Not After Everything (20 page)

Dr. Dave is speechless. And all I did was tell him what I did over break.

“So I guess I'm, like, cured or whatever?” I joke.

“I'm really impressed. I think I need to meet this Jordyn.”

“I can't believe I'm in love. Like, honest-to-god in love, Doc.”

He laughs. “So are you thinking again about going to Stanford?”

“If they still want me.” I wipe my hands on my jeans.

“I think writing that letter to the admissions department was a really good call. I don't think you have any reason to be nervous.”

“Jordyn really encouraged me with that, you know. I don't know that I would have actually been able to mail it if it weren't for her.”

He leans forward in a mock-serious manner. “Are you sure she's a real person? Do other people see her, or does she only appear to you?”

“She's not a hallucination. And if she is, I don't wanna be cured.”

Dr. Dave smiles. “We should all be so lucky. So what did your dad have to say about you spending the holidays away from him?”

“He didn't care. He actually broke into my locked room and destroyed it. Even pissed on some of my stuff in a drunken stupor.”

Dr. Dave's eyes go wide and I realize I've slipped up. I swore I'd never let him know about Dad. Because then he has to report it. Shit.

“It wasn't that big a deal,” I say, all casual. “He didn't really destroy it—he just went through my drawers. I think he was checking for drugs or something. And he only pissed on some clothes I left on the bathroom floor. He has bad aim when he's been drinking.”

Dr. Dave's not buying it. “Is this typical behavior for him?”

“Not at all,” I lie, rather convincingly, I think.

He scribbles something in his little book.

I crane my neck to see what. No luck. “In all fairness, I shouldn't say he didn't care I was gone for the holidays. He did kind of admit that he missed me. We even bonded over dinner that night.” A slight exaggeration.

“You always keep your room locked?”

“I don't want him finding my porn stash.” Not that I have a porn stash. I mean, who needs that with the Internet?

Dr. Dave scribbles something else down.

He's not buying a word I'm saying.

“Doc?” I ask, hoping he'll look up from his frantic writing.

He doesn't.

“What aren't you telling me about your father, Tyler? I can't help you unless you're honest with—”

“Nothing. He's just a dick.”

“Why do you really keep your door locked? Are you afraid of hi—”

“Of course not. I just want my own space. A place that isn't his or Mom's.”

“Are you hiding something?”

“I told you about the pictures of Mom and what he'd do if he found them.” I'm getting angry. I really don't want to talk about this. How the hell did I screw up like that?

“You're positive that's all it is?”

“Yes!” I snap.

“Okay.” He holds his hands up.

I seriously need to change the subject. I take a deep breath before speaking again. “I'm thinking about asking Coach for advice on the whole Stanford thing. You think that's a good idea? I mean, I think he's probably still mad, but I kind of miss football and I'd like to apologize to him for leaving the team in the lurch.”

This does the trick. Dr. Dave eyes me warily, but then he sees I'm not bullshitting. “I think that's a very good idea.”

“Yeah? I wasn't sure. I mean . . .” I trail off, stopping myself.

Dr. Dave can tell I'm on the verge of letting him in. He's trying so hard not to push me—I can see it all over his face—that I even kind of want to.

“I didn't realize I missed football so much, but I do. I really do. And I was thinking the other day . . . Well . . . I can't keep blaming football for keeping me from being there for my mom. She probably would've killed herself either way, right?” I'm not asking him to confirm.

He sets his notebook down and leans forward until I look at him. His smile is a mixture of elation and pride.

I have to look away. “It wasn't because of football that I missed the signs. That was all on me. It was my fault for pulling away. For not wanting to see what was happening. What it was doing to her.”

“No, Tyler.”

I look up. The smile's gone from his face.

“It was! I, of all people, knew how helpless and hopeless he could make you feel. I knew she was in pain. I knew she hated him and she was afraid of him and she loved him and she blamed herself for the way he . . . I knew all that. I just didn't want to deal.”

“Tyler, look at me,” Dr. Dave says in a way that makes me do it. “It wasn't your fault. Not one bit of it. You understand? You should never have been put in a situation that made you feel responsible for either one of your parents. They are your
parents
. They are not your responsibility.
You
are
theirs
. Okay?”

I nod because I think that's what he wants me to do.

“Good,” he says, sliding a box of Kleenex my way even though I'm not crying. “Now, when you say she was afraid of him and that you knew how that felt . . .”

Shit. I tune out the rest of his question, desperately searching for a way off of this topic. “Look, my dad is a master manipulator,” I finally say. It's not a lie.

“Meaning?”

“He knows how to word things in a way that will cause the most harm. He hits below the belt. He likes to remind you that you are not better than him,” I say. “That's why I don't talk about him. I don't want to give him any more thought than is absolutely necessary.”

“Does he—”

“I'm done talking about him.” I sit up taller, making it absolutely clear that I will leave.

“Okay,” he says, conceding.

It's tense in here now. I eye the door while Dr. Dave arranges his notebook on the coffee table, aligning it just so with the edge of the wood. Finally, he speaks.

“I'm proud of you for writing that letter to Stanford. They'd be crazy not to have you. I mean that, Tyler.”

He does mean it too. And it feels so good that he believes that about me that I stop hating him and breathe a sigh of relief. That was too close.

• • •

Coach is completely caught off guard when I wander into his office.

“Blackwell. What do you want?” He makes himself busy even though I know he was probably just playing online poker.

“Do you have a minute?” I ask, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

He grunts. I take that as a yes and sit.

“First of all, I'd like to apologize. For everything. For abandoning the team, for fighting with Brett. And Reece. And just being an all-around asshole this year.”

He's stopped pretending to be busy and is now completely focused, taking his reading glasses off to stare at me. I can see the wheels turning. When he settles back into his chair, I take that as a sign to continue.

