Students of the Game (14 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

BRYCE

Final grades come through over winter break, and I open the envelope with my eyes shut. Unfolding the paper slowly, as soon as it’s open completely I give in and anxiously search for my history grade…
C+.
My entire body goes slack with relief.

           
Thank you.

I close my eyes again. In two months, I managed to bring the grade up to something satisfactory. A large part of that is because of Joy, even though she didn’t tutor me very long, I couldn’t have done it without her. I quickly scan the rest of the report card, and leave it on the counter for my parents to eventually see.

I take the stairs two at a time and sit down at my computer. After opening my email, I compose the following message:

Joy, I just wanted to let you know that I passed history with a C+, and I know to you that probably sounds horrifying, but to me it’s great news. If everything goes well up until graduation, then the scholarship is golden. You played more of a role in that than you’ll ever know and I just wanted to say thanks for your trouble. I’m sorry for screwing things up between us again. -Bryce

I delete it before I make the mistake of sending it. I should be happy. I got what I wanted right? If there is one person, you can’t kid, it’s yourself. Yeah, I wanted to keep the scholarship, but I also wanted her back in my life, for good. Instead I did just what I said, I screwed things up all over again. I feel so helpless. I should have forced her to listen to me, to understand what she’s really getting into with Carver. The thought of him touching her, or even
inside
of her, makes my skin crawl right off my body. I should have fought for her. If not physically, but in other ways. Maybe there is still a chance, still a way I can win her back. I think about it more than I probably should and with her no longer around, and football season over, time seems to come to a standstill. I do my best to stay focused and keep my eye on Carver, while the rest of the winter drags by in a cold spell of regret, sprinkled with flurries of hope.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

JOY

            The weekend of my eighteenth birthday, at the end of March, Carver invites me over to hang out and celebrate. The amount of adorable ‘I miss you’ texts I’ve been getting from him lately, combined with his desperate eyes leaves me no choice, but to agree. The truth is I’ve been really lonely and missed him too. I haven’t hung out with Farah in ages, and Seth still acts like I don’t even exist. With spring in the air and no one to really enjoy it with, I find that I’m actually anxious for Friday night to come.

When it finally does, I decide to wear a flirty
knee length dress and low heels, feeling the excitement of an actual ‘date’. I knock on Carver’s apartment door, silently hoping he approves.

“Joy, come in. Wow,” he says to my legs, and I smile. He takes my coat and out of habit I head to the living room couch. “Hey, wait.” Carver grabs my arm tightly, stopping me. “I have something for you, but it’s in the bedroom.”

He leads me down the hall and I swallow nervously as I enter his room, looking around for the hole-stricken wall. However, any damage that may have occurred has been covered, and all evidence of possible dysfunction, removed. Carver sits on the bed and pats the mattress for me to join.

“So, what’s this present?” I ask, since I don’t see any colorfully wrapped packages
hanging about.

“Well, I’ve missed you so much, and I just thought since we haven’t seen much of each
other…” Carver slides closer and puts his hand on my bare thigh and I wonder if perhaps I should have just worn jeans. “…maybe you’d like to make up for lost time.” He leans over and kisses my neck, at the same time his hand slides completely up between my legs, forcing the part.

“Carver, wait.” I try to pull away, a huge red flag waving blatantly in front of my face. It’s not like we haven’t gone that far, we just haven’t gone all the way yet. And by the look on Carver’s face that’s what he is intending my ‘present’ to be. Since our relationship has been on a hiatus, I’m not sure I’m ready to take it there this soon.

Carver runs his hand slowly down my chest, then back up again, and rests it on the top but
ton at my collar. “C’mon, Joy, a dress like this? You’d have to be a little bitch to tease me like that, wouldn’t you?” he whispers sweetly, and starts to slowly unbutton the front of my dress.

“Excuse me?”
Um…no
.
I am so not OK with this.
I begin to stand, but Carver pushes me down onto the bed. His hair falls in his face as he straddles me.

“Please, don’t leave yet. I didn’t get to give you your present.” His sweetness turns suddenly bitter and he tugs the skirt of my dress up to my waist.

“Carver, stop! I don’t want to do this!” I have a hard time catching my breath, as if the weight of his body pressing down on my waist has somehow made its way up to my throat.

He just laughs the more I struggle and when he reaches for th
e waistband of my panties, I lose all hope. Whatever good I thought I saw in this boy was a complete sham. He begins to yank my underwear down when suddenly someone starts pounding on the door.

“Carver! God damn it! Did you change this fucking lock again?”

Carver covers my mouth with his hand and listens. There’s a loud rattling as someone tries to turn the door knob, and when it doesn’t work they start pounding again. A deep, thunderous voice, yells again.
“Carver! Open the damn door!”

