Page 69 of Salvation
I walk out of the room with my head held high and make it all the way to my room before I break down.
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A shoulder pad lands in my stomach with enough force to take my breath away. It’s followed by momentum slamming me into the ground. And then nothing. I close my eyes, waiting for the pain, but it doesn’t come. There’s just an overwhelming numbness that started three weeks ago, after I met with Henry, and it’s crawled its way into my soul. But the worst part is that no one knows.
The time for telling my parents passed the second I chose to handle it on my own, and to be honest, I’m too embarrassed to tell them now because what will they think when I tell them that I failed so spectacularly that Ivy felt abortion was her only option?
Nothing good, I imagine. So I’ve kept it to myself, going about each day like nothing has changed, when in reality, everything has.
“What was that, Richards? You just let Westbrook slam right into you. You didn’t even try to avoid the tackle. Don’t just lie there, get up.”
At the sound of Coach’s voice, my eyes pop open, finding Eric Westbrook, a defensive tackle, looming over me. He’s smirking, a look of satisfaction twinkling in his eyes.
Pushing to my feet, I step forward until I’m right in his face and smirk back. Of all the players on the team, Eric has the shortest temper. He’s the easiest to rile up because all it takes isa couple of jabs to his ego, and he’s ready to explode. So, I jab, hoping he reacts.
“If I couldn’t hit harder than that, Westbrook, I’d stay home.”
Eric’s face turns red, and he growls, moving to hit me. Before he can, though, I’m yanked back by my shoulder pads, his fist narrowly missing my cheekbone.
Chaos breaks loose as several teammates step in front of Eric, pushing him back as he fights against them. I throw my head back, laughing as the numbness digs its claws deeper.
“Looks like you’re bad at that, too,” I taunt.
There’s another jerk on my shoulder pads, and then I’m being dragged away. My feet backpedal, trying to keep up with whoever is dragging me back. They let go of my pads before I can gain my balance, and I’m falling.
My arms reel in slow motion, but it’s no use; I land on my back again and stare up at the sky. Within seconds, two silhouettes appear above me, and I blink, adjusting my eyes against the sun.
“Do you have a death wish or something?” Hayes glares down at me.
Yes.
I don’t say it aloud, but the thought still hits me with the force of a train. For three weeks, I’ve been doing anything I can just to feel something, but nothing has worked. At this point, I think I’d rather be dead.
Slipping on a goofy grin, I pretend the numbness isn’t turning into a black hole, sucking me in. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.
“Why do you want to hit me next?” I ask with a chuckle. It sounds so hollow to my ears that I wonder how my friends don’t hear it—how they don’t see that I’m dying inside—but Iguess I’m a better actor than I thought because Langston kicks my shoulder pads.
“Yeah, I do, Campbell, because you don’t take anything seriously, and some of us have things riding on this. So stop trying to get under Eric’s skin, and do your job.”
Still lying on the ground, I lift my hand and salute him. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
Langston looks like he’s close to strangling me when a whistle blows down the field.
“Hit the showers, boys. That’s the end of practice today.”
Langston jogs away, shaking his head, but Hayes stays, sticking out his hand to help me up. I take it, letting him do most of the work, because my energy has suddenly been zapped from my body. Once I’m standing, Hayes smacks the back of my helmet, and I pretend I can feel it, clutching it dramatically and crying out.
Hayes rolls his eyes. “I tapped you. Stop being such a crybaby, and stop pushing everyone’s buttons already.”
As we turn toward the locker room, Coach calls my name, and when I look over my shoulder, he’s waving me over to where he still stands on the sideline.
Hayes chuckles. “Good luck with that.”
Then he jogs away, leaving me alone.
Coach watches me as I approach, and I keep the practiced, easy smile on my face the entire time, not wanting him to be the one who sees through it. Stopping short of where he’s standing, I remove my helmet and rest it on my hip. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”
“Yeah,” he says, tapping his clipboard against his leg, “I did. You’ve been distracted for the last couple of weeks. Is there something I need to know about?”
