The Right Way Read online

  As I was lacing up my cleats, my phone dinged with a text. Picking it up, I gazed at the message.

  Hey honey. Just wanted to let you know that Presley has agreed to move in with us. We’ll need your strong arms to help in a few weeks. Love, Mom.

  “Motherfucker,” I growled. As if I didn’t have enough bullshit going on in my life, my mom had just slung more my way.

  “What’s wrong? Did Kallie somehow stalk you down to get your number?”

  “No. It was my mom.”

  Cade’s brows furrowed. “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s fucking pumped because Presley has agreed to move in with them.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh shit, dude.”

  Cade knew all about Presley. He’d even seen her in person at my younger brother, Jake’s, funeral. My gut churned again at the thought of Jake’s funeral. You weren’t supposed to bury your little brother when he was just eighteen.

  But I had.

  Well, I guess we didn’t exactly bury him. We’d enclosed his ashes in the vault of a mausoleum. I’d wanted to spread them on a football field somewhere or on our grandparents’ property in the mountains. But my parents hadn’t listened to me. They never listened to me. Especially when it came to my reservations about Presley.

  “They’re not giving her your room, are they?”

  Shaking my head, I replied, “She’s moving into Jake’s.”

  “But what about the kid? Won’t it need a nursery or some shit?”

  A growl erupted from deep within me at the mention of the kid. Less than a month after Jake’s death, my family learned he’d allegedly knocked up Presley. While my parents immediately embraced her claims, I wasn’t having it. I knew exactly what kind of girl Presley was. There wasn’t a chance in hell I would believe the baby was Jake’s until she got a DNA test.

  We were interrupted by the call to get on the field to run some drills. Cade and I grabbed our helmets and made our way out of the locker room. As I started out of the dark tunnel and into the light of the field, I felt my spirits raise. There was nothing quite like the high I got from playing football. Not even drinking or sex could remotely match it. It’d been that way almost from the beginning when I’d toddled onto the field to play Pee Wee football. Even though I dabbled in music a little with playing the drums in a band in high school, it still didn’t do the same thing to me that football did.

  We wasted no time getting into formation with the offense facing off against the defensive line. After the play was called, I bent over into position and readied myself to make sure my man didn’t advance down the field.

  BOOM.

  The sound reverberated through me, sending me sprawling onto my hands and knees. As my helmet rested against the AstroTurf, an acrid smell of smoke filled my nostrils.

  BOOM

  “Jake? Jake, where are you?”

  With the smoke stinging my eyes, I searched the wreckage for Jake. The seconds became agonizingly slow as I couldn’t find Jake. Had he just been fucking obliterated in the blast?

  With my arm slung over my nose and mouth, I made my way around the tractor. And then I found him.

  Oh no. Fuck no.

  Someone nudged my shoulder. “Nelson? What the fuck, dude?”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I’m not sure. He dropped like a stone.”

  As hard as I tried, I couldn’t speak. My chest heaved as I gasped and wheezed to catch my breath. The pressure that radiated through my back felt like I was on my stomach on the bottom of a twelve-foot swimming pool.

  The sound of a coach’s whistle cut through my subconscious, yet I still remained on my knees.

  Two sets of arms came underneath mine and hoisted me to my feet. In my mind, I screamed at them to let me go, but I still couldn’t make anything come out. My lungs constricted in agony as they desperately tried filling with air.

  As I was dragged off the field, I felt like I was floating above the turf. When we got to the sidelines, the defensive coach, Barry Dawson, waited for me, his brows drawn low in concern. Once I was deposited at his side, Cade and one of the other guys worked to get my helmet off. A bucket of water was then dumped over my head.

  “Does he need to see the trainer?” Cade asked.

  “No. I’m good,” I croaked.

  Coach Dawson nodded. “Thanks, guys. I’ll take it from here.” After the others trotted off, Coach said, “Do you need a moment, or can you walk unassisted now?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  As we started into the tunnel, I fought the bile rising in my throat. This time it wasn’t from alcohol. Deep down, I knew nothing good could possibly come from him taking me off the field like this.

  “You wanna tell me what the fuck happened back there?”

  “The sound just distracted me for a minute.”

  “Distracted? Is that what you call the full-on, full-body panic attack you just experienced?”

  “It wasn’t a panic attack,” I argued.

  “You couldn’t speak or move, Nelson. What else would you call it?”

  “I don’t know.” That was a lie. I did know. A year ago the boom from a neighboring construction site wouldn’t have even registered with me. But now, the sound reverberated through me, because all I could see was that night.

  Coach Dawson’s expression momentarily softened. “Look, I think it’s time we addressed the elephant in the room.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m aware of what happened to your brother.” At the allusion to Jake’s death, I stiffened. While I knew a large floral wreath from the football program had been sent to the funeral home, I figured some personal assistant had done it. Apparently, the news had trickled down to the coaching department.

  When I didn’t reply, he added, “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  You have no fucking idea. “Thanks,” I mumbled as I worked hard to look anywhere in the tunnel but at him.

