More total silence.
“Duly noted,” Lloyd finally says. “Will you at least call Sylvia back?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it right now.”
I’m just eager to get off the phone with him. There are so many things Lloyd and I don’t see eye to eye on. The more I think about it, the more I’m ready to turn things over to Jared. With us getting Elevation off the ground, it’s the perfect time and ideal scenario: him managing my career as he convinces other athletes he can manage theirs.
I listen to the message Sylvia left. She invites me to do some talks for a week at the community center right outside of Baltimore where I played all the time growing up. It’s exactly the kind of thing I’d hoped to do while I was rehabbing on this side of the country.
“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. West,” Sylvia says when I dial her back.
“Please. Call me August. I’m sorry it took a minute. I’ve just started hitting the gym again and guess I hadn’t paid attention to messages for a few days.”
“No problem. Did you hear the opportunity I have in mind?”
“It’s perfect,” I say, thinking of all the times I got my ass handed to me at that community center. “I cut my teeth playing ball there. It’s not far from my mom’s, where I’m staying while I rehab. We’re right outside of the city.”
“Oh, good.” Sylvia’s warm voice comes from the other end. “I’ll email you details, but basically it’s a summer program, and we bring in someone different each week to inspire and encourage the kids. You’ll talk for maybe thirty minutes or so.”
“Sounds great.” I pause for a second, hesitant to broach my awkward question. “Um, obviously I play for the Waves out in San Diego, not the Stingers, but this is my hometown, and I really want to contribute here, too. Will any other Stingers be involved?”
“Actually—”
“I’m fine working with anyone from the team,” I cut in. “But Caleb Bradley and I aren’t—”
“I’m familiar with the, shall we say, difficulties between the two of you.”
“Good.” I blow out a breath, relieved that I don’t have to go into more detail to make my point.
“However,” Sylvia says, “his fiancée, er, sorry . . . girlfriend will be one of the volunteers. Several of the players’ partners are working at the center that week, but they—”
“Iris?” I stomp over whatever she was about to say, gripping the phone practically to the point of cracking. “Are you saying Iris DuPree will be there the same week?”
Crickets from the other line. Too eager?
“I mean, if that’s what you’re saying,” I continue, deliberately dialing it down, “let’s not mention it to Iris.”
“Um . . . what?” Confusion and reluctance pile up in Sylvia’s pause. “I won’t lie—”
“Lie?” I laugh a little to put her at ease. “Who said anything about lying, Sylvia? I was thinking just so she doesn’t feel awkward or maybe like she shouldn’t come, considering how things have been between Caleb and me. I think it’s great she’s volunteering.”
“If she asks, I’ll have to tell her,” she says a little stiffly.
“By all means. And if she doesn’t ask . . .” I shrug like she can see me. “She’ll find out when she gets there, and we’ll help the community center, which is the ultimate goal, right?”
“Right, but I don’t want any trouble.”
“There won’t be. Promise.”
It’s silent on the other end for a few moments, and I hope I’ve convinced her.
“Alright,” she finally says, her voice still a little uncertain. “I guess we could leave it a surprise for everyone. That might add some excitement.”
“Excitement. Exactly. Great idea. It’ll be fine. I have no beef with Iris.”
“Okay, well, I’ll send that email of the topics we suggest. You can modify as you see fit.”
“Thanks, Sylvia. I’m really looking forward to it.”
Once I disconnect from Sylvia, I sit on the plastic bin alone. On instinct, I walk back over to the box of my father’s things and pull out the jersey, slipping it over my head again.
“Perfect timing, huh?” I ask the empty garage. “Looks like the game is coming to me, Dad. We’ll see if I get to take the shot.”
Iris
We’ve found a new normal, Caleb and me.
I’ve learned to negotiate the terrain of the hell in which I’m trapped. There is this strange balancing act of compliance and strategic resistance. Caleb is a sleeping volcano, always primed to erupt. I’ve learned his cycles. He’s a pendulum that swings from Jekyll to Hyde. I try to anticipate his triggers as much as I can, but sometimes they don’t follow the pattern they should.
He doesn’t attack every day. In some ways, the unpredictability of it makes it even worse. He’ll go weeks being perfectly well-behaved. He’s still repulsive because I know what he’s capable of, but he manages his behavior—and I manage to ignore it. And then something will set him off, a straw I didn’t even know had landed on the camel’s back. His steak is too rare. He’s lost a game. His favorite show has been cancelled. There’s no rhyme or reason to his viciousness.
“We’re really looking forward to next week, Iris.”
I glance up from my plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, to the source of that statement.
Sylvia.
Sylvia’s one of the eight or so people at our table. The Stingers are celebrating the end of a successful season with this dinner. They made it to the second round of the playoffs.
Whoop-dee-doo.
“I’m sorry.” I bring Sylvia’s face into focus. “What did you say about next week?”
“Yeah.” Caleb slumps a little in his seat beside me, then leans back and rests his elbow on the back of my chair. “What’s next week?”
He shifts to caress my neck under my hair. I force myself not to flinch at his touch. That infuriates him, seeing me flinch.
At least it infuriates him when I do it in public.
When we’re alone, it feeds him. It empowers him to see the fear he has carefully cultivated over the last few weeks thriving and growing inside of me. My fear is a plant he nurtures in the dark.
“Oh.” Sylvia’s dishwater blond eyebrows snap together. “The community center? Iris is scheduled to volunteer there next week.”
Thank God.
Give me something. Something outside of that house and the open-air prison of my life with Caleb.
“I don’t know if she’ll still be able to do that,” Caleb cuts in with a frown.
His hand at the curve of my neck probably looks like affection from the outside—like the hand of a rich, powerful man stroking his pet. He displays a possessiveness that might send a thrill of excitement through someone else. Most women have a bit of a crush on Caleb when they first meet him. They don’t know him the way I do. Only I feel his fingers tighten. Only I know his hand at my neck is not love. It’s a warning. It’s a shackle.