Page 106 of Necessary Roughness
My guilt returned a thousandfold.
As soon as they were gone, I emerged from my room and hugged Roman. My goal was to comfort him, to show him any kind of support, but I immediately began sobbing and he had to comfortme.
“My lawyer is talking to witnesses from the party,” Roman said while gently stroking my hair. “Troy blocked you in the bathroom and wouldn’t let you leave. That’s a crime, too. And don’t forget, I tried to disengage after punching him the first time. Troy is the one who charged at me again and started throwing more punches. There was a room full of people who will vouch for that.”
I knew that was mostly true, but would a judge feel the same way? When the damage was compared, Roman’s broken knuckles—a self-inflicted wound—versus Troy’s list of injuries?
“And if I miss the conference championship,” Roman added, “it’s not the end of the world. I have all next season to come back and prove myself.”
Logan made us all watchDie Hardthat night, but nobody was really into it. When the movie was over, we all slept alone, as if by some unspoken agreement. I slept poorly, and was tormented by nightmares of the party, of a thousand judgement-filled eyes blaming me for everything that had happened, and of Troy’s mocking curse.
Whore, whore, whore.
I got up early the next morning to make everyone pancakes. It felt like the least I could do after the trouble I had caused. Roman was the first one up, and the big smile on his face—uncharacteristic for him—immediately set my mood right.
“You defended my honor,” I said over my shoulder while flipping two pancakes with a spatula. “The least I could do is make breakfast.”
Roman hugged me from behind. I put down the spatula and sighed happily at the way his body molded around mine, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he rumbled into my hair. “But I won’t turn down a home-cooked meal.”
“Me neither!” Logan announced while practically skipping into the kitchen.
“You’re in a good mood,” Roman said.
“Tough not to be after waking up to the smell of fresh pancakes.” Logan licked his lips. “Are you making enough for all of us, or just the guy with the broken hand?”
“There’s plenty to go around,” I told him.
“Dope.” He reached around us to snag a finished pancake off a plate, then winced when I smacked his hand.
“Roman gets the first batch,” I declared.
“I get the first batch,” Roman told Logan.
The big wide receiver rolled his eyes and opened the fridge. “I’ll get the butter and syrup out. I wish we had powdered sugar.”
Before he could arrange all the pancake accessories, the doorbell rang. While Logan went to the door, Roman kissed me on the back of the neck and then poured himself a big glass of milk. I picked up the spatula and prodded the current batch of pancakes in the pan.
“Is Knox Maddox here?” the guy at the door asked.
“Knox!” Logan called. “You’ve got a visitor.”
A strange sensation tickled the back of my neck, making the hairs stick on end. Still carrying the spatula, I walked into the living room. The visitor looked like any other college student, with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a large envelope of papers in one hand.
It wasprobablysomebody dropping off next week’s class notes for Knox. Yet I couldn’t shake this feeling…
“Hello?” Knox asked while joining them at the door. His hair was messy and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Knox Maddox?” the newcomer confirmed.
“That’s the name my coach screams when I throw an interception,” he muttered. “What’s up?”
The man at the door reached into the large envelope and handed Knox a stapled set of documents. “You’ve been served.” He smiled almost apologetically, then quickly made his exit.
“Served?” Knox said, as if he didn’t understand the word.
“What is it?” I asked. “Who’s serving you with legal documents?”