  “It only makes sense your head would be elsewhere.”

  “My head is one hundred percent on the game, Coach,” I argued.

  “You have a lot to learn, son.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “No matter how many times you tell me you’re okay, you’re just blowing smoke up my ass.” His index finger jabbed me in the chest. “You are not okay.”

  “I realize that. I just don’t know what it has to do with me playing.”

  “I can’t let you back on the field until you’ve sorted through some of your shit.”

  Air wheezed out of my lungs with the same force as if I had been tackled by a linebacker. “You…You’re not letting me practice because my brother died and I’m going ‘through some shit’?”

  “I’m not letting you practice because in your current state, you’re a deficit to both yourself and the team.”

  Slowly, I shook my head back and forth. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

  “Nelson,” he warned.

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “I’m sorry, Nelson. But it has to be done.”

  “But football is my life. I’ve got nothing without it.” I wasn’t just bullshitting him to get back on the field. I meant it with every fucking fiber of my being. If I didn’t have football, I would go even crazier than I already was. I barely slept until I drank myself stupid. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw him there.

  On the ground.

  The blood.

  The smell.

  How the fuck was I meant to lose football too?

  “Look, you gotta work through some of your grief.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “By seeing a therapist or a counselor.”

  My eyes bulged in horror. “I’m not seeing a fucking shrink!”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Coach challenged, “Not even to get back on the field?”

  Jesus, this was a nightmare. An endless nightmare with no fucking end in si
ght. With a growl of frustration, I collapsed back against the wall. Staring up at the florescent lights, I shook my head. “Talking about Jake isn’t going to bring him back,” I murmured.

  “You’re right. It won’t. But it sure as hell might bring you back.”

  It’s all I have. I swallowed down my pain, my anger. Coach wasn’t kicking me off the team. He wanted me back. I wanted me back.

  “What do I do?”

  “I have the name of a doctor the team uses.”

  My mouth dropped open in surprise. “Tech football has an on-call shrink?”

  “You think you’re the only hotshot whose seen some tough shit in his life?” Coach countered.

  “No. I don’t guess so.”

  A few seconds passed with us eyeballing each other. “Do you want Dr. Ziegler’s number, Nelson?”

  As I stared into his expectant face, I thought about the nightmares and the flashbacks. I thought about how I was merely existing and not living. I thought about how I just wished all the grief would go away, so I could feel like me again. I needed out of the hell I was experiencing.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  * * *

  The sound of the door flinging open jerked me from the tunnel and back into the present in the doctor’s office for head cases. A thirty-somethingish guy poked his head in. “Are you Jonathan?” When I nodded, a smile lit up his face as he rushed forward into the office. “My apologies for being late.” He thrust his hand out to me. “I’m Dr. Zeigler. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Without returning his smile, I shook his hand. “I wish I could say the same,” I replied dryly.

  He tapped his chin. “Let me guess. You think therapy is a total bullshit waste of your time, and you’re only here because your coach made you come.”

  I cocked my brows in surprise. “Wow, are you psychic as well as a shrink?”

  Chuckling, he replied, “I wish I were psychic. It would save a lot of time getting to the root of peoples’ problems.”

  With a shrug, I said, “I guess so.”

  “Just let me grab my keys, and we’ll get going,” he said as he started around his desk.

  “Wait, go where?” Coach hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about any field trips.

  Angling his head at me, Dr. Zeigler asked, “Do you want to stay cooped up in this office for the next hour?”

  “No,” I replied honestly.

  “Good. Then get your ass off the couch and let’s go.”

  The sight of a football in his hands had me shooting to my feet. At what must’ve been my surprised look, he said, “I thought we might go throw a few passes while we talked.”

  “You like football?” I questioned somewhat incredulously.

  “What? Just because I’m a Jewish shrink I’m not supposed to like football?”

  My eyes bulged at his summation of himself. Trying to play it off, I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He laughed. “You have a lot to learn, Jonathan.”

  I didn’t share his laughter. Those words hit a little too close to home since they were the same ones Coach Dawson had said a few days ago. “You have a lot to learn, son.”

  Thankfully, we cut through the side exit so I didn’t have to face any of the curious looks in the waiting room again. After a semi-uncomfortable elevator ride filled with muzak to the main floor, I followed Zeigler out the front door and around the side of the parking lot. At the back of the building, we came to a small, green patch of grass.

  Waving the ball at me, Ziegler said, “I think we’ll forgo the usual coin toss, and as my guest, you can have the first throw.”

  “Works for me.”

  Ziegler tossed me the ball. At the feel of the pigskin in my hands, the low roar in my ears began to ease. Closing my eyes, I spread my fingers over the textured surface.

  “So, what position do you play?”

  My eyes snapped open. “Defensive back.”

  “Makes sense with your height.”

  “Did you ever play?”

  “On some rec leagues. They didn’t offer it at any of the private schools my parents sent me to.”

  Smirking, I decided to see what Ziegler had in him. Reaching my arm back, I sent the ball sailing across the grass to him. When it connected easily into his waiting hands, I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Not bad.”

