Page 212 of Even Exchange

Another quarter goes by, and she still hasn’t arrived. Finally, halftime comes, and we jog through the tunnel and into the locker room. Now fully distracted, I fight to focus during Coach Bexley’s briefing. When he’s done, I excuse myself to the bathroom, sneaking to my locker instead to pull out my phone.

It’s against league rules to do this, and I could very well be fined, but a simple reply back from her could totally change my headspace for the rest of the game.

There’s one text notification and one from our doorbell cam.

I opt to check the text first.

Wife

No cops or she dies.

My blood runs cold.What the hell?

I quickly swap to the doorbell cam for the most recent footage.

A man is banging on the door and looks toward the camera with a sinister smile. My lips part open, nausea creeping up my esophagus, and I struggle for air.

The face of my nightmares is right there on the small screen.

Don’t answer the door, baby,I beg, glancing at the time stamp that shows this was an hour ago.

Shit.

My hands shake.

I’m desperate to call her, but I have to finish watching the feed first.

He pounds harder, and my breathing stutters.

No.

The door swings open.

Fuck.

“Can I…” Her voice falls off, and my father smiles, nudging her inside and off the camera. I tap furiously at the screen for more video, but we only have it set to record on motion. I check the live feed but only hear the normal street noises.

Panic courses through me. I can’t call the police because I believe he’d do it, and I don’t trust them to be discreet.

I fling my helmet in my locker and yank off my jersey, pads, and cleats. There’s no way I can drive home wearing this.

“What the hell are you doing?” Coach Bexley’s voice sends lightning through my veins.

“I have to go.”

“Go?” he scoffs in disbelief, walking closer. “This isn’t football at a Sunday cookout. We’re in the middle of a pro game.” I’ve stripped to my boxers, and I yank on shorts and a shirt, then slip into tennis shoes. “Noah.” Coach Bexley grabs my shoulder. “Stop!”

“I don’t have a choice,” I repeat, rushing towards the exit.

“Excuse me?” he scoffs as I grip the metal handle. “If you walk out that door, you’re done. You’ll never play pro again.”

My eyes meet his. Never in my life has a decision been so easy. “Then consider this my resignation.”

* * *

My heart pounds in my chest. This can’t be happening. He’s supposed to have at least a few more years. A few more years for me to prepare for his release. Figure out a game plan.

He’s not supposed to be in my home, with my pregnant wife, doing god knows what.

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