Caleb St. John. NOW.
Two weeks until kick-off. I’ll fasten my pads and wear the jersey, but as a true freshman tight end, chances are slim I’ll carry the ball in the first game of my college career. I won’t play football beyond college. I love the game but don’t plan to make a career out of it. When I consulted my Magic 8 Ball about playing time, it returned the same answer… Ask again later.
My best friend Tyler Hawkins, my mom, and I are on our way to Dad’s office. Our plan is to drag him out with us to lunch before all my time gets sucked up by classes and football.
Ty gripes, “You drive like my granny.”
“Your granny had her license revoked because she had too many speeding tickets.”
“That’s my point. God rest her soul.”
Mom says, “Tyler’s right. Slow down.”
I ease off the gas pedal and reach behind the passenger headrest so Mom won’t see me flip him off.
He snorts out a laugh. The fact he’s attracted to men doesn’t change a damn thing between us. We’ve always had each other’s back. He’s been my teammate on and off the football field from the moment we pulled on our helmets in seventh grade. He’s my brother.
His parents threw him out as soon as he came out. Fuck them. Family doesn’t betray family. Period. A month ago, when he showed up at our place, gym bag filled with clothes and nothing more, he stayed. Mom and Dad invited him to live with us while he and I searched for a place to share. Mom, an architect whose corporation has vacancies at Santana Row, found us an off-campus condo.
We moved into our new digs yesterday. The Row is over-the-top cool. Retail and restaurants on the ground floors, condos and apartments above. There’s an upscale hotel on site where players for the San Jose Sharks have been spotted in the hotel bar. People want in. It’s THE place to live. The firm wants to keep Mom happy. She wants a safe place for us to sleep and study. We’re lucky and we know it.
Mom asks, “Will Dana join us for lunch?”
Dana hasn’t answered my calls this morning. “I’ll ask if she’s free when we get there.”
Dana and I are both enrolled at Fortis University. We’ve been seeing each other for over a year. She’ll pursue a career in public relations while I study criminology and play football for the Gladiators.
When I park in the lot at LSJ Construction, Mom turns to me. “Are you sure you want burgers? Doesn’t sushi sound nice?”
I love Mom, but I won’t eat uncooked sea creatures. Even for her. “It sounds like raw fish.”
I hold the door to the building open for Mom. Dad drilled the habit into me, along with his tenet: Any man who doesn’t respect women doesn’t deserve to be in their company.
“Ty, back me up.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m along for the ride. Besides, I don’t get a vote.”
God, I hate when he acts like a charity case. “Dude.”
Mom steps in front of him. “Honey, give us a second, okay?” she says to me.
She’ll set him straight. Her ability to cut through bullshit with a few short words is legendary. She’ll make him understand he’s a member of our family.
I detour to Dana’s cubicle. We’ve been dating since the start of our senior year, and she’s worked for Dad since January. He hired her to file and answer phones part-time.
Dana and I have two emotional gears: sky high and below sea level. We fight. She won’t speak to me for days on end. Then we make up. She drives me crazy. She turns me on. When I’m at the brink of walking away, she reels me back in. She’s half-wild and unpredictable. She claims I’m the love of her life because I get her. She’ll hold me tight, insisting I’m the only person she can count on besides herself. Her vulnerability rips me.
I push my chips to the center of the table and I’m all in again. Maybe I’m not destined to have the same nurturing relationship my parents have had since high school. Chaos might be our default setting. Between both our demanding schedules, we haven’t spent much time with each other these past few weeks. She’s not at her desk. Looks like our dry streak continues.
I change direction and head toward Dad’s office. I twist the doorknob, but it won’t turn. Locked, but not latched, the door swings open. I walk inside.
Dad sits on the couch. Dana is on her knees in front of him. Her skirt is bunched around her waist. She’s wearing my favorite thong, and her face is planted in his lap. What. The. Fuck?
Dad’s eyes are closed. My fists do the same. I want to start swinging.
My hero in the middle of sloppy seconds with my girl.
Pain wrenches deep inside my gut. I want to puke. He groans. Now I know what his face looks like when he comes. Brain bleach won’t dissolve it. I’d like to see that face with my fist buried in it. He doesn’t fucking realize I’m here witnessing his betrayal of our family. Mom.
I hear her voice. I have to block Mom from finding Dad with my girlfriend.
I spin around to intercept her. Mom and Ty stand behind me. Fuck.
A few hours later, the oppressive silence cranks hard, making my eardrums thrum like they’re getting ready to pop from the pressure. Anxiety moves through the house where I grew up. Like a jet traveling at supersonic speeds—the sound won’t boom until we close the door for the last time—dragged in the wake of Dad’s infidelity.
Ty and I help Mom load her clothes and essentials into her SUV. The condo she secured at Santana Row comes furnished, limiting our task to necessities and the contents of her closet, but her place won’t be ready for another week. She’ll move to the on-site hotel on the property tonight.
Dad locked himself inside his den an hour ago after Mom refused to speak to him.
Once the door to his man cave crashed shut, Judas Priest’s “Screaming for Vengeance” album kicked on with the volume loud enough to damage our hearing. He cut off the British metal band mid track and the line about suffering for love wailed from the speakers.
