Keeping Score by Cathryn Fox
Rocco
It’s Monday afternoon, and I’m on the football field for practice. I scan the bleachers and find Reagan sitting there with her roommate, both with their laptops open, but they’re not working. They seem to be in deep conversation, and from the looks of it, a very intense one. I wish I could hear them, but I’m too far away. Yesterday, and again this morning over breakfast, I sensed that Miranda wasn’t a fan of Dick, but I could be wrong.
As if feeling my eyes on them, they both turn my way and we stare for a long time, until Levi hits me in the gut to get me moving as the team takes position for our mini-scrimmage. I walk across the field, and take up position opposite Levi, our offensive lineman, and he gestures to the stands.
“What are you doing with Cochrane’s girl?” Everyone on campus knows Dick. His grandfather funded the new wing many years ago. Cochrane is the kind of rich you don’t fuck with. Then why am I fucking with him?
“Hanging out,” I say and give a casual shrug. I like Levi, he’s a good guy, but the less people know about the illegal games at Wolf House, the better.
“He doesn’t look happy about it.”
“What are you talking about?”
I turn my head just as the coach blows the whistle, and Levi pushes past me, taking me to the ground. Coach Myers blows the whistle again, and I jump up and pull myself together. I should have been ready for that, instead of letting Cochrane distract me.
“Get your head in the game, Rocco.”
“You got it, Coach,” I say, and tamp down the rage welling up inside me as Cochrane stands in the bleachers, hovering over Reagan. We all line up again, and this time I channel that rage into my play and take Levi to the ground. I smack his helmet and grin at him as the play continues on around me, then I jump up and rush down the field as our running back cuts toward an opening in the defense. He’s chased down and gets tackled by Joshua and Coach blows his whistle. I lift my head and find Cochrane glaring at me, and I glare back. He stands there for a second, then stomps off.
Coach calls us all over as Reagan and Miranda get up and leave. I jump around, shake my hands and work to block everything from my mind and get my head into the scrimmage. We have a big game coming up, and we need the win.
“What’s going on with you?” I turn to Alistair, my closest friend and roommate as he stretches out his legs. “You didn’t come home last night.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I snicker, and he smacks my helmet and laughs.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” He looks me over. “You actually look like you want to murder someone.”
My gaze strays to the stands, where Cochrane was only moments ago. “I’m good.”
Alistair follows my gaze, but it comes up empty. “You sure about that?”
“I’ll explain it later, okay?”
“Sure.” He grabs my helmet and gives it a little shove into my midsection. “Head down, buddy. Nothing or no one is worth blowing your scholarship over and fucking up your career.”
“You’re right.” He is right, and as I put my helmet back on, I realize it’s not the first time I’ve asked myself what kind of stupid game I’m playing with Reagan. I honestly don’t know the answer. If that’s a lie and if I do know the answer, maybe I just don’t want to examine it.
We spend the next couple hours doing drills and I’m exhausted, and hungry by the time I finish. After we shower, I walk back toward our off-campus place with Alistair. I lift my face to the late day sun as my stomach grumbles.
“Talk,” Alistair says, and I grin at him.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
As we stroll home, I fill him in on everything. As I talk, the line in his forehead gets deeper and deeper, and I can’t help but think I’m also getting myself in deeper and deeper. I should have bailed Sunday morning. Hell, I should never have gone to her place Saturday night. But it’s a little too late to turn back now and let Cochrane win this thing—whatever it might be—between us.
“One month.” Alistair rubs his face as he slowly shakes his head. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”
“No other explanation.” I laugh.
“Keep it in your pants, Rocco.”
“I’m not going to fuck her,” I shoot back as my dick twitches, wanting to be the one calling the shots.
“Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.”
“This is just payback. Cochrane had it coming, and don’t forget he’s the one who sold her out, not me.”
“Just be careful. I hate that fucker as much as you do, and I just don’t want to see anything happen to you.”
“Yeah, I know,” I agree, unease eating a path through my gut. “What can he do? He was at the game, he sold his girlfriend out. He opens his fucking mouth, and this is on him.”
