Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

B had been around enough to know that today’s teenagers were on a battlefield of their own. That some of them were sustaining wounds they’d be tending to for the rest of their lives.

Coach B held out the envelope, wishing it were more. Surely the medical bills would bury Jake and his mother. But his own bank account was nearly empty; his own medical bills felt like a precarious slope before a landslide.

No, there was no money in the envelope.

“I wrote you a poem.”

Jake had seen Coach B, sitting at his kitchen window, writing poem after poem for friends, former players, journalists—anybody whose path he had crossed who came upon a hard time. But he had never been on this side of the tradition, had never even read one of the poems.

“Thank you,” Jake said. “This means a lot to me.”

And now, Coach B knew, he was telling the truth.

“You can read it later,” he said. “While I’m here, let’s talk.”

Jake struggled to sit up in bed. “Who’s going to mow your lawn while I’m out?”

Coach B waved the question away, even though he didn’t have an answer for it. “I’ll find someone, or the grass will grow. You deserve a break after six summers, anyway. What will you do with this chance to slow down? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Probably write poetry,” Jake said, laughing.

But Coach B didn’t laugh. “Summer is a good time to write poetry. You could do exactly that, if you wanted.”

Jake’s brow contracted a little, just like it did on the court. “I’m going to smash every record for rehab and physical therapy. Even before that, I’ve got a whole lineup of old games to watch on YouTube. And they never said I couldn’t lift with my upper body.”

“Or,” Coach B said, “you could write poetry. Or learn to play the clarinet. Or take up painting. You could let yourself heal and come back stronger. How about that?”

Jake shook his head. “I have to get back out there. Without that ball in my hands, I’m nothing. Nobody.”

Before Coach B could tell Jake how wrong he was, a nurse came into the room, handed Jake a small cup with three pills inside, and watched as he swallowed them. Coach B watched too, thinking how he’d spent too many years taking too many pills and not asking enough questions about them. Even though it seemed true of so many his age, he hated that the body he’d always been able to depend on had become so dependent on chemicals.

But this visit was about Jake’s problems, not his. When they were alone again, Coach B tried to remember what he’d wanted to say before the nurse interrupted. It was harder to remember here—too sterile, too many distractions. He wished they were in the shade of his backyard. Or at his kitchen table, where the words came most easily. Still, he had to try.

“You are somebody, Jake. Please believe that.”

Jake shrugged. “Maybe. But without basketball, I’ll never be enough.”

“ ‘Enough’ doesn’t come on the court, son. ‘Enough’ comes from here,” Coach B said, tapping the tips of his stiff fingers on Jake’s chest. “And in there, your cup runneth over.”

Jake turned away.

He didn’t believe it, but Coach B could see in his eyes how badly he wanted to.

“Thank you for the poem,” Jake said, and Coach B hoped the words in the envelope would reach him better than the ones he had spoken today.

“You’re welcome. And Jake? Give yourself time to heal.”

“I will. And I’ll send somebody over to mow your lawn.”

—

For the rest of the summer, the boys on the team took turns at the task. Each time Coach B looked out the kitchen window and thought the grass was getting a little long, someone new showed up and made quick work of it, building muscle and character under the hot summer sun.

Even from a hospital bed, Coach B thought, Jake Foster is a leader.

Last to come for mowing duty was Kolt Martin, headphones on and dancing at every turn. Coach B shook his head, smiled, turned back to the blank sheet of paper before him, hoping he could make something beautiful of it. Perhaps another poem for Jake.

A single drop of blood fell to the clean white sheet.

It was time to go to the hospital again.

Jake’s been cooperating, but not because he wants to. Everything just hurts too much to even think about fighting back. He noticed this morning that the handcuffs were gone, and he’s too grateful to risk messing that up.

Still, there’s something else he’s got to do. Something important enough to cut through this fog and fever, and he’ll be sick until he knows it’s done.

“Please,” he begs. “Just let me tell them I’m okay.”

The man scoffs at this. “Are you?”

“I want them to think I am.”

“And how long have you been playing that game?”

When Jake doesn’t answer, the man reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a phone, metallic red with the AHS logo.

Jake’s phone.

“Fine,” he says. “We wouldn’t want anybody to be worried.” He turns on the phone and points it at Jake. “Smile,” the man says, and the flash is so bright after all the darkness that Jake is blind for a moment. He does smile, though. At least, he pulls his mouth up in the way he remembers from before.

“Now for your message,” the man says. “I’ll give you four words, one for every day you’ve been here. And because I’m so nice, I’ll let you send them to four people.”

Has it only been four days? That can’t be right. The man is lying. He has to be.

Jake will think through that later, if he can keep his eyes open. For now, he needs to focus on the message.

“Let me type it,” he begs. He actually falls to his knees, but sharp pains shoot through them both, and he can’t stay there. Each of his knees has endured a trauma that might never fully heal.

The man rolls