Carver pulls his hand away and pushes his hair back. “If you say anything about this, I will fucking
hurt
you. I swear.” He breathes hotly into my face then climbs off me, watching sickly, as I push my dress down and button it back up. Then he leaves and heads to the kitchen to let his father in.

I somehow manage to stand on weak, shaky legs. All I can think about i
s how I need to get out of here,
now.
 

I make my way over to the doorway and listen, trying to calm my heart down enough so I can actually hear something, though it’s not even necessary since Mr. Halsey is practically yelling anyway.

“You think you’re a big boy because you get to play ‘house’ up here?” I hear him laugh. “I think you need to remember just who’s house this is. You abide by my rules…Change that lock one more time and I’ll change your face.”

I don’t hear a response from Carver before Mr
. Halsey adds, “Who’s car is that out there? You got a girl in here?”

I sense this as my only chance. There’s no way I want to b
ear witness what may come next, or risk facing Carver alone after the fact. I take a breath and walk confidently out into the kitchen. “Oh, that’s my car, Mr. Halsey. Hi, I’m Joy, Carver’s girlfriend.” I reach out and shake his hand. He’s dressed in a dark blue police uniform and my gaze falls from those familiar hazel eyes, down to the nightstick at his waist. From the amount of thick aggression in the air, I silently wonder if his son has ever seen its wrath. “I was actually just going.” I lean over and force myself to give Carver a quick kiss on the lips, somehow managing not to throw up all over myself. “See you Monday, babe,” I say to him, nod to Mr. Halsey, then mechanically make my exit.

           “If you say anything about this, I will fucking hurt you.”
His words haunt me and prevent me from doing exactly that. As much as I want to and as much as I should, I can’t. I’m a coward and just too damn scared. Besides who would believe me anyway? I was the one who willingly went to his house and everyone has seen us kissing at school, or at least together.

Instead I try and focus on my birthday weekend. Saturday I spend a rare afternoon with Farah and I pretend to have a blast with her at the mall, but she acts almost as distant as me. She does seem to make an effort by buying me a lunch that I force myself to eat, and an outfit I picture a guy just ripping off me, anyway. If she senses anything is wrong, she doesn’t ask about it, preoccupied with her own thoughts. I wonder if she’d rather b
e with her boyfriend right now, a boyfriend that doesn’t try to force her into almost having sex and threaten her about it afterward. 

When I get home that evening,
I collapse on my bed and finally start to process what exactly happened. Now I can see why Carver dislikes his father so much. I could never imagine, until witnessing it, just how demeaning a father could actually be. If Mr. Halsey only knew what he’s helped shape his son into, I wonder if he would change his ways. I silently shake my head. He’d probably just slap him on the back and tell him what a real man he’s become.

CHAPTER THIRTY-
FIVE

“Happy Birthday!” my mom exclaims, as I enter the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I’m surprised it’s even there after two nights of tossing and turning, with images of Carver’s hands all over my body. Mom’s apron clad and aggressively mixing a bowl of homemade pancake batter.  My stomach growls as I take in the aroma of the bacon, sizzling on the stove. I’m relieved to at least have an appetite as I take in the spread my mom is preparing.

“Thanks, Mom…s
mells good.” I give her a kiss, then lean over to inspect the bacon’s progress on the stove top. Every year for my birthday my mom cooks breakfast for dinner because she knows it’s my favorite, unless by chance my special day happens to fall on a weekend. With today being a Sunday, we actually get to have breakfast for breakfast.

“Is your brother up yet?” she asks, flipping the bacon slices over with a pair of tongs.

As if on cue, Devon enters the kitchen. “Good morning, Happy Birthday, Joy.”

“Thanks Dev.” I give him a quick hug then head to the fridge for something to drink.

He makes his way over to the stove and mimics my bacon examination. “I was going to ask, what’s up with your car…but it’s kinda ‘up’ itself, isn’t it?” He turns and gives me a funny look.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, halfway through pouring three glasses of OJ to go with the place settings at the bar.

“Your car…is up in the air. You didn’t see it when you came downstairs?”

“No…I really wasn’t looking…” Bewildered, I put down the juice container and make my way to the bathroom off the kitchen. I pull the curtain aside. Sure enough my poor little Jetta’s back end is partially airborne. I toss the curtain back and hurry into the kitchen. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here, Mom?” I exclaim in annoyance.

“Who?”

“Bryce!”

“I didn’t know he was, honey. I’ve been in here working on breakfast!” she replies defensively.

I don’t stick around long enough to contemplate if this
is the truth or not. Flinging open the sliding glass door, I stomp off the deck, making my way around to the driveway.

