refuse to hear leave her mouth.
She shakes her head slowly, and I hate that I’m to blame for her sadness.
“I get that you’re having a hard time, but I’ve been saying for months now that I think we need help, West. I—”
I let her wrist slip from my grasp and lean deeper into my seat with a sigh.
“Fine,” she exhales. “If you don’t want to hear what I have to say, don’t tell me you’re ready to talk.”
“No, I am ready, but with everything that’s going on… that’s the last thing I need to hear right now. There isn’t a fucking counselor on the planet who can fix my shoulder, and that’s the main issue.”
“That’s the main issue?”
Once again, I wish I could take my words back, shove them back down inside because I can’t seem to say any-fucking-thing right these days.
“You know what I meant,” I grumble.
“You’re right. I do,” she says with a nod. “Our marriage has been unraveling for months now, even before you got hurt, but somehow that’s become our biggest issue.”
“I’m not saying my shoulder or even football is the most important thing, I’m just saying the stress of it isn’t helping.
” I hold my elbow close to my body with my free hand as I scoot toward the edge of my seat.
“Blue, I don’t even know if I can play anymore.
I don’t know if my last game was seriously my last game, and the thought of not being able to take care of you like I want to take care of you… it scares the shit out of me.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me, West. Us being together has never been about that. Honestly? Sometimes, I wonder if we wouldn’t be better off without money. Maybe then we could focus on fixing the things that actually matter.”
I’m silent, biting the side of my lip, fighting back words that will probably only piss her off more than she already is. But damn if I don’t have a lot to say.