Page 41 of The Keeper
After taking a few deep breaths, I stand and head back to the field, trailing about fifty feet behind everyone else. Getting benched doesn’t mean I get to sulk in the locker room.
When I arrive on the sidelines, I take a seat and try to get my head in the game. I’m still a part of this team, even if my worth on the field has been minimal today. I still have to focus and show support.
But within just a few minutes, it starts.
My shoulders tense instinctively when I hear the first jumbled shout from the bleachers just fifteen feet behind us. It isn’t incredibly loud, and I don’t think anyone on the sidelines hears it, as I only catch clips of it myself.
“… fuckin’ piece of shit…”
“… can’t even finish a game…”
I keep my head straight forward, refusing to acknowledge him, and when a few minutes pass without another word, my muscles unclench and I begin to rotate my neck in an attempt to relax.
But my relief is short-lived, as it isn’t long before it starts again. This time, I can feel the other players’ reactions. I know they hear the words being shouted in our direction. I see many of them turn their heads and look into the stands, trying to find the person responsible. I just pray they don’t know that the jumbled and sometimes incoherent shards of glass are aimed at me.
“… absolutely worthless…”
“… come out here and you’re not even playing? Couldn’t keep your shit together…”
“… loser dyke.”
All of the blood in my body rushes to my face and I flush in embarrassment as the horrible words continue. I feel like I’m climbing through a barbed wire fence. If I focus on something else, I might be able to push through and get to the other side, but the marks left behind won’t fade quickly, gouging holes until I’m bleeding secrets for everyone to see.
I stare blankly at the field where the game continues, and will the tears that brim at my eyes to keep from spilling over. But when I hear the slurred shout of my name, and I hear several gasps next to me, I feel them slip free and trail down my cheeks.
I remain seated and staring blankly at the field, refusing to catch the eyes of any of my teammates. I don’t need to see their faces awash in pity. So I glare at the ball and allow the rest of the world to blur away until all I see is the small white and black orb moving rapidly between feet.
When the whistle blows, I hear my teammates shouting with glee, but I don’t even look in their direction. I walk straight off of the field and into the locker room shower. I rinse off so quickly that I’m fully clothed in my tracksuit just as the rest of the team enters the room. I feel eyes on me as I press past them, but I walk quickly from the room and down the hall towards the front. Hopefully I can get on the bus early and stay there until the men’s game is over.
Unfortunately, the buses aren’t in sight, so I take a seat on a planter box and stare into nothing.
“So you’re sitting out here like a fucking loser by yourself, huh?” I hear from behind me maybe ten minutes later.
My hands clench into fists and I continue to stare at the ground.
“Why did you come today?”
My question isn’t more than a whisper, but I know he hears me. He ambles around me, swaying slightly, and I wonder absently what happened to the drink in the paper bag, as he’s now clutching a black water bottle that is very likely housing Jack Daniels.
“No one else comes to see you play. I figured, why not go see what Rachel is really wasting her life on. And fuck if it wasn’t an absolute waste of my time.” His words are a slurry mess. He leans in close and the smell of liquor overwhelms me. “Everything about you is a waste.”
I stand quickly and try to side-step him, but my movements throw him off balance and he tumbles over to the ground, shouting out in pain. My natural instincts come out in full-force and I bend over to help him up, but he shrugs my hands off of him and rattles off a string of curses and insults loud enough for those passing to hear.
Once he’s finally righted himself I rest my hand on his upper arm. “Are you sure you’re…”
But my words are cut off when he grabs my wrist and twists, hard. I shout out a little in pain and bend at an awkward angle to release some of the pressure, then whip my other hand around and slap him hard in the face.
He steps back in shock, releasing my wrist, but his eyes are murderous. I’ve never hit back before.
“Hey!” I hear the shout from behind me, and my eyes close in defeat. I know that voice, and it is the last one I want to hear right now. “What the hell is going on?”
I keep my eyes trained on the ground, unwilling to look at Mack or my dad. Neither man would be able to soothe or assuage the feelings of embarrassment roaring through my body.
“Mind your own business, kid,” my dad slurs out. “Turn around and walk away.”
“I don’t think so,” Mack responds. “I’m Rachel’s coach and whatever is going on here is a bit concerning, so if it’s all the same to you, I don’t plan on going anywhere.”
His hand comes up and rests on my shoulder. I know it’s meant as a sign of support, but I know instinctively how my father will interpret the move. I very quickly step to the side a bit and twist my body so Mack’s hand falls away, but not before my eyes flicker up. My father’s face has maintained the same harshness, but it has now latched onto Mack’s small sign of affection. His eyes look from me, to Mack, and then back.