Bryce has got my car up on a jack. The rear passenger side tire is off, and there’s an array of tools scattered in the general vicinity. He’s squatting down, with his back towards me. Suede work gloves cover his large hands and they are tending to a rusty metal part attached to where I’d normally see my tire. Bryce has on a faded black t-shirt and an old pair of stained jeans, which I’m assuming he saves just for working peoples cars without asking.

“What are you doing?” I approach him, arms crossed at my chest.

“Trying to
wiggle off these damn calipers,” he mumbles a strained response. The muscles in his forearms are tight from the force of exertion.

“I can see that,” I say, curtly. “Why?”

Finally able to pull them off, he turns to address me, and looks me up and down. “Nice slippers.”

In my whirl-wind state, I completely forgot that I still had my pajamas on. I sigh in annoyance, “Seriously?”

“Consider it a birthday present,” he smiles.

“You remembered it’s my birthday?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“It’s not that hard to remember, March 31
st
…six days before mine,” He focuses on removing the gloves from his hands, then stands.

 
I let the date stew in my brain. I can’t believe that it’s been four months since we’ve talked face to face. It seems like it’s been ten years all over again. “You don’t have to do this. I was going to get them fixed,” I say, softening a little.

“When, on your
next
Birthday?” he snickers.

Suddenly my mom comes around from the back of the house and yells, “Joy, breakfast is ready! Invite Bryce in to join us!”

I motion for him to follow, seeing no alternative. “C’mon, you can put my car back together after we eat.”

When we come through the sliding door, I see that my mom has moved the celebration to our old study spot, the dining table and increased the place settings by one. She comes around the bar with a smile as huge as the stack of pancakes she’s carrying. They’re topped with a hand full of drippy birthday candles, starting to melt from the heat of the flames. My mom places it down in at my favorite spot, Dad’s old seat and breaks into song, with Devon and Bryce both joining in. They serenade me with a slightly flat version of
Happy Birthday
,
while I stand there in my pjs feeling slightly awkward. Though, it’s easily canceled out by happiness as I blow out the candles. For the first time this weekend, I’m not wasting thoughts on Carver Halsey.

We sit down, and not being shy about food, I dig right in. Piling pancakes, bacon, two scoops of scrambled eggs, and anything else that will fit on my plate. I glance over at Bryce who’s doing the same. Not realizing it, my jaw drops open. He happens to look up at me and
stops abruptly. “What?” he says nervously.

“Nothing, I, uh…I just thought you didn’t eat like that.”

“What do mean?”

Embarrassed, I answer, “I heard a rumor that you were on some kind of weird diet. That’s all.”

“Oh, let me guess steak and eggs, three meals a day…or something rid
iculous like that?” Bryce grins, then before shoveling a forkful of syrup drowned hash browns into his mouth, he says, “You can’t believe everything you hear, Joy.”

Devon seems to be enjoying this breakfast more than I should be. I suspect it’s the company of our surprise guest, because he says, “Hey mom, since it’s Joy’s birthday and Bryce is here
and all, got any good stories? And by good, I mean embarrassing?”

“Hmm…I have something better than stories.” Mom stands up with
a mischievous look in her eyes that by no means can imply anything but,
good
. She leaves, and shortly returns with a ratty old shoebox. “I have pictures!”

Oh, no. Thanks a bunch little brother.
I picture myself tracing the mouth piece of his trumpet with hot sauce the next time he’s not around.

For the next half hour or so, my mom digs through the box and passes around pictures, telling little stories about where they were taken, and what the occasion was. There are some of not just Bryce and I, but Devon as well. Easter egg hunts, sledding in the winter, building sandcastles at the beach…there is even one of us from that infamous washed out Halloween night. I smile when I see how ridiculous my ‘
mer-vamp’ costume was, and find myself actually enjoying all this nostalgia that’s being stirred up on my birthday.

Suddenly, Devon reaches in the box and pulls one out. He pretends to cover his eyes “Oh,
gross! Joy and Bryce in the bath tub together!”

“What
?” I exclaim in mortification, and snatch the picture out of his hand. Bryce looks like he’s about to choke on a mouthful of pancake. Devon starts to laugh when I look down at it. The photo is really of Bryce and I together in a kiddie pool,
with
bathing suits on.

“Jerk,”
I say, toss the picture down then peg Devon with a clump of eggs.

“Nice arm you’ve got there. M
ust’ve had a good teacher,” Bryce jokes.

“Yeah, and I’m not afraid to use it!” I retort in Devon’s direction.

My mom interrupts our shindig by getting up and saying she’s going to be late if she doesn’t start cleaning up. Bryce looks up at the wall clock. “Crap! Is it really that late? Better go and replace those pads, Joy. I have to work at noon!” He takes a swig of juice, quickly stands up, and thanks my mom for the food.

