The Play

So while I’ve been ignoring calls from my family, from even Bram in the States, I’m not too surprised to find Brigs buzzing my door and throwing stones at my window late one afternoon.

I poke my head out the window, glaring down at him. “You know I have a buzzer,” I yell.

“Would you answer your buzzer?” he asks.

“No more than I’d answer some bugger pelting my window with rocks.” I sigh and take the key out of my pocket, dropping it down for him.

To be honest, I’m nervous about seeing him. The last time I saw him was the day everything ended between Kayla and I and I still can’t quite recall what happened. But he was there, at least for part of it.

He comes in the door, shutting it behind him. “Hey.” He slides his hands in his pockets of his sharp suit and saunters over, watching his shoes on the hardwood floor before glancing up at me. “I saw the game. Congrats.”

“Thanks. You know I had nothing to do with it though,” I tell him, sitting on the couch, Lionel flopping over on my lap, begging for his stomach to be scratched. He knows when I’m anxious and this is more for me than him.

“Ah, I’m sure everyone is playing better because they know you’ll be joining them soon.” He pauses, squinting at me. “How is De

I nod, trying to ignore the spread of shame. “Yeah he’s all right. I guess it helped that I was a bit drunk during that practice. I wasn’t able to do as much damage.”

I look at him for a reaction.

He only raises his brow. “I see. I thought as much. You know, Lachlan, this isn’t exactly a friendly visit from me.”

I lean back in the chair and stare down at Lionel, ru

“Oh now I’m your brother,” he says. “I see. Only when you’re sober then.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, angry at how weak my voice sounds. Pitiful.

“I know you’re sorry,” he says. “But I don’t think you’re sorry enough. You know, Lachlan, I know you pretty well I think. I don’t claim to know everything about you but that’s only because you keep your cards close to your chest. And for good reason. But I think, even though we aren’t technically related, we handle things in a similar way. We drown in decay. Because when the pain gets too great, it becomes a comfort. You can fall in love with your sadness, your shame. I know I did.” He bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling, as if reasoning with God. “I did. And only now do I feel strong enough to crawl away. But you have to hit that point. You hit yours a decade ago, when your friend died and you were too fucked up to save him. But you and me. People. Everyone. We all have many points during our lives. There is always more than one bottom. This is your other one. You have to crawl out of it, I’m telling you this as your brother, your friend, someone that loves you and knows you. You have to crawl out of it now.”

I stare straight ahead, letting the weight rest on me. “It’s not that easy,” I tell him and I regret it the moment I say it. I eye him warily and see so much indignation and pain on his face that it shames me.

“Don’t tell me it’s not that easy,” he says softly, his voice shaking. “I lost my wife and my son. At the same time. They were taken from me and I have no one to blame but myself for that one. Do you know what the last words I said to her were?” I shake my head, not wanting to know. “They were ‘please forgive me.’ I was begging for her forgiveness because I fucked up something in a major way. And she never got a chance to forgive me. She took Hamish with her and she fled from me. She drove fast and the roads were wet and then I didn’t have a family anymore. The irony was that I was on the verge of losing them anyway. So, don’t tell me it’s not easy. It’s the hardest fucking thing to do, to come out of that black dark hole and into the light where you can clearly see what a piece of shit you are. And I’m still climbing out of it, but at least now I know that I’m going to make it through.” He closes his eyes and gives his head a quick shake. “I have to. I can’t live the rest of my life hating myself. That’s not a life at all.”

I don’t have a rebuttal to that.

He quickly sits down across from me, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “I’m not telling you all this to discount all you went through. This isn’t a competition to find out whose life went more tits up. Yeah? This is about me reaching out to you and trying to give you help. Will you let me help you? I know Kayla wanted to but she’s not here anymore and I’m not going anywhere.”

I want to tell him that it’s not Kayla’s fault that she left but I think we both know it’s my fault anyway.

“What kind of help?” I ask thickly.

He reaches into his front pocket and pulls up a piece of folded up paper, holding it out between two fingers. “This is the number of my psychologist.” I stare at it blankly until he shakes it. “Take it. Call him. Make an appointment. Please.”

I hesitate. My pride is begging me to turn it away. “Brigs…”

“No,” he says. “Do you want gravity to take you back to the bottom? Do you want what happened with Kayla to happen with someone else? Do you want to lose your organization, your career, because I guarantee all of those things will happen if you don’t do something right now.”

“This is some sort of intervention,” I mumble to myself but I take the paper from him.

“Yes, it is,” he says to me. “Our parents don’t need to know about it so it’s between you and I. But I need to know that you’ll call him. I’d watch you do it right now but I’m not your bloody babysitter. I trust you, aye.”

He gets to his feet. “I also hope you’ll check into rehab. There’s a great facility for sports players. They’re discreet. And you know it’s nothing to be ashamed of anymore. Don’t make me sing you an Amy Winehouse song.” He nods at me. “I’ll be in touch. Make the coach put you back on the pitch. You need it.”

And just like he leaves, leaving me reeling on the couch.

“What do you think about that, Lionel?” I ask him, holding the paper. He sniffs it then deems it uninteresting and goes back to sleeping.

I’d been to rehab before but a psychologist is a totally different thing. My prescriptions so far have been filled by the team doctors. Tell me your problems, here is something to fix it, boom, you’re done.

But a psychologist will bring up every single ugly detail of your life. I don’t think I’m strong enough to relive it, I relive it enough in my nightmares as it is.

I don’t discount it though. I respect Brigs too much for that. I get up and post it on the fridge door, underneath a magnet, so it will look me in the eye every day until I finally get the courage to do something.

***

Game number two is tomorrow and I know Alan will be putting me in. I’m nervous but relieved all at the same time. I don’t want to fuck up but I’m so glad the waiting period is over. With Kayla gone, there’s just this ghost of her everywhere I look, haunting my bones, and I need something else to keep me going, to push me along the right track

Still, I need to hear her voice. Just for a moment. All my texts and calls to her either go answered or they just get something generic and I need, want, so much more from her. And I need to be there for her. I can’t imagine what she’s going through right now.

I call her. It’s around di

As usual though, it rings and rings and rings.

I’m just about to hang up when she answers.

“Hello?”

The sound of her voice nearly breaks me.

“Kayla?” I say. “It’s me. It’s Lachlan.”

“I know,” she says flatly. She sniffs and I wonder if she’s been crying.

“Are you okay?” I ask her. “How is your mum?”

“She’s…she’s still in a coma.”

“Shit, love. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to call you…”