Page 4 of Save the Game

“Yeah. The buttons on your shirt were done up wrong, and one of your belt loops was ripped off. It…it looked like…well, I don’t know. I just had a really bad fucking feeling about it. It looked like someone had redressed you. And that’s what I told the hospital and they called the police and…well, yeah.”

“Oh,” I say, and pull off my seatbelt. Turning away, I reach for the door handle. Hearing the story didn’t make me remember anything; in fact, I think I feel a little worse.

“Max,” Marcos’ soft voice has me looking over my shoulder, door ajar and one leg already out of the car. “I’m really sorry. I messed up, and I’m really, really sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him truthfully. “Whatever happened…it’s not your fault.”

He nods, though he doesn’t look convinced. I head inside, feeling stiff and exhausted. It takes me a ridiculously long time to get my clothes off, with my shaking hands and weak arms. Cranking the water in the shower to as hot as I can stand, I step inside and prop myself up against the wall, forehead against the tile. Then, hoping that the sound of the water drowns out the noise, I cry.

1

PRESENT DAY

Luke

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” one of my teammates yells in my direction. I put a hand up to wave cheerfully, and continue whistling.

“They love me,” I confide to the high school kid on base next to me. He grins, uncertainly, and steps partially off the base, eyes on the batter.

I keep whistling, eyes on the game and hands tucked into my back pockets. The sun is beating down on the pitch, and the high schoolers all look hot and miserable. When Coach calls an end to practice, there is a collective sigh of relief from everyone. Checking the time, I see that I’ve got less than an hour to get to work. Jogging over to Coach, I wait impatiently for him to notice me; rocking up and back on my heels, I clear my throat. He glances over at me, sighs, and turns.

“What is it, Kelly?” He asks, in a tone of the long-suffering.

“I was just wondering if I can head out? I’ve got to be to work by seven.” I punctuate this with my best, most winning smile.

“All right, you can go. And thanks for volunteering to help out,” he adds begrudgingly, scowling at me.

Grinning, I jog toward the parking lot. It takes two tries to get my car to start—the engine turning over pathetically while I chant encouragement at it. I cheer when it roars to life and pat the dashboard in thanks. The radio doesn’t work, so I whistle my way to work.

“You’re late,” Wendy calls, the second I walk through the door.

“Two minutes isn’t late,” I tell her. “It’s right on time. And I was actually here right at seven, but I had to change.”

“You changed in the parking lot?” She asks flatly, and with a scowl on her face that could rival Coach’s. I grin, shrugging. She shakes her head, bending over and pulling my apron out from under the counter; she tosses it to me and gestures to the empty restaurant. “You’re on your own. It’s my break.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” I smile at her again, trying to soften her up, but she’s already pushing through the swinging double doors that lead into the kitchen. Sighing, I idly tap my order pad on the counter. A quick scan of all the tables confirms that, yes, the diner is empty.

My phone chimes in my pocket; glancing around to make sure Wendy hasn’t come back, I pull it out. There is a notification on my Instagram—a direct message. Opening the app, I squint down at the name, which I don’t recognize. The photograph doesn’t exactly help with identification purposes either, seeing as it’s only an ab shot. The message—a simple hey—is equally ambiguous. I shoot a quick hello back, before locking my phone and putting it away. My Instagram profile is set to public, so I get a certain amount of randoms messaging me; I’m used to it at this point. Most of the time they end up being cool, and sometimes I get laid out of the deal. Occasionally, they’re a homophobic asshole. Either way, nothing to get worked up over.

I start making my rounds, checking all the tables and refilling condiments. I go as slow as humanly possible, and yet I’m done less than an hour later. Sitting down at an empty booth, I whistle and prep the silverware. When the door dings, I nearly weep from relief. I am not meant for idleness.

“Hi!” I call to the family of three, perhaps a touch too exuberantly. “Have a seat—I’ll bring you some water.”

I push back into the kitchen, where Reggie and Wendy are sitting across from one another at one of the kitchen worktops. They’re playing some sort of card game and there’s a pack of cigarettes resting on the stainless-steel top. I point to it.

“That’ll kill you,” I warn. Reggie, the cook, rolls his eyes. He fans his cards and gestures me over to him with a nod. I bend, peering over his shoulder.

“What do you think, kiddo?” He asks. I make a production of looking at his hand and arrange my features into one of extreme concentration.

“That one.” I point to a three of clubs.

“That one, what?”

“I don’t know, Reggie. I have no fucking idea what game you’re playing.” Wendy snorts and Reggie scowls at me. I shrug, straightening. “We’ve got customers. Living, breathing, warm bodies. Right out there.”

I point out the window toward the family. Reggie puts down the card I pointed to, shaking his head. “You take their orders, yet?”

“Nope. Carry on.” I point at the cigarettes as I back out the doors. “No smoking in here.”

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