Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton

 

 

Twenty-Seven

 

Becket

 

Two weeks since the fallout. Two weeks since I saw her face. Two weeks since I lost myself when I left Britney in New York.

I did this. Everything is my fault. I don’t know what I expected to happen when this whole charade began. Belle doesn’t fall for The Beast. She wanted the prince without the flaws. The fairytales lie—there’s no such thing as a happily ever after.

“You good?” asks Brad, setting down a tray of food on the table in front of me.

I might have hated leaving Britney behind but I’m glad to be back in Jacksonville, even if we’re stuck in a food court with people gawping all around us. Jacko’s has the best burgers around and if anything is going to bring me out of my funk, it’s the juicy beef patty making my mouth water.

I don’t answer Brad’s question. I don’t have it in me. He knows something went down in New York, he doesn’t know what exactly, but he knows it was bad enough for me to close off.

“Hungry?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, watching as I shovel mounds of food into my mouth.

“Starving.” I’m midway through taking another bite when I see it. The figure in the black, hooded jacket walking through the food court. I almost choke as I try to swallow. My pulse accelerates and I start to panic.

“Becket what the hell?” shouts Brad as I stand up from the table.

I chase after the figure. I need to know if it’s them or not. I reach out my arm, ready to grab their shoulder, but I never make it.

“Let go,” I grunt, as Brad tugs me back.

“What are you doing, man?” he stares at me like I’ve completely lost the plot.

“I have to see if it’s him.”

“Who are you talking about?” he demands.

Ignoring his question, I step forward. People around us stare and the figure must sense it, because they spin around to see what everyone is looking at. A guy younger than Brad and I throws us a confused look, when he finds he has two of the Jacksonville Jaguars following closely behind.

“Can I help you?” he asks drawing back.

My shoulders slump in defeat. It isn’t him. It’s all in my head. I can’t get him out. It’s happening again.

Brad jumps in, answering for me, “Sorry dude, we thought you were one of our other teammates.”

The guy shakes his head bewildered and walks away.

Brad mutters under his breath, “Guess he’s not a fan of football.”

“Can we go?” I ask, my appetite gone. I need to get away from here.

Brad raises an eyebrow. “What happened in New York?”

“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” I reply coldly, looking off into the distance.

“Wrong. I’m your best friend and I have every right to be concerned.”

“It was something to do with, Brit, that’s all you need to know.”

“I told you, man. I knew something like this would happen.”

He’s wrong, he doesn’t know anything.

“Come on, you have to talk to someone about what happened.”

He’s wrong again. I don’t have to talk to anyone. Eleven-year-old me knew better. I don’t need friends. I don’t need anyone. Only now do I understand the reason why. If I allow people to get close, they will unknowingly become pawns in his game. Like in football, all it takes is one wrong move for everything to come undone, for the game to be lost. I walk away from Brad without a word. He’s just another person whose life will be ruined by being a part of mine. The only way to survive is to put the mask back on and push everyone out of my life. For good this time.

 

***

 

It’s time to play a game.

Gasping for air, my eyes fly open, only to find Coach Langford staring down at me.

“What’s this?” I ask, when he throws a scrap of paper on my chest, while I remain sprawled out along the couch.

He takes a few steps back and looks around the room, taking in the empty takeout boxes and clothes haphazardly strewn across the floor and furniture. He frowns when his eyes settle on the bin, overflowing with empty bottles of scotch.

“The number of someone who can help,” he replies, his voice rough.

I struggle to sit up, my head pounding from another late night spent with my old best friend: loneliness. “I don’t need help.”

“Do you remember what I said to you the day you were scouted by Jacksonville University?”

“No,” I lie, leaning toward the coffee table and grabbing a cigarette. My whole body relaxes when I take the first drag, nicotine flooding my body, providing the quick fix I need.

His brows draw together as he stares down at me. “I told you I’d never been wrong about a player before … but I was wrong about you.”

“If all you’re going to do is stand there and tell me how I’m fucking up my life, you can leave. You’ll just be telling me what I already know.”

Coach Langford grabs the cigarette from my hand and closes it in his fist. My mouth drops open and I’m about to ask him what he’s playing at when he starts to speak again, “I was wrong about you because I thought you had talent we could use.”

“Great,” I say bitterly, “now you’re telling me I have no talent. Wonderful. I thought all I ever had was football, I thought if I ever lost it, I’d have nothing. Now I know I never had anything to begin with. Thanks for that.” I sag back into the couch and look up to the ceiling, waiting for him to give up on me and leave.

“Son, I was wrong because you don’t have talent, you have a gift.”

For a second my heart swells with pride. I can’t look at him though, because the walls I’ve rebuilt are fragile and could fall at any second. There are only so many times I can break until I won’t be able to get back up.

