Stick (5 page)

I
shut the car off in front of the house and picked up my phone. Seventeen missed calls and ten unread texts. Five from my dad, one from my coach, and the rest from the team.

I saw the curtains move, and in the next moment the front door opened. My dad stepped out, his frame outlined by the light from the living room. He stood there, his arms crossed over his chest. My shoulders tightened. I took the keys from the ignition, then got out.

As I reached him, he didn't move. He just stared at me in the darkness. “You do know what you've just done, right?” he said.

I took a breath. “I made my decision.”

He uncrossed his arms, running his hand through his hair. “No, you didn't. You just screwed yourself, Brett. That's what you did.”

“I screwed myself? Or did I screw you?”

“That's enough.”

“What's enough? Does it matter what I think?”

He slurred his words. “Coach and I had a meeting after the game. Nobody knows what's going on. He told the scout you came down with food poisoning and couldn't play. Silvia still wants to meet tomorrow. Ten in the morning. Here.”

“I'm done playing.”

He clasped the sides of his head with his hands, looking up. “And I don't want to get up every fucking day and be a consultant, Brett! We do what we have to do, and you have to do this! You're better than I am. God gave you something. Do you understand that?”

“No. I don't.”

He grabbed my shoulders, bringing my face close to his. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?”

The only thing I saw reflected in his eyes was himself. His drunk self. But I didn't feel like getting thrown against a wall or yanked down the hall to my room. “Sure, Dad. Okay. I understand.”

D
ad peeked his head inside my door. Sunlight streamed through the blinds. “Come on, Brett. He's here.”

I turned my TV off, then threw the remote on the bed. It was the first time I'd skipped my morning run in three years, and I felt like shit about it. Like something was missing. As I stood, I glanced at myself in the mirror, wondering for the thousandth time if I really did want to quit.

I walked down the hall and into the living room. Mr. Silvia was sitting forward in the recliner, his forearms across his knees. He was younger than I was expecting. In his early thirties. He wore a UCLA Bruins polo shirt, had dark, perfectly trimmed hair, and smiled. My dad sat across the coffee table from him.

Mr. Silvia stood, extending his hand. “Brett, it's nice to meet you.”

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, too, sir.”

He nodded, then sat down. “Are you feeling better? Your coach let me know you had food poisoning.”

I sat down. “Yeah. I suppose he did.”

Silvia faltered, his face breaking from his smile for just the slightest second. “Hey, it happens to the best of us, huh? It doesn't matter, though. I've seen all your tapes, and honestly, your numbers stand alone. You're a fantastic player. Best I've seen in my entire career.”

For all I sucked at math, numbers swam through my head. My records. How many trophies I had. How many touchdowns I'd scored. How much it would cost to go to a school like UCLA. All the things that mattered in my life. “Thanks.”

He smiled again. “Great. Well, I'm not going to waste your time or mine.” He leaned forward. “I know you're going to have other schools after you, but would you like to be a Bruin?”

I could almost feel the excitement emanating from my dad. I could see Mr. Silvia, sitting there acting like he was doing me the biggest favor of my life. I blinked, focusing on his face. I'd made the biggest, boldest statement of my life last night by not playing, and everybody was acting like nothing had happened. “No, sir, I wouldn't.”

The silence of something dying filled the room. Mr. Silvia's lips parted, but he didn't speak to me. He looked at my dad. “Sir? Would you mind telling me what's going on? Has Brett accepted an offer from another school?”

I swear to God I heard my dad's heart constricting. He had to make himself breathe. After a moment, he spoke. “No, Mr. Silvia. UCLA is for Brett. As you know, it's my alma mater. This year has been a stressful time for him is all,” he said, then smiled. “Call it cold feet, you know? All the attention, the newspapers, and now you. He's just nervous.”

Mr. Silvia sat back, relieved. He looked at me. “No problem. I've seen it before, and it happens, Brett, but there's nothing to be nervous about. Have you seen the campus? It's great. Sunshine all year round, Southern California at its finest, and a fantastic football team with a tradition and history that you'll be a part of.”

I stood. “Mr. Silvia, I really appreciate the offer, but I quit the team. I'm done playing football.”

My dad frowned, his expression surprised. Almost like he hadn't listened to a goddamn word I'd said for the last two days. “Come on now, Brett. It's just been rough this year. I'm sure we can—”

Rage exploded through me. I stared at my dad sitting there like some broken hero pleading for another chance at something he'd never get. “Dad! Will you fucking listen to me? For once in my life, listen!” I yelled, feeling hot tears come to my eyes. “I QUIT! I'm done! I don't want to play!”