“It should work that way, but…”
He lets his words fall off. He doesn’t need to say anything else. I get it. The rich live by different rules than the rest of us. When I get a big NFL contract, I’m not going to be an asshole like the rest of them. Guaran-fucking-teed. I’m going to do good things with my money and fame, mainly help the kids with no one to turn to.
We reached the house and I forage through the fridge, looking for something to eat. I shove some leftover chicken into my mouth, and pack a bag full of fresh clothes. After a quick shower, I stop outside Alistair’s bedroom door, about to knock, when I hear giggling. I grin, leaving him to whichever girl crawled into his bed. It’s not unusual to come home and find our beds occupied, and I have to say I’m glad mine was empty today. Maybe everyone sensed my shit mood during practice and decided to steer clear.
“Later, bud,” I call out and take the stairs two at a time. Outside, I hike my bag up, and the sun is still high in the sky this late October day as I make my way to Reagan’s house closer to campus. I left my bike at her place earlier, parked beside her bright red Volkswagen bug, and jogged to the football field, since it was so close to her place.
As I walk, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end, a familiar sensation when trouble is about to find me. I rub my neck and slowly turn to find a sports car back a bit, driving slow, like it’s following me. I do a quick scan, and I’m pretty sure there are four guys inside.
Not a fair fight, but what in life is fair, right? I consider calling Alistair for backup. He’d be here in a heartbeat, but I think I’ll give it a minute to see how it plays out first. I drop my bag onto the sidewalk and turn to face the car. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and while I can’t see the occupants’ faces, as they all have ballcaps pulled low—Kingston rowing team caps, actually—I’m pretty sure it’s Cochrane and the members of his rowing team. They’re big, strong, but I’m sure to get in a few good punches.
The car slows to a stop, and I take a few deep breaths, waiting… But chicken shits that they are, they press on the gas and speed by. I hold my hand up and give them the middle finger.
“That’s what I thought,” I yell, and pick up my pace. I want to know what Cochrane said to Reagan today. Worry worms its way through my veins. Maybe I never should have put her in that position. What if Cochrane got angry with her, or threatened her somehow? Shit. I jog all the way to Reagan’s house, and hurry up the stairs. The door is unlocked, which surprises me. Maybe they were waiting for me to return. They haven’t given me a key yet. Inside, the house is quiet, the lights low as evening settles in, and I set my bag down, and head to the kitchen, my nose following all the delicious smells.
The second I enter and glance at the kitchen table, my heart squeezes tight, a kind of warmth I’ve never before experienced, flooding my bloodstream. I swallow, and pick up the note. I don’t really know what Reagan’s handwriting looks like, but this can only be from her.
Dinner is in the fridge.
Isn’t it crazy how five simple words can mean so much? Fuck, I have no idea why they hit me harder than my father’s fists, sending me backward a little with the force. This hit hurts, but in a different way. In a way I’m not equipped to deal with. I set the paper down, and the house is so quiet, I find myself tiptoeing to the fridge. Where are Reagan and Miranda? The more important question is, why did they make me dinner? A guy could get used to this. I sure as shit shouldn’t.
Inside the fridge, I find a white bowl with ravioli, and not the kind you need a can opener to eat. I take the plastic off the bowl and breathe in the delicious smells. A quick two minutes in the microwave, and I’m headed up the stairs to eat in my room. I walk slowly past Reagan’s room, and her door is slightly ajar. Yeah, her room is off limits, but I’d like to thank her.
“Reagan,” I say quietly, and nudge the door just a bit with my foot, just enough to give me a peek into her private space. What the fuck? All around her room she has artwork, paintings of flowers, scenery, and a few of people. I call out to her again, and a movement on her bed draws my attention. My God, is she under some makeshift blanket tent? Like I used to make in one of my foster homes? Her blankets lift, and I take in the flush of her face as her eyes meet mine.
“Hey.” I lift the bowl. “Thanks.”
She smiles but then it falls from her face, and her eyes pinch tight. “What are you doing in my room?”