“I won’t push to know what happened in New York, not yet, but you need to give that number a call.”

“What if I don’t?” I ask defiantly.

He sighs. “Then you’re off the team.”

I laugh with wide eyes and I pull at my hair. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me I have a gift but you’re going to destroy my future?”

“No, son. I’m trying to save your future.”

 

***

 

I stare blankly at the woman in front of me in the same way I do each week, feeling absolutely nothing.

“The image in your head, scale it from one to ten.”

“Ten.”

She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. Her brows draw together and her jaw clenches in frustration. It’s subtle, but it’s there. She thinks I’m a lost cause, just like everyone else. It’s been four weeks and we should be making progress. We’ve made none at all. I’m done, even football isn’t worth this, gifted or not.

I stand abruptly from my chair and she asks, “Where are you going?”

“To process this my way,” I reply, then walk out, without another word.

 

***

 

The only thing that fills the empty room is the sound of my hands pounding against a punching bag. Each time exhaustion starts to creep in, the image of the black, hooded figure flashes through my mind and I pound the bag harder. The skin on my knuckles tore hours ago and my fists gleam red. I have to get him out of my head.

“You can’t catch a ball without your hands, Becket …”

I stop before my hand makes contact with the bag again. When I circle around on the spot, I find Coach Langford staring at me.

“How did you find me here?” I ask.

His laugh fills the room. The sound bounces off the exposed bricks that know me better than anyone. These walls have guarded my secrets for years.

“Do you think I’m an idiot? The bruises, you disappearing from time to time. I’ve known all along.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because at the time, it’s what you needed.”

“And now?”

His eyes move around the room, searching for answers. “Tell me what happened in New York.”

I let out a huff of air and admitting defeat, give him the answer he’s been waiting weeks for, “He’s back. He got out. He took Britney. Tortured her to get to me.”

“Damn it,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face.

What I least expect happens next. Coach Langford pulls his shirt over his head, then walks over to the side of the room and grabs a pair of wraps.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you to process your way. Then you will process my way.” He steps onto the mat, bouncing his weight between his feet. “I’m him. Hit me.”

What the hell does he think he’s doing? “No.”

“Hit me, Becket.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Fine.” He walks over to the bag he brought with him and pulls out a black, hooded jacket. Slips it on, zips it up, then pulls up the hood. He spins back around and before I have a chance to register what’s happening, he starts to run towards me.

Like in the mall and all the other times, all I see is the black, hooded jacket. I react and charge, tackling him like I would a player on the field. The only difference? I want to destroy him, the figure that tainted my past, destroyed my future. The figure that ruined my life.

We push each other, shoulder to shoulder, then push away and charge again. We hit each other with equal force. We’re an equilibrium of strength and at some point, the scale will tip, only one person can win. Coach whips his leg round, colliding with my shins, sending me flying back against the ground. He climbs over and holds me firmly in place with my shoulders. Images of Britney and my mom, his hands around their necks, flash through my mind. My fist flies up and cracks Coach across the jaw. He falls back and I dive forward, taking him down, pinning him against the mats.

“Don’t let him win,” he grunts.

Fighting the darkness, suddenly I can see clearly again. I see Coach, not the figure in the hooded, black jacket. I quickly roll off him and place my head between my knees, gasping for air. When everything settles, we both stand back up, facing each other.

“Tell me what you saw just then.”

“Him.”

Sadly, he replies, “But it’s me. The only thing we have in common is a black jacket. You can’t keep letting this haunt you, you have to fight it. Brad told me what happened at the mall. Please, see what I’m trying to show you. You have PTSD and left untreated it could become so much worse.”

Every part of me aches and exhaustion takes over. “This is where I process. Not in some shrink’s office.”

“No, son. This is where you hide. What you do here isn’t helping, it has to stop. They need you, all of them. Feel the pain of what they’ve been through and use it to bring you out of that dark hole you’ve gone down. Because soon, you’ll find yourself so deep, you won’t be able to crawl back out.”

My shoulders slump in defeat and I admit, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know how to move on.”

Coach walks forward, grabs the back of my neck, and pulls my head forwards. I close my eyes and we stand, foreheads pressed together. It’s the closest thing I’ve had to the comfort and support of a parent in years. When I open my eyes, his are there, the way they always have been, testing me, pushing me, showing me what I’m really made of.

He steps back and says, “Not all death is physical. Don’t be held hostage to your past.”

A whimper leaves my throat, and just like that, I break in front of the one person I never thought I could be vulnerable with, but maybe should have.

When the pain subsides and I feel like I can breathe again, I swallow and say, “Help me. Tell me what I need to do.”

“Fight, Becket. Fight like hell. Don’t let him win.”