I pick up the remote and try to fast forward it, but it’s at the end of the game. I rewind it only to have to watch the end again, and the outcome remains the same. It’s a loss. Their perfect season is done. If Knox hadn’t hated me before, he does now. Same with Jack. It’s one thing to forgive when the one thing in your life you really cared about goes well.
When Jack got his D1 scholarship, Dad was elated. He treated everyone with his certain brand of kindness, which ranged from effusive praise for Jack to offhanded compliments to Mom and me all spring and then into the summer. The demon came out when Jack struggled. The year before junior college was a nightmare.
“Is it bad?” Riley’s on the edge of the sofa, a foot curled under her. She’s folded over a pillow that she’s alternatingly bitten and squeezed.
“Yeah, it’s bad.” I reach up and feel sweat across my forehead. It’s part from shame and part from agony.
The team started off terrible. Fumbles, turnovers, missed opportunities. Knox had allowed a weaker, slower offensive line to manhandle his defense for two quarters. Their days at the top of the polls are over. The question is how far they’ll fall.
I blow out a shaky breath.
With this loss? Any chance I had at getting back together with him after the season ends is done. Nail in the coffin, the vampire’s exposed to sun, done.
I force myself to watch ESPN where the commentators talk about the Warriors laying a big fat egg on the field.
“Masters played himself out of the Heisman with that game,” one smug bastard says to another on the set.
“They don’t give them to defensive players in the first place, and secondly, if they gave it to him, it would have been the result of an exceptional season. This game showed him and the Warriors as average.”
“God, did you fuckers even watch the fourth quarter?” I yell at the television. “A sack, five hurries, three tackles, and a safety, and that’s average?”
Riley peeks her head out of her bedroom. “I have Xanax. Do you want me to slip one into your Coke?”
I throw a pillow at her, and it nearly knocks a picture off the wall.
“Seriously, these assholes say Knox played an ordinary game. Did that look ordinary to you?” I gesture toward the television.
“Um, no?”
“Exactly.” I flip the picture off. “Fuck.”
“Why’s this so bad?” she asks from the safety of her doorway. She’s afraid of me. She probably should be. I’m a destroyer of things. “It’s one loss. I understand they’d be upset that they aren’t perfect, but is it that bad?”
“In college football, yes, one loss can devastate you. Only four teams get to play in the BCS title game. It’s a four team playoff for the national title. They call it the BCS National Championship or Bowl Championship Series,” I explain at her puzzled look. “With Auburn and Oregon having perfect records, a bunch of one loss teams will have to battle it out for those last two slots.”
“But there are four more games,” she points out.
“Right, four more times they can lose. Then the conference championship. Plus, it’s a late in the season loss. The team they lost to was ranked, but lower than them. It could mean that they dropped out of contention for the national title.” I throw myself onto the sofa. “It will depend on the polls Tuesday. If they fall too far…” I can’t even bring myself to contemplate what that will mean.
“Tuesday, when?”
“8:15 p.m. EST. They are announced on ESPN.”
“Okay, I’ll prepare the Xanax cocktail for 8:16 p.m. then.”
“Thanks,” I say sourly. I stomp to my bedroom and crawl under the covers, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up with a redo of this day. Of this whole week.
Jack calls me a couple hours later. His voice sounds so heavy and sad that it’s hard for me to keep from breaking down.
“How are you doing?”
“Shitty,” he admits. “I hate that I wasn’t out there.” He’d gotten his results back on Friday, but his professors didn’t get notified soon enough, so he’s out at least another week. His weary inhale goes so long and loud, I can feel the wind sucking through the phone. “The team is demoralized. Half of them have gone out to drink themselves into a stupor and the other half is trying to castrate themselves in their rooms.”
I don’t need to guess which half Knox falls in. The loss no doubt kills him. He probably thinks it’s all his fault and is mentally going over every play, examining where he could have played better and how he let his team down.
“I’m sorry.”
“Coach reamed us a new one. We’re not going to be able to sit down for a few days. Said he saw pee wee football squads execute better than us.” Jack cracks his neck to relieve tension. The awful sound makes me wince. “We have to win next week and hope everyone ahead of us slaughter each other.”
“Is…Knox doing okay?”
“Haven’t seen him. After the game he disappeared. I don’t know where he is.” I try to keep it in, but a small moan of pain escapes me. Jack tries to reassure me. “It’s not your fault. Masters needs to learn to compartmentalize better, but everyone's emotions are riding high.”
“Which means they blame me, or will once they find out.”
He hesitates. “No.”