Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Fourteen
Becket
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I’m about to jump out of bed, get straight in the shower and start the day, but everything feels foggy. That’s when the pain kicks in. It begins as a dull ache in my leg, which then starts to throb, before stab after stab hits. I want to rip my leg off. Don’t even get me started on my head. I feel like I’ve been in a wreck. I try to groan but I’m unable to do anything, stuck in a world of blackness. Somewhere in the distance I hear muffled voices, and I put all my effort into listening. There’s a male and a female. It sounds like Britney, but the last thing I remember is her leaving the game. Another stab of pain hits and I groan.
“Did he just groan?” It’s definitely Britney’s voice.
“I didn’t hear anything.” Brad. What the hell are they doing together?
Another stab of pain. Fuck my life. What is going on? I groan again, this time louder.
“That was definitely a groan,” says Britney.
“Yeah, I heard it that time,” agrees Brad.
“Do you think he might be waking up?”
A hand rests on my left leg and the searing pain that follows threatens to consume me. I cry out in agony and this time it isn’t in my head. The pain brings me from wherever I’ve been lost, and my eyes fly open. My eyeballs are like sandpaper and I feel like I’m being blinded by light. Jesus. When was the last time I opened my eyes?
“You idiot! That’s the injured leg!” Britney shouts at Brad.
“Shit! I’m so sorry man.” Brad stands in front of me, holding up his hands, his face distraught.
I lie blinking while my eyes adjust to the light, until I’m able to take in the room. The room I have no recollection of coming to.
My voice comes out hoarse when I ask, “Where am I?”
Britney and Brad look at each other and even in my delirious state I can see the concern written all over their faces.
“Guys seriously, where am I? Why am I in so much pain?”
It’s Britney who clears her throat ready to explain, her eyes full of sympathy. “You’re in the hospital.”
“Why?” I make the error of looking down at my left leg, which is bandaged and elevated on the bed. It looks swollen and I begin to feel nauseous. “What’s wrong with my leg?” I’m terrified of the answer. My body is everything to my career. Nothing can be wrong. An injury could ruin my future.
Brad takes his turn to explain, “There was an accident on the field. You were tripped and then taken down by three players at once. You suffered a head injury which is why you’re so confused.”
“I don’t give a fuck about my head,” I snap, then repeat, “What’s wrong with my leg?”
“Your leg’s not in a good way. I’m sorry, man.” There are tears in his eyes. This is bad, really bad. “You tore part of your quad and the rest of your leg is pretty bashed up.”
I struggle to swallow. Britney catches my wince and rushes over with a glass of cold water and a straw. I take my time drinking, avoiding the question I’m too scared to ask.
“What does that mean for football?”
Football players aren’t the idiots people think. We know we’re not invincible. Our bodies keep us in the job, but they’re also put at risk every second we’re on the field. One wrong move is all it takes, and it looks like I’ve made mine. This sort of injury is rare, painful, and the chances of a full recovery are slim. It’s the sort of injury every football player fears.
“They said it depends on your recovery, but for now, no football,” Britney answers, with a softness in her voice that I despise. I want the feisty, sassy woman I’ve spent the last few weeks with, not the one trying to protect me because she feels sorry for me.
“N—no football?” I ask, not quite able to believe it. I gave up everything for this. I gave up them for my career. All those years wasted … for nothing. For my career to be over when it was only just starting.
Brad looks heartbroken. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Get out,” I say coldly, my voice so low it’s barely audible.
He looks shocked. “Are you being serious?”
“I said … Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Britney shakes her head, but in the little time she’s known me, she’s learned not to push when I’m not ready. She knows I need this space and grabs Brad by the arm, dragging him out of the room, giving me time to process. But there will never be enough time to process that my football career is quite possibly over.
***
Britney
Jess: When I said “think outside the box” I didn’t mean sideline him.
Me: How did you come to the conclusion this was my fault?
Jess: Intuition.
Me: Well, it wasn’t.