His mouth hung open. Mr. Silvia stood. “Brett, can we step outside for a moment? I promise I won't try to convince you of anything. Just a minute of your time.”

I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, embarrassed and ashamed and sick all at the same time. “Sure.”

Outside, Mr. Silvia took a card from his back pocket and looked at me. “This is none of my business, Brett. My job is to find great football players. That's all. If you're not that guy, that's fine. Take this card. Call me if you change your mind and we might be able to sort things out, huh?”

I looked at his outstretched hand and realized he was a good guy. Not a salesman, not a shark. I took the card. “I'm sorry about that. Things just…”

“Don't apologize, Brett. Just think about what you want.”

I watched him drive his rental car away, then went back inside. Dad sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. I shut the door. He grunted, looking at the floor between his feet. “You happy, son?”

“No.”

“How could you do this?”

“Coach told me to choose a path to walk. I chose. You didn't listen. Nobody does.”

He took a breath. Immense silence pounded the room in time with the beating of my heart in my ears. I'd done it. I'd taken my first steps down that road.

I stood there looking at him and I didn't know what to feel. I loved him. He was my dad. I remembered the first football he'd ever bought me. A cheap rubber Walmart ball that I slept with because he told me I was good at catching it. I was good at something, and the only thing that mattered was that he'd said so.

All the times when I was little that we played catch in the street. All the years when it was fun. Just him and me. Nobody else. Then it turned into something different. Endless criticism. Endless pressure. Some sort of future that I had no idea about. I blinked. “Remember when we used to play? Just us. Out in the yard? Why can't it still be that way?”

“Because you're not a little boy anymore. You're a young man with a future you don't realize, son. And it's my job to guide you to it.”

“When was the last time you told me I did a good job?”

He clenched his teeth. “Brett, for God's sake, aren't we past that? This is serious.”

“I've got to go,” I said. Then I left.

S
unday, Preston met me in the parking lot, and he brought a massive black eye with him. Still swollen, it looked like a split-open plum with a blood-red center. I shut the car door. “Whoa,” I said, looking at him. “What happened to you?”

“I was doing recon when I was set upon by several criminals.”

I smiled. “Back to the drug smugglers, huh?”

“Sure.”

I couldn't stop looking at his eye. “You okay?”

He gestured to the building. “Want to come up? We can study in my room.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

“Want to see a marvel of modern society's ability to waste money?”

“Sure. Why not.”

He went to the car. “Get in. I'll show you.”

I got in and fired up the engine, and he directed me through the parking lot to a garage door. He handed me a key card and told me to swipe it.

“Key in one, two, three, four.”

I pushed the buttons, then handed him back the card. “That's original.”

“My mom needs something simple.”

Another mystery of Preston. I drew a blank when I tried to picture his mom. As the door opened, it revealed what looked like a parking bay, but there was no exit.

Preston picked up a ziplock bag with a crust of stale bread in it. “Turn the engine off. There are carbon monoxide sensors.”

I did. In another moment, the door behind us closed. Lights came on, bathing the small space in fluorescent light. Then we moved. I jumped. “Whoa, what's this?”

“It's a car elevator.”

“We're going up?” I said, looking around.

“Yeah. To my floor.”

“Dude, you seriously have a personal car elevator?”

“Yes. It takes us up, then revolves, turning the car around for when you're ready to leave.”

“Everybody has one?” I asked, feeling us moving upward.

“No. Just the top two floors. The peasants below us have a regular parking garage.”

A minute later, we arrived. The car spun a one-eighty, then slid to the right, next to a gleaming BMW. Off to my left was a short hallway with a door at the end. I laughed. “That is so cool!”

He got out. “All my friends are impressed. Come on.”

I looked at the car. “That your mom's?”

“Yeah. She's out with her new friends.”

I followed him to the door, and he took me inside. We landed in the kitchen first, which was half as big as my whole house. Granite counters, a massive stainless steel refrigerator, two ovens, a huge island with a sink, barstools, shining pots and pans with copper bottoms hanging from the ceiling. I felt like I was on one of those shows where they tour famous people's homes.

Preston waved as he walked. “This is the kitchen. We never use it.” He kept going, leading me to the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city, with the river rushing by nineteen floors below. Leather sofas, chairs, tables, paintings, and lamps filled the room. All high-end. “Living room,” he said.

