Reed
I’ve chatted with Chaplain Cruz a few times, but always in passing—his way in, my way out, or the opposite. He’s always here for someone else. He’s the guy they send in to deal with the death of a loved one. I was gone so long when my mom passed away, by the time I got back, I didn’t really need his services.
I kinda don’t think I need them now.
“Hey, Reed. Nice to see you throwing the ball. Looking good, man!” He holds out his hand across a small wooden table covered in health magazines. I take his palm and shake before we both sink in to the deep leather chairs that face one another.
“Thanks. Body hurts a little more than it used to, but somehow the guys are catching my crap,” I say with a laugh. He joins me, but shakes his head.
“I’m pretty sure that arm of yours is a long way from crap.” His smile settles in as his hands fold over his chest, his belly covered with the OKC sweatshirt that most of the staff wears. He has a championship ring on his hand; I nod to it.
“You must have been the man behind the man for that one, huh?” I flit my eyes up to his then back down to the ring. He splays his fingers out between us then pulls the heavy metal jewelry from his ring finger and tosses it to me. I catch it like an egg.
“That was with New York. Only one I got, but man did those guys keep me busy. Something about New Yorkers, I guess,” he says, chuckling while I spin the ring between my fingers. I’ve held them before—envied them plenty. I nod and pass it back to him, jealous of one more man now.
“Pretty nice,” I say.
“The wife hates it,” he spits out, a guttural laugh echoing down the empty hallway of the stadium corridor.
My brow wrinkles. How could anyone hate a championship ring?
“I mean, it’s ugly as sin. You have to admit that,” he says, dropping it back over his knuckle. “And it’s bigger than hers, which let me tell you, she brings up every anniversary, birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day…”
“Ah, yeah. I get it,” I say, smiling and instantly appreciating my wife’s preference for T-shirts over jewelry.
It gets quiet when our laughter dies down, and we both take turns sighing, readjusting our crossed legs and positions in the chairs. I’m not sure how this works. I’m not even entirely sure why Coach thought I needed to be here. Eventually, I just bring my gaze up to the Chaplain’s waiting eyes and shrug with a tight-lipped smile.
He nods with a smirk.
“Football players aren’t so great at talking about feelings,” he says.
I nod and roll my eyes in agreement.
“To be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m here. I mean, I’m fine…” I glance to my side, thinking about the progress I made with Nolan, the way we talked and the honesty I shared with her. I’m lightyears ahead of my normal.
“Why don’t we just talk about how things are going?” His voice is easy, and I admire his way. I’m also a little suspicious because people don’t just talk to Chaplain Cruz.
“A’right,” I say, tilting my head slightly and eyeing him.
“You have a daughter, yeah? What’s her name?”
“Peyton,” I answer.
He lifts his chin and smiles.
“That’s right. I met her and your wife a couple years ago.”
“All-Star Game, and it was four years.” Four long years since I was worthy of throwing a ball with the best. That’s going to change.
“How are they both?”
His question feels natural, so I relax a little more.
“They’re good. I mean, Peyton’s a teenager, and she is a lot like I was. She thinks she’s good and meanwhile…”
“Your wife’s going crazy,” he fills in for me with a knowing laugh.
“Something like that, yeah,” I say.
“Four daughters. My wife is the only reason they’re all good adults today with jobs and lives of their own.”
I must show my shock on my face.
“What…chaplains can’t procreate?” His lips twist in a challenging expression. I hold up two open palms.
“I stand corrected,” I say.
He leans forward enough to take out his wallet, flipping it open and pulling out a stack of five or six faded and bent photographs—the kind people don’t keep in their wallets anymore. I take them from him and flip through each one, every girl in the photo about college-aged and near matches to their father. The last two photos are of babies, so I hold them up and quirk a brow.
“Grandkids. Those are Jacqueline’s. She’s this one,” he leans forward and taps his finger on the first photo I saw. “She’s our oldest, and she was a handful. Probably a lot like your Peyton is.”
I smile and look back at the photos, politely sliding through them again before handing them back.
“That’s a pretty family, man,” I say, taking my phone out and opening my photo app to show him my favorite photo of Peyton. She’s flying through the air doing the splits.
“Well ain’t that something. She’s good, huh?” He hands my phone back to me.
“She competes at it. I swear cheer is more competitive than football.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Jacqueline did it all the way through college…” He pauses a little in the middle of our connection, and his eyes dip just a hair before coming up to mine again. His head tilts, and a softness takes over his face.