At least I don’t think it was. I wouldn’t know, I was too busy being scared to death by a figure in black.
Jess: Looks like you’ll be getting your wish after all.
Me: What do you mean?
Jess: Well, with Becket injured there isn’t much point in you being there. What can you shadow … him lying in bed? You might as well book a flight back as soon as you can.
I pause, thinking hard before typing out my response. Really, there’s nothing to think about, it’s the right thing to do.
Me: I want to stay.
Jess: Say what now?
Me: I’ll be staying and finishing the article here. If I can do his article from the office, then I can do my other work from here, like I have been doing. I want to help him.
Jess: You’re falling for him.
Me: I can’t fall.
Jess: And why’s that?
Me: Because he pulled the rug out from under me a long time ago. I’ve already hit the ground.
Jess: Just remember something …
Me: Go on.
Jess: People make mistakes, it’s a part of life, and some people deserve a second chance, sometimes more. Not everyone is like your mother.
***
I knock frantically on Becket’s front door. I’ve already tried the doorbell and got no answer. I’m beginning to panic. There’s something seriously wrong and I’m about ready to call nine-one-one when my phone vibrates in my bag. I hesitate, trying to decide whether to answer or carry on knocking.
I choose to answer quickly, not even checking the caller ID. “Hello?”
Becket’s voice takes me by surprise, “You remember I’m completely immobile right? Doctors’ orders.”
“What’s your point?”
“Well, part of being immobile means I’m unable to answer the door. Could you please stop hammering on it? You’re going to put a hole in the damn thing.”
At least he’s being playful.
He sounds brighter than he did last week at the hospital. That’s how long he’s been there—a week. Coach Langford and Brad brought him home earlier this morning, agreeing not to tell him my plan. They also promised not to mention I had to foot the bill for the hotel, while I waited for him to be discharged. He doesn’t need to know about my financial worries, all that matters is helping him to recover. I owe him this.
“How am I supposed to get in?” I ask, glad he can’t see me blushing after going hell for leather on the huge chunk of wood.
“I’ll give you the code, but you have to promise me one thing.”
I frown. “Go on?”
“You’ll be nice. I’m not in the mood for this little game of cat and mouse we keep playing.”
“I promise, I’ll be nice.”
Satisfied by my response, he gives me the code, and when I enter it, I hear the lock click. I let myself in, wheeling my suitcase in alongside me, then stand gawping at the entryway. His place is huge, like palatial. At least it is by my standards. Everything is light and airy, the expertly placed rugs and lamps, the perfect mix of browns and bronzes. The shading of the images on the walls matches the colors of the interiors perfectly. It screams bachelor pad in the best kind of way. I guess there are worse ways I could spend the coming weeks.
“Becket?” I call out, my voice echoing through the house.
I hear a strained, “Up here,” and follow the direction of his voice, my shoes clicking against the marble floors before I reach the stairs and climb to the second floor.
“Hello?” I call out loudly, hoping he will reply again, as I have no idea where I’m going.
“In here,” his voice is clearer this time and I walk to the only door that is ajar.
When I push it open, I find him in bed, leg elevated in a cast, a new addition following his surgery at the hospital. I smile at him uncertainly. “Hey.”
He looks up and my heart aches. He looks so … broken. It’s at that moment that I know I’m doing the right thing, staying and helping him. Even if he’s resistant to it, he doesn’t have a choice.
“What are you doing here, Brit?” He doesn’t look suspicious, or angry. His voice is flat, devoid of all emotion. He’s empty. The Becket I know, the thorn in my side, is gone. I pray he isn’t so lost I’m unable to get to him and help him find his way back.
“I live here,” I reply, tossing my blonde hair over my shoulder, taking in the rest of his room.
“Erm … no, you don’t.”
“I do now.” I smile and flutter my eyelashes in the over-the-top, incredibly fake way I know he hates. I know him and I know he will hate me feeling sorry for him, the best thing we can do is act normal, well, our version of normal.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well …” I walk over to the bed and sit down beside him, being extra careful not to jostle him and cause any pain. “Jess—my best friend who also happens to be my boss—told me I could return to New York.”
