31. Joey
31
Joey
“ S o, looks like it’s becoming serious between you two.” Charlie leans against the kitchen counter where I’m dicing tomatoes and basil for the bruschetta salad to go with the salmon Stevie has prepped to grill for dinner.
Brent and I are in Connecticut for the Labor Day Weekend, before the season officially begins.
I shake my head, denying the observation. “It’s not serious. You know Brent.”
“I do, which is why I know he’s serious.” She reaches over, takes a mozzarella ball, and pops it into her mouth.
“How about you?” I decide the best way to move her off this topic is to turn the tables on her.
“What about me?”
“Ever hear from your one-night stand?” I catch the subtle shift in Charlie and know I’ve hit on something. “You have!”
She peers out the window to where Brent is sitting on the patio with his mother, Bobbie, and Stevie. “Okay, don’t get mad at me, but I have to tell you something.” She looks at me solemnly. “And you can’t tell Brent.”
“Of course I won’t,” I assure her.
Charlie nods. “I know but…I’m pregnant,” she blurts out.
I’m sure I misheard her. “What?”
“That one-night stand will soon become a lifetime fixture.”
I shake my head, confused. “Wait. What? You’re getting married?”
“No, Joey!” She lowers her voice even though no one can hear her through the closed window. “I’m having a baby.”
“What?! Charlie!”
“Shh.” She glances outside again.
I do a mental calculation. “But that means you’re almost two months along. How long have you known?”
Charlie sighs. “Okay, remember I told you not to get mad at me? I couldn’t tell you sooner because—well, it’s complicated.”
I can understand that. My sex-only relationship with Brent has become much more…undefinable, at least for me.
“How do you feel about this? I mean, I assume you’re keeping it.” Knowing Charlie, she would never consider any other alternative. Family means everything to her, and this tiny life inside her is already a part of it.
“I’m not sure it’s actually hit me yet.”
“Does your mom know?”
“She figured it out since I’ve been puking my guts out every morning before I leave for work.”
“Oh, Charlie. I wish I’d known.” I pause. “What about the one-night stand? Does he know?”
It is Charlie’s turn to hesitate, but after a moment she nods.
“Who is it?”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. It’s—”
“Complicated,” I finish. “It’s someone on the team, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t want Brent to know.”
Charlie shakes her head again. “I can neither confirm nor deny at this time. Wow. I’m finally able to use those words instead of having it thrown at me when I try to pry information out of people.”
My eyes suddenly prick. “Charlie! You’re going to be a mommy!” I wipe my basil-stained fingers on a towel and hug my best friend as tears trickle down both our faces.
“If you’re done with your mushy girl talk, can a man get something to eat around here?”
We jump apart at Brent’s teasing voice. My expression probably mirrors Charlie’s guilt-ridden one as he narrows his eyes at us, but it’s our tear-stained cheeks he notices.
“Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Charlie says, recovering quickly. She gives me a mischievous look and tells him, “Hormones. It’s that time of—”
He spins and walks back out without another word, leaving us laughing.
I stand on the sidelines, keeping one eye on the battle raging on the field and another on the players already being treated for injuries. Even though I’ve been a part of the preseason games, adrenaline rushed through me when I walked out of the tunnel for my last game with the Firebirds—the nationally televised home opener.
What a thrill it was to hear the roar of the crowd when the ball kicked off—and to be a part of it in a not insignificant way. It was even better than when we flew to Chicago for one of the games. I sat in the back of the plane with the other trainers, my face pressed to the window during most of the flight. All I saw of the city was from the sky and the bus rides to the hotel and stadium, but I didn’t care.
The experience has been amazing, and I can hardly believe how fast the weeks flew by. If I thought training camp was crazy busy, preseason was a whole other level. Injuries multiplied from full-on actual contact. Players still fighting for a spot on the team, holding nothing back as they tackled or reached for the ball, often landing on the ground with force—or having a couple of hundred pounds land on them. Having contusions and bloody gashes to care for, I was kept busy on the sidelines and in the training rooms.
Despite the exhaustion, the days have passed in bliss. Not only am I doing what I love, but I’m able to watch Brent excel at his job. Watching him work hard, push his body to its limits…A lot of players have rock-hard bodies and are grace in motion as they fly up into the air to catch a ball, or twist and turn to avoid being tackled. But my heart flutters only for Brent. No one else compares to him.
I’m pretty sure Brent has liked having me close too. When he’s on the field, his concentration is a hundred percent on his job. But he’ll often stand near me on the sidelines between plays or take a treatment table next to the one I’m working at, or eat lunch at my table in the team cafeteria. He doesn’t acknowledge me any other way, hardly talking to me, but he’s letting me know he’s aware of me.
The only good thing about my job ending after tonight is that we won’t have to pretend anymore that we’re only friends. We already dropped that pretense in front of his family last weekend during the Labor Day family gathering—at least when guests and their phone cameras weren’t around.
The shrill of the whistle on the field brings my attention back to the game. It’s the fourth quarter, and the game has gotten particularly brutal, with the score tied and less than four minutes to go. Brent has already scored twice, catching the ball right in the end zone once. The other was a short pass from Luc that he ran for fifteen yards to score. The crowd roared with approval when he and Luc resurrected their old touchdown dance.
I sigh when the whistle blows again less than a minute after play resumes, this time for an injured Firebirds player. So close to the end of the game. I was hoping we could finish with no more injuries.
Seeing that the other assistant trainers are busy with injured players, I run out onto the field with Randy and the team doctor. I make my way through the players standing nearby and gasp in fear when I realize it’s Brent. I freeze for a moment, the silent scream inside fighting to escape my tightly pressed lips. Only when it sinks in that he’s conscious and responding coherently to questions asked by the doctor am I able to swallow the panic and move my body.
“It’s the ankle,” Brent says through gritted teeth, his face pale. “The left fucking ankle!”
“Tell me what happened, Hutch. Did you hear a popping sound?” the doctor asks Brent.
“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I just remember being hit and going down. I don’t even know if I landed on it wrong or someone rolled over on it when I hit the ground.”
“Okay, let’s brace it and take you in for an X-ray and we’ll go from there.”
Randy tries to keep him calm and helps him up. I move to Brent’s other side to support him, taking his hand and squeezing it once before letting go, conscious of the people and cameras around us. My touch seems to calm him where Randy’s words did not.
I stay close to him, having no intention of leaving his side. I look at Randy, begging him with my eyes to let me go with him. He nods, silently approving my request. “Go ahead. Everyone’s already tied up here. The game’s almost done. I’ll see you down there soon.”
I ride with Brent on the cart and take his hand again once we are out of range of the cameras. It’s completely unprofessional, but neither of us cares. My time with the Firebirds is at an end anyway.
We both sigh in relief, and I hold back tears, when the tests show no broken bones or fractures. It’s simply a sprain. The doctor will confirm the severity with an MRI and determine treatment options with Randy later, but it’s likely he’ll miss the next few games.
“How are you doing?” I ask him. His leg is elevated, ice wrapped around his ankle.
“I’m fucking mad as hell. I haven’t missed a game in years.”
“Don’t rush the recovery. Make sure you allow it to heal completely before getting back out there or you could injure it again and be out for good.”
“I know, baby. I went to your presentation.” He smiles. “At least I’ll have you as my personal therapist, which will make my recovery much more enjoyable.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
I’m amazed he can joke at a time like this. If he can do it, the least I can do is stay calm and help him heal, doing whatever it takes.