Torrie leans close and speaks her next words sotto voce. “Her man plays for the Stingers, too, and she is always fly.”
“But he beats her ass every chance he gets,” Sheila finishes, her mouth tipped at one corner. “So when she’s ‘sick,’ we know that’s code for ‘he got hold of her again.’”
I freeze in my chair, nausea starting in my belly and slowly crawling over my body, touching every inch of flesh and bone Caleb has terrorized. I keep my face a mask of mild curiosity, but my fingers clench in my palm, the nails cutting into the skin. It’s been a few weeks since the last time Caleb really beat me, so other than the occasional easily hidden bruise or cut, you wouldn’t look at me and know the hell I’ve lived through. Right now, though, I may as well be naked I feel so exposed.
“She won’t ever leave,” Torrie says, sitting down in the seat between us. “That money’s too good.”
Or maybe she’s afraid he’ll kill her.
“Girl, the first time a man hits me,” Torrie says, lips twisted with disdain, “he’s getting hit back. Slapped upside his head.”
But what if he’s a foot taller? A hundred pounds heavier? What if he has a gun?
“I don’t know why she stays,” Torrie continues. “But me and my kids would be out the door.”
But could he bring them back? Could he take her children?
“She has kids?” I ask, not wanting to show too much interest.
“Girl, they have four kids,” Sheila confirms. “Been together like seven years, since college.”
“Maybe she’s afraid he’ll get custody or something,” I offer.
“Not if he beats her!” Torrie’s voice is indignant. “They won’t give him the kids if he’s abusive.”
“They do,” I counter quietly. “It happens all the time, especially if he’s never abused the children and has no record. Lots of abusers get partial custody. Some even get to visitatthe women’s shelter she ran to. Our system fails women in lots of ways.”
“Hmmmph. She’s failingherself,” Sheila says. “When somebody is beating the shit out of you, how hard is ‘bye?’”
Sheila and Torrie share a cackling laugh and high-five over the joke, moving on to other juicy bits of gossip. Their conversation passes me by. I’m too busy processing what my life looks like from the outside. I know I’m not what people might assume—I’m not a mercenary, or a weak-willed woman afraid to leave her man, or even confused because I think Caleb loves me. Still, shame takes root in my heart. The same shame I feel when Andrew tends my cuts and scrapes the morning after. The same shame I feel when I see my puffy face in the mirror, one eye swollen shut. There’s a rebel inside, but the girl he hits and kicks and rapes and scorns, the one biding her time and straining her eyes for a way out, she feels shame.
“Either of you know what we’re doing today?” Torrie reaches for gum in her purse and offers us both a stick. “My man’s in Germany scoping, so I needed something to do anyway.”
“Today’s the first day,” Sheila says, popping the stick of gum into her mouth. “We’ll pass out some jerseys and autographed photos. They’ll want to get pictures, some with us, but mostly with the basketball player.”
“Basketball player?” I ask. “I thought we were standing in for the basketball players.”
“They found someone to come in to cover this week,” Torrie says. “Not sure who. It’ll be pretty laidback this first day. He’ll work on a few fundamentals, some simple drills, and then some role model stuff.”
“At least that’s how it’s gone before,” Shelia adds.
Sylvia enters the room before I can probe further. She splits a smile between the three of us and greets us warmly.
“Thank you, ladies, for being here today.” She eyes me nervously, maybe because of how much Caleb resisted me coming. “The kids are in for a real treat. One of the most popular players of the game today will be here all week.”
“Who is it?” I ask idly, not really caring.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice reaches across the room and snares my full attention.
All the air leaves the room, leaves my lungs. My heart is a boom of thunder, and lightning streaks through my veins. Just like at the basketball game, and like every time I’ve seen him, I can’t ignore him; I can’t take my eyes off August West standing in the doorway.
I only allow myself a second of shock before the danger of this situation crystallizes as a stone in my belly. I have no idea what this will drive Caleb to do if he finds out. If Ramone sees, he’s sure to tell.
Self-preservation has me on my feet. Wisdom has me brushing past August without looking him in the eye. Desperation has me doing what Caleb’s lies and brutality keep me from doing every day.
I run.
August
