Page 72 of Save the Game

“Officer Reynolds,” I mutter. The name is forever seared into my memory, and immortalized on the police report I keep hidden away in my desk drawer. “Wait a second. Why were you at the police station?”

“Somebody must have called the cops when I was trying to kill the motherfucker. They brought Bryce in too, and I was back in a room for a bit before Officer Reynolds came back and talked to me. He said I wasn’t under arrest but Theo was, and that I could leave. Bryce and I went to the hospital and then he dropped me off here.”

Carefully, so that I don’t have to look him in the eyes, I start unwinding the bandage from Luke’s hand. He holds it steady, but flinches slightly when the fabric catches on his stitches. Dropping the soiled bandage over the bed and onto the floor with the used icepack, I look at his hand. It looks awful—his skin is stained yellow from the betadine used to clean the wounds, but even that doesn’t disguise the way his skin is inflamed where the stitches have already pulled. I was right about two fingers being splinted, and he’s got a brace on that wraps around his thumb and stabilizes his wrist. I touch it.

“Oh my god, Luke,” I breathe, unable to look away from the mess.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s your right hand,” I remind him, reaching over to dig through the first-aid kit for something I can rewrap it with. “You—how the hell are you supposed to play baseball without the use of your right hand?”

I can feel it, the first tendrils of panic. Can hear it in my voice. Luke notices, too, because he bends forward until our faces are inches apart, forcing me to look at him. His left hand comes up and grips the back of my neck.

“I don’t give two shits about baseball, or my hand, or being brought to the police station. I care about Theo being arrested for drug possession and sexual assault. I care about you.”

Closing my eyes, I lean forward until my forehead can rest on his shoulder. He bends his own head into my neck and we sit like that, unmoving and silent, for the length of time it takes me calm down. You’re not going to cry, or have a panic attack. You’re going to take care of Luke, because that’s what’s important right now. I lift my head.

“Hold still while I replace the gauze and rewrap this,” I mutter, “and then we’ll get you a new icepack. You should probably put one on your face, too.”

Gently, I put a bit of antibiotic ointment on the lacerations before I replace the gauze. When it’s wrapped back up, I silently hold out my hand for his other, waiting until he puts his palm against mine. The knuckles on this hand aren’t nearly so bad as the other, so I settle for a new layer of antibiotic ointment and a single layer of gauze taped down.

“Do you know this Theo guy?” I ask, still unable to wrap my mind around the fact that he’s a complete stranger to me. Luke shakes his head, and I laugh, incredulously. “Why—I don’t get it. Why me? Evidently, we’ve never met before so…was it just random?”

“I don’t know,” he answers sadly. “Maybe.”

“Fuck,” I rub a hand over my face, “I need to take a shower. I need—I’m going to take a shower, okay?”

Luke nods, watching as I gather up the used supplies from the floor to dispose of. I feel dirty, like this Theo guy’s hands have been all over me even though it’s been over a year. On the way to the bathroom, I pause, glancing back at Luke. He’s yet to move from his spot on the bed, sheets coiled around him and bandaged hands resting in his lap. Ridiculous as it is, I can’t help but feel like I’m the one who did that to him.

“Will you be here when I’m done?” I ask nervously, suddenly unsure of where we stand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he answers, picking up his coffee mug, “except maybe to the kitchen for a refill.”

Smiling to show I’m grateful for the joke, I close the bathroom door behind me and toss the soiled bandages into the trash. Back to the door, I pull my phone from the pocket of my pajama pants and google ‘Theodore Cox SCU’. Immediately, articles about the football team populate, although after a cursory glance through the first couple I’m able to ascertain that they only mention him and don’t have a photograph. On the fifth article, I get a picture. Stomach tying itself into knots, I hold my breath and enlarge the photo, sliding my fingers across the screen to try and make his face bigger.

The majority of his face is hidden by a football helmet, but I feel more certain than before that I’ve never seen him, let alone met him. I’ve never been to one of the football games here, not having much time beyond hockey and usually using any surplus to support Marcos and the baseball team. I zoom in farther on Theo’s face. I feel nothing—he’s a stranger to me. Does he look like a rapist? I don’t fucking know. Apparently, he is; apparently, he’s the kind of rapist who brags about it like it’s a conquest to be proud of.

Dropping the phone down on the counter, I press my palms to my eyes. I don’t feel better and I don’t feel worse, knowing exactly what happened and who was behind it. I just feel like I wish it was over. I’m sick of being this person; more than anything, I’m sick of how this affects everyone around me, like I’m patient zero in a plague. Marcos, Luke, Coach Mackenzie: everyone I love dragged down into the mud with me.

A light knock comes at the bathroom door and I gasp, dropping my hands from my face. I give a harsh laugh that comes out as more of a sob—I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying. These days, I have no control over my body. Another knock at the door. I back up until I’m leaning against the counter, rubbing a hand over my chest.

“Yeah?” My voice breaks slightly.

“Can I come in?” Luke asks.

“I’ll be out in minute, just going to shower quick,” I call back, scrubbing at my face with the heels of my hands.

“The water isn’t running,” he responds softly, and I choke on another laugh.

Unable to trust my voice, I don’t answer right away; he doesn’t wait for one anyway, but opens the door and steps inside. He’s still wearing nothing but boxer shorts, having brought nothing with him to stay the night. I should tell him to leave a few changes of clothes here, for when he spends the night, I think, just as a fresh round of tears builds in my throat. Luke steps up to me, left hand gentle on the back of my neck, and pulls me into a hug.

“Careful,” I warn him, as he wraps his right arm around my waist, “your hands.”

Those are the last words I’m able to get out before I can’t breathe, let alone speak, around the sobs wracking my body. Burying my face into the crook of his neck, I wrap both arms around his middle and take what he’s offering. His skin is warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, soft where my hands and arms are touching him. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for always crying on him.

Luke’s left hand, slightly scratchy thanks to the bandage, rubs my back. I can feel his stomach moving against mine, so I know he’s speaking to me even if I can’t hear the words over the noises I’m making. Distantly, I wonder if Marcos can hear me.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I choke out eventually, face still pressed to Luke’s skin and words damn near incomprehensible. It doesn’t matter—he knows what I’m trying to say. The hand rubbing my back doesn’t falter.

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