Page 66 of Save the Game

“Because you fucking drugged him. You made sure he couldn’t form the fucking words,” I spit, quickly losing any control I had on my anger.

Theo shrugs, and this time I snap. He can see me coming, and raises an arm to shield his face; instead of throwing the punch that he expects, I lower myself and catch him around the middle, bringing him straight to the ground. We hit hard, and I can tell he’s stunned—unused to being brought down without pads to cushion his body and a helmet to protect his head. Planting a knee directly into his stomach, I sink my fist into his smug fucking face, putting everything I can behind it. His head snaps back with a satisfying thump against the ground.

I get in a few good shots before he starts fighting back in earnest. I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter, but I find, to my relief, that all one needs to succeed in a brawl is unadulterated fury. Theo manages to get a hand up, but his blow lacks any heat and merely glances off of my shoulder. One of his teeth cuts my knuckle as I do my best to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face.

A sharp pain in my ribs sends me keeling to the side, and I lose my hold on Theo. He takes advantage, flipping us over just as I see a foot swinging for my face. I bring my forearms up but the blow never lands. Thanks Bryce, I think, and grab ahold of Theo’s shirt, wanting to make sure he doesn’t get away. I’m going to kill this motherfucker.

I can’t keep track of anything but Theo; I have no idea what else is going on, or who’s around us. It’s not until he lands a solid crack across my cheekbone that the world around us comes back to life. Sound returns, and it’s as though everybody is shouting directly into my eardrums; if my hands weren’t already busy, I’d cover my ears.

Somehow, I manage to get back on top of Theo, this time leaning all of my weight into the knee I’ve got pressed against his shoulder. There is a satisfying pop and he screams—actually screams—and I lean into it a little harder. I’d like to see you shrug now, you piece of shit. I punch him in the face again, and am rewarded with another crunch of cartilage as his nose breaks.

One of his hands scrabbles against my back as he tries to find purchase. I ignore it and apply myself to seeing just how bloody I can make his face—intent on nothing but teaching him a lesson he should have learned long ago. I don’t even notice the flashing lights until I’m being pulled off of Theo; for a second, I think it might be one of his friends coming to his rescue, but I’m shoved down, hard, face-first into the grass with what is unmistakably a knee planted between my shoulder blades. I try to push up, but my arms are twisted behind my back and there is a sharp pain across my wrist as handcuffs are clicked into place. The police.

I turn my head to the side, resting my cheek on the ground, and look over to see Theo take a swing at the cop bending over him. He’s shouting, bloody saliva flying out of his mouth, as he’s flipped over and cuffed. His face looks like a piece of raw meat. I smile.

The officer kneeling on my back lets up, grips my shoulder, and pulls me around until I’m in a seated position. I’m breathing hard and my vision is starting to swim; people are still shouting and everything is so loud. I’m sure the cop is talking to me but damned if I can hear him. I look around and jolt when I see Bryce in handcuffs as well, mouth moving rapidly as he talks over his shoulder to the female officer who’s got him by the arm.

“No,” I say, unsure who I’m even talking to. “He didn’t do anything.”

Nobody seems to hear me, or if they do, they don’t care. I’m pulled up to standing and someone starts patting down my legs and chest, as though they expect to find a weapon. The ground tilts dangerously, and I become suddenly aware of how badly my hands hurt. It feels like somebody sandpapered my knuckles.

“He’s clear,” the cop says, after lifting my pant legs and checking that I don’t have a fucking shiv stuffed in my sock.

“This one, too,” the female cop says, hand on my best friend’s elbow. He’s stopped talking, and when I open my mouth to speak to him, he gives a single, sharp shake of his head.

“I’ve got something.”

All of our heads swivel toward the officer kneeling next to where Theo is still face-down on the grass. He holds up a row of blister packs, all containing a single white pill.

“Let’s go,” the officer holding my arm pulls me and I stumble, trying to keep Theo in my line of sight. He’s shouting again, voice muffled by the grass but still discernible.

“That’s not mine! That’s not mine!”

I try to twist around but am prevented by the handcuffs and the firm grip on my arm. Already, I’m too far away to hear what the officer is saying to Theo; too far away to do anything but be led through the backyard and out the side gate. Four police cars are parked in the street, lights sending blue and red flashes across the house and lawn. As I watch, another car pulls up and two more officers climb out.

“We’re taking these two in. Two more back there,” someone behind me says, and as I’m brought to a halt next to a police car, I look over and see Bryce being helped into the backseat of another.

The door is popped and a hand finds my head, pushing it down as I’m directed inside the vehicle. My eyes swim as the vehicle lurches; I know the officer is talking to me, but I can’t understand the words. Bending forward at the waist, I close my eyes and will myself not to be sick. My shoulders are screaming, already filled with the pins-and-needles pain of being held in an uncomfortable position for too long.

When the car lurches into motion, I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. Eyes screwed closed, body bent almost double, I concentrate on taking deep breaths through my nose. You will not be sick. You will not be sick.

When we get to the police station, my upper body is in agony. I stumble again, when I’m helped from the car, but a strong hand holds me up and steers me inside.

“Am I under arrest?” My own voice comes as a shock and I flinch. I hadn’t even meant to ask that.

“Not yet,” I’m told, as we buzz through a door that looks exactly like the kind of door used to contain people who are under arrest. The room has a table and chairs and nothing else; as I look, I see one of the chairs and the table is bolted to the ground.

The officer pulls me to a stop and I have to bite back a sob when the cuffs are removed and my arms freed. The return of blood flow to my arms hurts worse than the absence of it, and this time I think I really might be sick as stomach acid crawls up my throat. Somehow, I end up seated, and, even more miraculously, I don’t throw up.

“Blow,” I’m told, and I lean forward to wrap my lips around the breathalyzer.

“I’m not drunk,” I say, to absolutely no effect.

“I’ll be back,” is all I get in return, and I watch as the cop swipes his badge to leave the room and the door slams behind him. He left my hands loose. I stare at the door, waiting for him to return and restrain me again, but it remains firmly closed.

I hold my hands up where I can see them, palms facing down. I’m still shaking, but no matter how much I try to control it, I can’t. The knuckles on both hands are split and bloody. Great smears of red cover the backs of my hands, and the skin is already inflamed. A deeper gouge on my right hand is still weeping, pain throbbing from my knuckles and radiating up my arms. Dropping my hands back into my lap, I try not to think about what hands like these mean for my baseball season.

Resting my cheek down against the cool tabletop, I try to calm the rapid beating of my heart. You’re not under arrest, I remind myself, and then have to wonder if I even care. What I care about is Bryce, probably in another room just like mine, probably only in trouble because of me. I want that cop to come back; I want to explain myself and make sure he knows what happened and why.

---