“Technically, I’m in the hall.”
“You can’t be in here.” She pushes from the bed and dressed in comfy pajama shorts and a T-shirt, she comes toward me, no doubt about to slam the door in my face. Honest to God, the girl is all contradictions. Nice to me one minute by making me dinner, the next looking at me with murder in her eyes.
“Did you paint all these?” I poke a ravioli and shove it into my mouth, and she hesitates. She goes still, and it’s easy to tell she’s debating her next words. “You’re very talented. You could sell those.”
Something comes over her pretty face. Gratitude? Pleasure? Pain? I’m not sure, but at least she isn’t introducing her foot to my balls and sending me packing for being out of bounds. She backs up a bit and stands before one of her paintings.
“What do you like about them?” she asks, so quietly I can barely hear her.
I take a small, tentative step inside, and count to ten, giving her time to shove me back out. When she doesn’t, I set my bag on the floor and my dinner on her dresser. I step up behind her, and don’t miss the shift in her breathing, the tightening of her shoulders. Is she still afraid of me, or is this reaction something altogether different?
Don’t go there, dude.
I take in the picture of the forest, and the clearing where there’s this lone cabin. It’s not a perfect cabin, and it doesn’t have perfect flowers in the window boxes, but everything about the scene she’s depicting is perfect. “This one feels like sanctuary,” I murmur quietly
She spins so fast, her eyes so big, I step backward at her strong reaction. She reaches out and puts her small hands on my arms. “Sorry,” she says.
“Was it something I said?” I ask, in no hurry to move. I like her hands on my body. Probably too much.
She frowns. “Would you mind…” Her voice trails off and her brow pinches as she continues with, “…telling me why it feels like sanctuary to you?”
I pause and take a breath. I’m not so sure I want to dredge up the past, take a painful walk down memory lane, but the pleading in her voice has me opening up. “I grew up in Chicago, pavement everywhere. You couldn’t really get away from it. I was out one day, found myself on the other side of the tracks, you know.” I pause and she nods as her arm falls, and I immediately miss her touch. “It was getting dark, and I probably should have been home.” I give a humorless snort. “Not that anyone would have known, but I knew better than to be out on the streets after dark. I was cutting through paths, and saw this big treehouse in someone’s backyard.” I spread my arms. “It was huge, like a fucking house.”
She laughs at that. “Exaggerate much.”
“Let’s just say it was big, and I was little.” She smirks and I angle my head. “What?”
“I don’t know. Just picturing you little. I bet you were cute.”
“What do you mean were? I still am,” I joke and straighten a bit, trying to pull a smile from her.
“Go on.” She waves her hand to give me the floor again and I glance at her painting.
“Safety wasn’t something I felt often, but I climbed into that treehouse, in some stranger’s backyard, and found comic books and games and blankets and pillows. I loved it. I stayed there all night. Small places, right? They have this weird sense of safety and security.” I glance at the blanket she’d been under. “Come morning, I got up bright and early and hightailed it home.”
She touches my arm. “Were you in trouble when you got there?”
I shrug. “Nah, no one even knew I was gone.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry, Rocco.”
“It’s okay. I’m not looking for pity—”
“I know you’re not, but I am sorry, and I love that you found comfort in that treehouse.”
“I went there a lot. When I found out social services were coming for me, I took off. I spent days in that treehouse.” I snicker. “I really gave them a run for their money.”
“Did they eventually find you?”
I rub my stomach. “No, I eventually ran out of food.”
She grins, and picks my bowl up and hands it to me. I assume she’s about to end our conversation and kick me out, but she says, “Eat,” and turns back to her painting. “I like that this painting brings out strong emotions in you.” She puts her hand over her heart. “That it gives you comfort.”
I fork a ravioli into my mouth as she picks the painting up. “Let’s hang this in your room for while you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, and gestures to the door. “Lead the way.”
I scoop up my bag, and eat as we walk down the hall, and she follows me into my room and sets the picture down. I glance at my bed, and turn to her.
“Hey, I thought you said you didn’t want to touch my junk.”