“This is kind of hard for me.” I clear my throat. “I've been talking to a therapist since . . .”

He nods.

“Well, I guess I kind of blamed myself and football and, well, you by proxy, for keeping me from being there to help my mom. Not just on that day. On all the days. Like, I was using football to . . . to hide from her, from the situation, and had been for a while. I know it's not rational, but there you go. It took me a very long time to realize she would have found a way whether I was at training or not. It took me even longer to realize how much I missed playing.”

Coach nods again.

“I don't know how much Marcus told you about my financial situation, but—”

“He said your dad was making you work.”

“He wasn't making me work. He just wasn't paying for anything for me anymore. And that included shoes, clothes, my phone bill. I really didn't have a choice. But yeah, I used it as an excuse to keep my distance too.”

“I wish you would've come to me. I might've been able to help.” He's dropped his usually gruff front. I find it disconcerting.

“I appreciate that. But I just wasn't ready. I'm sorry if I fucked up your record by not playing this year.”

“Language.”

“Sorry.”

“And apology accepted.” He extends his hand over the desk.

I have to get up to reach it. I sit back down. “I know I'm not in any position to ask a favor, but . . .”

“Ask away.”

I pull out a copy of the letter I sent to Stanford and set it on top of the papers that cover his desk. “I sent this to Mr. Barker at Stanford. I haven't heard anything from them about what's going to happen now that I missed playing this year. I was hoping”—I take a deep breath—“I was hoping you might be able to make a call for me?”

He takes the letter and shushes me as he searches for his glasses, which have managed to somehow bury themselves under the mess in the two seconds he's had them off. Then he leans back in his chair and reads.

I start to leave, thinking we're done, but he snaps his fingers at me and I sit back in my seat. It's so awkward, having him read something so personal right in front of me. He flips the page. I stare at all the stuff he has hanging haphazardly all over his walls. Mostly inspirational quotes from various famous players over a photo of them mid-game. Plays scratched on papers with frayed edges. Photos of the team from the past ten or so years. I study the ones I'm in. When I was a freshman—so scrawny and cocky, I have to laugh to myself. I look like a complete tool. The sophomore picture isn't much better. But the picture from last year is pretty decent. I've lost the chip on my shoulder; I'm even smiling. If I didn't know myself, I'd say that kid loves football.

Coach clears his throat. I bet he's at the part in the letter where I explain how I felt responsible for Mom's death. It got Henry too.

He finishes a few minutes later and sets the letter back on the desk.

After a very long pause he finally looks at me. “Tyler, I think I owe you an apology. I had no idea any of this was going on in that head of yours. I should have tried harder to get through to you.”

I wave him off.

“No, really, I knew what a great kid you were and I feel like I've failed you.”

“You didn't fail me. Even if you'd offered to help, I wouldn't have let you.”

“You know . . . your mom . . . Uh, you know it wasn't your fault, right?” He's having a hard time looking at me now.

“I do now. I mean, I'm getting there.”

He pulls himself up from his desk and lopes over to me. Grabbing my shoulders, he pulls me up into an intense bear hug. I pat his back.

“I'm going to call Barker first thing tomorrow morning. If they don't take you after that letter, fuck 'em. We'll find you a college that will.”

“Language.” I laugh as he pounds my back hard enough to leave a red handprint.

“Sometimes there's just not a better word.”

• • •

Coach checks in with me every day. He hasn't been able to reach Mr. Barker at Stanford yet, but it is now his mission in life. And it takes close to a month for him to complete it. I'm in the middle of a creative writing exercise when Mrs. Ortiz pokes her head in. She waves a yellow slip of paper at Mr. Craig and says, “I need Tyler Blackwell.”

I follow her out into the hall and she hands me the slip. “Coach Millikan wants to see you.”

I snatch the yellow hall pass from her and sprint toward the gym and Coach's office.

I brace myself for bad news.

I knock.

Nothing.

I try the handle. It's open, but Coach isn't here. I decide to wait, but I'm too nervous to sit, so I pace the length of the room, stepping around piles of books and papers. Someone should really help this guy get organized.

“Well, Blackwell,” he says, showing up in the doorway behind me, and trying to play coy but failing miserably.

I throw myself at him and hug him as tight as I've ever hugged another man. I even pick him up off the floor for good measure.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

He nods proudly. I go back in for another hug.

Once we've both collected ourselves, he tells me that Barker got my letter and was extremely impressed with my honesty and they'd be glad to have me. And that the scholarship is still on the table.

“They're even considering starting you for starting running back.”

Now I'm speechless.

“You're going to have to start hitting some weights. Get some meat back on you.”

I nod, because I'm unable to find words. A freshman in any starting position is rare, but a freshman who didn't play his senior year of high school?

“Now get back to class. If those fast legs of yours still work, that is.”

Oh, my legs still work all right, but I have no intention of going back to class just yet. I bound up the stairs to the art and photography rooms.

I spot Jordyn in her classroom and I gesture all crazy. She starts laughing when she sees me. Then I hear the door open and find her teacher glaring and at a loss for words.

“I'm in! They loved the letter!” I yell maniacally, then I run before the teacher can do anything. Laughter follows me down the hall and I can clearly pick out Jordyn's. God, I love her.

I'm on such a high that I manage to complete the writing assignment before class even ends. And that was less than ten minutes. Mr. Craig eyes me suspiciously when I throw it on his desk. Then I stare at the clock until the bell rings. I'm out the door before Mr. Craig officially dismisses us, but what do I care? I'm going to freaking Stanford!

Jordyn's out of breath when she meets me at lunch. I pick her up and kiss her, spinning her dramatically right there in the middle of the hall.

“You're practically vibrating,” she says as we wait in line for pizza.