Since it’s my birthday, my mom forces Devon to help her clean up, though secretly I’m almost positive it’s because of the bath tub comment. I follow Bryce back outside, and breathe in the wonderful hint of spring. I feel the heat of the
sun absorbed by the asphalt, penetrating the soles of my slippers, as I sit down on the edge of my displaced tire. Bryce continues where he left off. He picks up a tool and starts to scrape at some rust.

“I didn’t know you were working, where at?” I ask.

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but answers, “Art’s Auto Parts and Service, I have some hours after school and weekends, working the register in the store. My dad doesn’t want me to do any spring sports, to avoid unnecessary injuries. I’m cool with it though. I get a good discount on stuff for my Jeep.” He looks at me and smiles. “And I’m not surprised you didn’t know that. You’ve probably never even been in there.”

I smirk at him when he turns back towards my car.

Bryce slides out both of the old brake pads and exclaims, “Damn, Joy! These things are toast. You could have gotten hurt.” He tosses them aside in disgust.

Don’t know why he’d care about that.
Suddenly I feel the urge to know why Bryce is really here. “Can I ask you something, Bryce?”

“Sure.” He says in the process of applying some kind of goop around the new pads.

“You know how you said back in the house, that you can’t always believe what you hear?”

“What about it?”

“Well obviously you heard about that stupid fight Missy and I had, right? It’s just that some of the things she said, made me wonder if you think I’m as pathetic as she does.” I pause, and look down at my lap. “You always act so different when we’re alone. I guess I just don’t know what to believe.”

Bryce stops toying with the car and exhales slowly. He comes over and sits down next to me. Reaching into his back pocket, Bryce pulls out his wallet, and hands me a dog eared piece of folded cardstock. I open it and realize it’s the same photograph that he had posted to his Facebook page a few years ago, the one of us standing on my porch, with him in his Batman shirt. He points to the t-shirt and begins, “When I’m behind a football helmet, it’s like it’s my super hero mask. I’m a totally different person when it’s on. People see me putting on a show an
d the people I hang around with want to be a part of that. They don’t know, or understand the real me. I don’t think anyone does.”

He sighs and continues, “Look, Joy. I do care about you and I don’t want to see you hurt. I know I’m the last person on earth you would believe to hear say that, but it’s the truth. I know I screwed up in the past, and criticizing you for getting involved with Carver-that wasn’t my place.
I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make it up to you. I don’t know what it will take to prove that to you.”

He looks away and I let his words soak in for a moment, “I understand…” and I think I do. In a way it’s similar to what I’ve been doing my whole life, trying to meet the expectations of others. I’ve focused so hard on living for them and not allowing myself to just be me. I want to laugh at the absurdity of his comment about criticizing me for seeing Carver. I should have listened when he tried to warn me. If he wasn’t lying about Carver, then why did he lie about not drinking?

I decide to ask. “Why did you tell me you didn’t drink?”

“What?” Bryce snaps his head back in my direction.

“I heard that you got wasted at a football party and-”

Bryce interrupts me, “Who told you that, Carver?” He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. “Yes, I got
drunk, but it wasn’t by choice, and I said a bunch of stupid things that I don’t even remember saying.”

So, the comment he made about being in love with me…that must be one of those ‘stupid things’.
I knew it
. Why would I even think for a second that it would be, true. Why am I even questioning it, anyway? Do I
want
it to be true?

“What about you and Missy having…history? The question comes out of my mouth without thinking, but it’s as if the answer will solidify my belief in what he’s been telling me, and I don’t regret asking it.

Bryce’s face turns to stone and his shoulders tighten up. “What kind of history?”

I find myself blushing. Ugh, he’s a
guy
… how can he not know what I mean? “Um, you know…” I fumble to get the words out.

“You mean…like sexually.” Bryce runs his hand through his hair, and I think it’s odd that he almost looks relaxed. “I guess not many guys would admit this, but I’ve never had sex with Missy.”

“Oh.” I start to feel the doubt I had about him melt away. “Well, me either, with Carver…if you really want to know.”

It feels so good to be talking to him that I’m about to confess what happened Friday night, but Bryce change
s my mind when he says, “Good, because if he messes with you, I will break his goddamn neck.”

Usually guys say this in a joking manner, however, Bryce does not. I remember that he needs to stay out of trouble to keep his scholarship and I’d hate to see him lose it because of me. He breaks my train of thought when his demeanor softens
and he asks, “So have you then, with anyone?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Bryce! Seriously, you’re asking me this?” Then realize it
’s my own my own fault for bringing it up. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face towards the sky, “Yes, once…with Ben Sweeney!”