You’re suffering for love? Fuck you very much, Dad.
I want out. The toxicity of his actions corrodes my memories of growing up in a home where my parents once loved each other.
“Hold it together, man. We’re almost done.” Ty grips my shoulder as he passes me with the oversized bag Mom used to fill with snacks for the team and the blanket embroidered with my name and jersey number. She carried this bag to every football game. Now it’s filled with the contents from her bathroom vanity.
I take my phone from my back pocket when it dings with a text. Dana’s number pops up on the screen:
Plz let me explain.
I block her number with one stroke and wish I could obliterate the pain of her betrayal with the same amount of effort. I won’t allow Dana in my head right now, much less have a conversation over this blindsided tackle from nowhere. Personal foul. Unnecessary roughness.
I need to be here for Mom. She’s lost much more than me. I need to get her out of here before Dad makes another appearance. She’s at the top of the staircase, struggling to get the handle of her suitcase to retract. Her face is splotchy, and I know she’s been crying. Hatred burns in my gut over what he did. How he hurt his wife. My mother.
I take the stairs three at a time. “Mom. Let me carry this for you.”
“Thank you.”
She’s breathless. The way you get when you can’t breathe through the pain, because it’s too much. And I can’t fix it.
“Is this the last one?” I pitch my voice low, in a near whisper—the voice you use when someone’s sick with a migraine.
“Yes. We’re done.” Her voice hitches, and she turns her face from me. “Let’s go.”
When we reach the bottom, the door to the den opens. Dad props himself in the frame. I know the glass of amber-colored liquid in his right hand contains Blanton’s single barrel.
I hope he chokes on it.
“Ria, you don’t have to leave. I’ll stay in a hotel for a few days while we figure this out.”
Mom laughs. The sound makes me cringe.
“Right.” She glares at him. “I’m sure it’ll only take a few days for this to blow over.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Not now, Lucas. Someday we’ll have a conversation, but not today.”
“Caleb, watch over your mother.”
Fury hits me like an earthquake, rocking my foundation, crumbling it to dust. “Unlike you, she can count on me.”
“Son—”
We walk out the door. Neither of us turn to look back.
I cross campus on my way to the parking lot. Move-in day for regular students created a parking nightmare first thing this morning, but I snagged a spot before being late to practice.
The football team moved onto campus two weeks ago. The day after we found Dana and Dad. I am hyper-focused on the field and in the gym. Mom matters. I forget everything else.
Up ahead two members of the baseball team play Frisbee on the expanse of lawn in front of Hugill House, a four-story co-ed dorm. Chad Nelson, a sophomore pitcher, shouts, “Heads-up,” and fires the disk at my head. I catch it before it smashes into my face.
I yell, “Your aim’s off.”
I’ve known him nine days. He’s precise, no action taken without purpose. Last year’s upperclassmen dorm mates probably rode him hard. He must think it’s necessary to continue random pucker on me even though I play football—maybe because of it. Who the hell knows?
I flick it back hard, hoping to nail his ear. The dude won’t move his body to expend unnecessary energy, but he surprises me by diving for the grass. The Frisbee soars beyond him and knocks a girl on the back of the head. Shit.
“Ouch.” She cries as she stumbles forward a step. She rubs the spot underneath her ponytail where the disk made contact, and spins toward us. Her suitcase tips over and the box tied on top bounces off.
Chad points at me. “Blame him.”
He sits on the grass like he wasn’t supposed to catch the damn thing in the first place.
She stares me down, and I feel scorched by the heat of her expression. Something about her grabs me by the throat from the moment her gaze locks on mine. She turns away to crouch beside her downed luggage, trying to work the bungee cord free.
I sprint and kneel beside her. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon. Hunger makes my stomach growl. She startles, lands on her butt and makes eye contact. Dark eyes. Dark, curly, hair pulled into a long ponytail. The hoodie she’s wearing envelops most of her body. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
She shakes her head. “Depends on your definition. Does dying of embarrassment count?”
I extend my hand to help her up. When our palms touch a spark of electricity zaps me. I let go of her hand when she’s on her feet even though I’d rather ride the flash of energy pulsing between us. “Did you feel that? We shouldn’t ever hold hands in the rain, we’ll fry.”
She shoves her fists into the front pocket of her hoodie. “Huge assumption on your part.”
“You’re right. It never rains here. We’re safe.”
Her left eyebrow raises independent of the other. Her lips tremble while she fights a smile. “It’s my electrifying personality. Fair warning. Static and snark are my superpowers.”
“A potent combo. Are you sure you’re not hurt? Let me check the back of your head.”
“What? No. I’m good. I’ve never been ambushed by a live Abercrombie ad. I’ll cross it off my bucket list.” She secures the box on top with the cord. “Frisbee is not your sport.”
I grin because she may have a point. “I’m a better football player.”
“Why am I not surprised?” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t assault any more college newbies.”
She walks up the ramp yanking her wheeled suitcase behind her and stomps through the dorm entrance without glancing back at me. My interest ratchets and attraction freezes my vocal cords. I manage to croak, “What’s your name?”
She doesn’t answer. The door closes behind her.