I looked at the paintings. When I was little, I'd loved art class, and I'd even stopped by a gallery downtown a few times just to stare at all the different works. I recognized one of them now. A Monet. It was of a woman standing on a hillside of flowers, a parasol on her shoulder, and it looked like she was waiting for someone. I'd always wondered who. “Your mom into art?”

“No. Our old house had a Thomas Kincaid print over the mantel that she thought was pretty because there were hidden animals in it.”

I stepped to the windows. “Awesome view.”

He stood next to me. “Yeah. That's the best part. Sometimes at night I just stand and look out over the lights. Sort of like staring at fish.”

“Fish?”

He nodded. “Clinically proven to reduce stress. You should try it.”

“I don't have fish.”

He led the way through the dining room, then down a hall. “Neither do I. Most doctors' offices do, though. Sick people are stressed.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should go hang out.”

We stopped at a door. He pointed to three more doors down the hall. “Guest room, master bedroom, study. This is my room.” He opened the door, and I was greeted by a bedroom bigger than our living room. I'd expected more of the same fine furnishings, but I was surprised.

The room was almost entirely empty. A bed with no frame. A nightstand with a clock and a lamp on it. An old desk in front of the massive windows, chair included. On top of the desk was a computer. Next to the computer was a small CD player. Next to the keyboard was a smartphone with a pair of headphones plugged into it. Next to the desk was a mini-refrigerator.

I turned a circle, taking in the only other piece of furniture. A dresser. Four posters clung to the walls behind his bed, which faced the bank of windows looking over the city. All comic book posters. The Hulk. Captain America. Spiderman. Batman. “You like comics?”

“I collect them.”

“Cool. I used to read
Superman.
”

He pointed to a door, next to his closet. “Bathroom in there, if you need to go.”

“Thanks,” I said, studying his room. The posters were hung perfectly level, spaced evenly apart. His comics were in a neat pile on a shelf. His bed was made. Not a crease on it. The smartphone was placed in line with the keyboard, and the keyboard was centered perfectly in front of the computer. The headphones were rolled into a perfect circle. Not a wire or connection to be seen under the desk—unlike mine, which was a jungle of black vines.

Preston walked to the door. “I'll be back with an extra chair. There's stuff in the fridge if you want.” Then he was gone.

I felt like I was in a normal earth room, but in a different dimension of almost neurotic,
Leave It to Beaver
organization. I could imagine June Cleaver flitting around the room with a duster in her hand. Everything was so neat, I felt like I shouldn't touch anything. I opened the fridge. Water, Mountain Dew, grape soda, Pepsi, and Sprite. All lined up perfectly. Then I noticed. Grape first. Mountain Dew second. Then Pepsi, Sprite, and water. All alphabetically organized.

I took a Mountain Dew, then walked to the bathroom door, opening it. I laughed. It wasn't a bathroom, it was a bathroom's bathroom. A walk-in shower with three heads. Next to that a jetted tub. Two sinks. The only normal thing was the toilet.

Feeling sneaky, I looked back into the room, then crept to the medicine cabinet, opening it. Yep. Everything perfectly placed, but this time in order of use.

“Did you need something out of there?”

I jumped, turning. “Sorry. I had to.”

He looked at me. “Had to what?”

“Your room. It's, like, perfect. Everything. I had to see the bathroom.”

“I like things orderly.”

“Yeah. I feel like I shouldn't be here.”

He shrugged. “You probably shouldn't be looking through my personal items, but no. I invited you here. Why don't we start?”

He sat at the desk, and I joined him while he booted up his computer. I took a swig of soda. “You mind if I ask a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“You have the coolest place I've ever seen, but then we get to your room. It looks like mine, but just neat. Why? Does your mom not buy you good stuff?”

He fiddled with the mouse. “I like my old things.”

“You weren't always rich?”

“No.”

“How'd you get all the money?”

“My dad had a life insurance policy. Actually, he had four. My mom didn't know about them. They equaled over two and a half million dollars.”

“Wow.”

He stared at the screen. “So, what are you studying in math?”

“How'd you really get the black eye?”

He logged on to the Internet. “I had a confrontation last night.”

“What happened?”

“I was punched in the eye. How did the game go?”

“I wasn't there.”

The corner of his lip turned up in what could have been a smile. “I know. I was being facetious.”

I didn't bother with not knowing what “facetious” meant, because he was the only person I knew who would know what it meant. “This whole thing sucks, you know?”

“Yeah. Life sucks for everybody sometimes. What are you studying, Brett?”

“Algebra.”

“Okay. Then let's start.”