He looks bemused. “That doesn’t explain how you’ve come to the conclusion that you live with me.”
“I couldn’t do it. Leave you,” I answer, honestly. My eyes fall, settling on his hand. I reach over slowly and cover it with my own. “I’m here to help. Whether you like it or not, I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t say anything or come back with a snarky remark like I expect him to. When I eventually look up, he’s staring at me, his green eyes full of intensity.
“Thank you,” he says, so quietly I could almost convince myself I’m hearing things.
As we’re being so open and honest, I decide now is the time to put the past behind us. “I’m sorry for what happened back then. How I set you up.” I exhale, feeling all the tension leave my body now my apology is out in the open.
“I know.”
That wasn’t quite the answer I was expecting. I blink. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve asked myself over and over, how someone could do what you did.”
My heart skips a beat.
“I came up with two answers. The first was that you didn’t do it, the second was that you had no choice. Both answers mean that whatever did happen wasn’t entirely your fault. I’m not saying I forgive you.”
My shoulders sag.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t, at some point, in the future. Whatever this is,” he says gesturing between us, “it isn’t going away. I might not forgive you yet, but I don’t hate you. Not anymore.”
“Who knows,”—I chuckle—“maybe one day you can tell me about the assault case.”
The warm Becket whose company I was enjoying, quickly slips away. “Some things are secret for a reason.”
I sigh, but don’t push the matter, keeping my thoughts to myself. For today, this is enough. It might not be the right time, but that doesn’t change things. How can we pursue whatever this thing is between us, if we can’t tell each other our secrets, the ones nobody knows? For as long as we hold back, we’ll always hit a wall, never able to move forward. If Becket wants me, all of me, he has to remove his mask.
***
Becket
I lay awake in bed for hours until I’m certain Britney has gone to sleep. Trying to keep the rest of my body as still as possible and avoid any unnecessary pain in my leg, I reach awkwardly into the top drawer of my nightstand, pulling out an old cell I rarely use. It contains two of the most important numbers in my life. I hit call on one and listen as it rings a couple of times.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
I smile to myself. “If I’d known you were going to be so happy to hear from me, I would have called sooner.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Has there been any movement?” I ask, we don’t have time for small talk.
“No. You know I would have been in touch if something had happened.”
“Are they safe?”
“I promise. I’m doing what I can to keep an eye on things.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “I appreciate it.”
“What’s going on? You sound shook up.”
I take a deep breath then say, “The figure is back.”
Silence.
“Are you there?” I ask, bringing my cell away from my ear to check that we haven’t been disconnected.
“Impossible. There’ve been no visitors for years. I check regularly. No one has been in contact who could restart all this again.”
I tug a hand through my hair, why is he challenging me on this? “I know what I saw. It was at a fucking game, Evan. Again.”
I hear him swallow down the line. He’s as thrown by what I’m saying, as I was seeing the figure from my nightmares up in the stands, feet away from Britney. I clench my free fist, digging my nails into my palm, trying to get hold of my anger.
“I’ll keep an eye on things and call you if anything changes. Be on guard, don’t trust anyone.”
The line goes dead seconds before the call can become traceable.
***
A shuffling noise at the end of my bed has me bolting upright.
“Ahhh!” I roar, as pain sears up and down my leg, threatening to consume my whole body.
Britney’s head bobs up from the end, her eyes wide with alarm. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Me?” I rub the only part of my leg I can, that isn’t covered by the cast. “What are you doing?”
She shuffles backwards a bit more and I clock what’s in her hands. “Emptying your bedpan.”
No. Fucking. Way. I narrow my eyes. “Put the piss pot down, Brit.”
She stares back at me defiantly. Like I’d expect anything less.
“Or what? You’re going to chase me down? You’re bed-bound, remember?”