“You see Trig’s girls much?”
And there it is. Why I’m here.
I blink, breathing in through my nose slowly, every relaxed muscle in my body flexing at once.
“Not a lot, no. I mean…at the service, but…” My mouth starts to water, so I look to the side and stretch my jaw.
I rub my palm along my cheek then over my eyes.
“Look, I know that Coach is worried or whatever, but I’m okay. I really am.”
“Good,” he answers quickly, standing and brushing his hands together. “That was easy then, wasn’t it?”
I give him a wry look and drag my feet in, waiting for the trick to be revealed before I stand.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, meeting his eyes. He’s offering me nothing but a smile, and then he reaches out his hand. I take it tentatively as I rise.
“I’m glad your ladies are doing well. I hear Nolan’s in town. If I can, I’ll stop by the seats and say hi,” he says.
I nod.
“She’d like that.”
He reaches forward and pats a heavy hand on my shoulder and looks down to my chest.
“Good,” he says, patting one more time and stepping around the small table. He gets to the door before something kicks in my stomach.
“That’s it?”
He holds a hand up on the door jam and turns.
“That’s it. I’m just here to talk, and if you’re done talking, then I’ll get on and talk to the next guy. Kinda my job, which is strange…talking for a job?”
I chew at my cheek in thought.
“Yeah…strange.”
He seems so satisfied, yet everything inside me is growing tighter, as if a vice is screwing my guts and diaphragm and stomach into a braid.
“I mean…” I catch him before he turns the corner. “I miss him…”
He lifts a brow, so I give into the hook.
“Trig. I miss him,” I say, as he takes a few more steps closer to me. I’m not sharing anything I haven’t shared with everyone. Hell, I shared this with Coach last night.
“We all do,” he says, dumping his hands into his jacket pockets and shifting his feet. I’m glad he isn’t settling back in. I don’t need to sit. We don’t need to sit.
“I guess I just wish maybe I could’ve had one more season with him, ya know? It would have been cool to go out together—I mean, I bet Coach wishes I had his hands to hit in the zone, right?” I laugh, but the chaplain only smiles. It puts me on edge, letting in a strange feeling that sort of bubbles up my chest and suddenly makes it hard to talk.
“I don’t know why he quit…he still had it, you know?” My voice grows hoarse, and the sound of myself surprises me. I clear my throat, feeling the strangling sensation of wanting to cry. I tuck my tongue in my far-back molars and bite down, trying to stave off the lip quivering while I shift my feet.
“I just feel like if maybe he was still playing…”
My body jerks with an uncontrollable sob, and I fold my arms around my body. Shit. I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this…
“Maybe he would have blown out both knees, and then he never would have walked right again…or been able to travel like he did there at the end, or drive a car.” Chaplain fills in the fantasy for me with his own logic, and I shake my head because no—no.
“He wasn’t ready. This game left him behind, and we all just…we forgot him,” I say, giving over as Chaplain Cruz puts his hand on my wrist and swings his other arm over my shoulder. He’s my height, but outweighs me by maybe sixty pounds, which makes it easy to fall into his comfort. I tuck my head into his shoulder and shake, feeling vulnerable and embarrassed to cry.
“Fuck, man…I mean…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say that in front of you,” I blubber. I laugh nervously, but cry harder.
“I’ve heard worse, trust me. Just say it—let it out.”
Both of his hands squeeze at my shoulders and he stands facing me, trying to force my gaze up, but I can’t. I stare at my feet, my shoes tapping forward one foot at a time while I rock.
“This game didn’t forget him, Reed. And nobody knows what pushed him so far into sadness, so far into his habits. He had demons, and he made decisions—his decisions Reed.”
I nod, but my head still screams no.
“Just like you and Trig are not the same people. You make different choices, walk on different paths. You get to choose, Reed. Only you…Trig didn’t choose for you. He chose for him, and that’s it.”
I look up at that, our eyes connecting, and mine rejecting him suddenly. I shake my head.
“I know that,” I protest, and one of his hands slides from my shoulder, but the other keeps a firm grip.
“You sure?” His eyes probe at me, and my jaw works while I consider it for real. My eyes move from focusing on his left to his right, and several seconds pass while we stay in this standoff.
“I’m sure,” I say, finally. We both know I’m lying, but we both also know that for now…that’s as good as my answer is going to get.