  He chuckled. “You act like I just ran a forty-yard touchdown.”

  “For someone who isn’t experienced, you could say that was like a touchdown.”

  Ziegler respond by sending the ball back to me with some serious force for a small guy. After I caught it, he asked, “This is your third year at Tech?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you seen a lot of playing time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s pretty good for an underclassman.”

  “Things were looking pretty favorable for a lot more playing time this year until…” Until I couldn’t get my head out of my ass and fucked up in front of everybody. Shaking my head, I asked, “When do we cut the shit and get to the point?”

  “My apologies. I didn’t realize exercising your arm was pointless.”

  Dammit, he had a point. Especially with practice on an indefinite hiatus. “It’s not,” I grumbled.

  Flashing a grin, Ziegler replied, “You mean, when do I start pressing you to talk about what brings you here?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  Instead of tossing the football, Zeigler cradled it under his arm at his hip. “Fine. Do you want to tell me your story, or should I regurgitate what your coach told me?”

  I cringed when I thought about what he’d heard. With a nonchalant shrug, I replied, “What do you know?”

  “In April, you witnessed your younger brother’s death through a tractor explosion.”

  Motherfucker. Just the mention of Jake’s accident sucked me out of the present and dumped me into that awful day in the past. Once again, the acrid smell of smoke filled my nostrils as the sound of the explosion played on repeat in my ears.

  I’d never experienced such a deafening noise. Cupping my hands over my ringing ears, I cried, “Jake? Jake, where are you?”

  With the smoke stinging my eyes, I searched the wreckage for Jake. The seconds became agonizingly slow as I couldn’t find him. Had he just been fucking obliterated in the blast? Like disappeared into thin air?

  With my arm slung over my nose and mouth, I made my way around the right side of the tractor. And that’s when I found him. His mangled body was lying a few feet away.

  “Oh no. Fuck no!”

  “Jonathan?” Dr. Zeigler’s voice cut through the fog of the memory.

  “Yeah,” I croaked through what still felt like choking smoke in my lungs.

  “Where did you just go?”

  I ran a hand over my face, swiping away the beads of sweat that had broken out not just because of the heat of the day. Snorting contemptuously, I replied, “The same fucking place I always go when the memories come back.”

  Dr. Zeigler continued eyeing me curiously. “I’m very curious as to the specifics of the episode of PTSD you just experienced.”

  With a groan, I replied, “Ah, so here it comes. The psychobabble spin.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “I don’t. I just want to be at football practice.”

  “You gotta pay to play, right?” Ziegler replied with a slight smile.

  Scowling at him, I countered, “How the hell could I have PTSD? I’ve never been in battle.”

  “You don’t have to be in combat to experience PTSD. Anyone who has experienced a trauma can.”

  “So, because of Jake’s death, I have to live through the flashbacks or ‘episodes’ as you called them?”

  Shaking his head, Dr. Ziegler replied, “There are many ways to treat PTSD.”

  “Medication?”

  “Yes, as well as adopting certain coping mechanisms.”

  “Like what?”

  “Using your senses to ground y
ourself in the moment. Touching an object close to you or rubbing your hands together.”

  Rolling my eyes to the cornflower blue sky, I scoffed, “Jesus, that sounds crazy.”

  “Someone who isn’t educated on PTSD might say that.” Quirking a brow at me, Dr. Ziegler countered, “Just like someone might say dropping like a rock on the football field is a little crazy.”

  Fuck. He did have all the goods on me. “Whatever,” I grumbled.

  “If we could, I’d like to go back to something you said.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Did you grow up on a farm?”

  Shaking my head, I replied, “My grandparents have fifty acres up in Blairsville. We went there a lot and on the weekends.”

  “Was it a farming accident that took your brother’s life?”

  “I fucking wish.”

  As a mirthless laugh bubbled from my lips, Dr. Ziegler’s brows creased in confusion. “Why do you say that?”

  “It would be easier if it was. Like there would be some sort of purpose in it, but no, it was just drunken stupidity.”

  Dr. Z’s brows quirked up. “How did your brother die of drunken stupidity?”

  Jake, get off the damn tractor and come over here.

  “I’m fine where I am,” Jake grumbled.

  “You’re drunk off your ass.”

  He raised his brows at me. “So, what if I am?”

  “Just put the fucking gun down, okay?”

  “You don’t actually think I’m going to fucking kill myself, do you? It’s just target practice with some tin cans.

  Pinching my eyes shut, I willed myself out of the memory. I didn’t want to relive that moment. Not again. It haunted my sleep each and every night.

  “You went back to that day again, didn’t you?”

  Unable to speak, I stared into Dr. Ziegler’s questioning brown eyes. He bobbed his head in acknowledgement at me. “Go on, Jonathan.”

  I tried to open my mouth. I tried to find the words to describe that night, but all I felt was …. paralysis.

  “You know, it’s okay if we don’t talk about that night yet. You have suffered an enormous loss, so it’s okay if you’re not ready.”

  “If I’m not ready to talk about it, then what the fuck am I doing here?”