I’m transfixed by the way her blue eyes look even more piercing when she’s angry. I shake my head trying to regather my thoughts. There’s no way I’m letting her do this. No. I’d rather crucify my career than have her cleaning up my urine.
“You need help, Becket. What are you going to do for the next few weeks … months even? Lie in a bed full of piss?”
I don’t even blink at her choice of words as she echoes my own. “Happily. This. Is. Not. Your. Job.” I snap, looking away. There’s embarrassing and then there’s this.
She sighs, finally puts the piss pot back, then stands up and perches on the end of my bed. I grit my teeth and fight back a groan when I see she’s wearing loungewear.
“If you’re living here,” I say, “we’re setting some rules. Number one, you don’t empty the piss pot. Number two, you don’t even come in the room when the shit bowl is out. Number three, no loungewear.”
Looking puzzled, she asks, “Why no loungewear?”
“That’s what you got from that?”
“Answer my question,” she replies.
Damn that mouth. I can’t decide if her living here is a good thing or a bad thing. My dick says good, my head says bad. The final verdict … I’m screwed. Deciding there’s no point in beating around the bush—she’s already been handling a pot full of my urine—I answer, “It turns me on.”
“Why is that a bad thing?” she asks, with a hint of a smile on her lips.
If I wasn’t turned on already, the way her eyes skirt down to my crotch, checking to see if I’m telling the truth seals the deal. “Because I can’t do a thing about it,” I grit out. Carefully leaning over to my nightstand, I grab the business card the hospital gave me when I was discharged and pass it over to her.
“What’s this?”
“The number for a nurse. She’ll spend the day. Help with things I need like the bathroom, getting clean, making meals, my meds, the works.”
“I’ll do all those things for you,” she replies, her eyes so wide there’s a chance I might get lost in them.
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m trying to help you … I have to.”
“That’s the problem, Brit,” I reply, miserably. “You’re trying to help because you feel like you have to, not because you want to. I’m not going to let you do this. I’d rather starve and shit the bed.”
She stands and narrows her eyes. Sweet Brit is gone, and her defenses are back up. “I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
I glance at my cast and her eyes follow mine. “That is not dramatic, it’s real. This isn’t a game. We’re not playing house here. The kind of things you’re wanting to help me with are what marriage consists of. ‘In sickness and in health.’ You’re not tied to me, so I won’t let you do this.”
“Even injured you’re still an asshole,” she snaps, then starts to walk out of the room.
“The joke’s on you,” I shout after her, “I never pretended to be otherwise.” My bedroom door slams shut. I hear her shrill voice as she walks down the stairs, organizing things with the nurse like I knew she would, because I asked her to.
Asshole. A word I’ve heard so many times when people talk about me, I’m starting to believe it’s true. I’ve been at this game so long I’m starting to forget I’m wearing a mask and it’s all an act. I’m at risk of forgetting who I really am.
***
Britney
I lie in bed, waiting to hear the same thing I have each night, for the past fourteen nights I’ve lived with Becket. Always around the same time. I look at the clock, glowing on my nightstand through the darkness, and hold my breath.
Like clockwork he cries out, “No! No! Josie what have you done?”
There was a selection of rooms to pick from. I chose the one closest to him, even though I could have gone for a bigger one with an en-suite. I wanted to be close so I could hear him if he needed me. I never expected this.
The first night was the worst because it was unexpected. Nightmare is putting it nicely. The vividness, the fear in his voice—they’re night terrors. He’s reliving something, over and over. Each night I want to go and help make things better, but I don’t know if I would make things worse. Stepping into what he’s experiencing would be crossing a line in our relationship we wouldn’t be able to come back from.
I hear him cry out again. His words are muffled. Maybe it’s instinct? He’s hiding a piece to the puzzle, the next part of the story. His mind is protecting him from revealing the truth. Fourteen nights I’ve listened and fourteen times my heart has broken for him, each night a little bit more. Becket revealed a lot of his secrets the day we met on the plane, but I now know, with absolute certainty, he still has one left to tell.
