Page 77 of Hard to Lose

“What are you going to do about it?” I ask her, needing to hear her answer. Needing to hear her say she’s leaving him because of what he’s done to her son—her own flesh and blood. Needing to know she’s choosing me over him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she stammers. My heart sinks. Just once I wanted her to fight harder for me than she’s fought to keep someone around to support her.

“I mean, your husband screwed over your son. Me. He threatened me. He gave me the ultimatum of jail or enlisting. He took away a chance to make our life something other than paycheck to paycheck. He took away my dream. HE DID THAT,” I scream into the phone, not fucking caring who’s around or what they think. “So you tell me, Mom, what are you going to do about it?”

“Ryan,” she mumbles in that soothing voice she used to use after my dad died. When I cried myself to sleep and she didn’t know how to comfort me, she used that voice. That tone.

She doesn’t know what to say or how to comfort me.

“You’re talented. I’m sure you’ll still be good when you come home. When you’re discharged.”

Does she not understand in order to be that good you have to play every day? Practice on a schedule. Get coaching. Face competition.

But how could she know that when she never went to my games? The stands were always empty. At first, it was because she was working to supplement the death benefits we received for my father, and then it was because Sal didn’t let her.

There was always an excuse as to why.

And then there was simply silence.

“It’s always been about him, Mom. Always. And now, maybe you’ll see it. Maybe you’ll stop making excuses. Maybe you’ll see what he’s done to us and—”

“That’s not true,” she screeches, so used to defending him.

I hang my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. Nothing’s going to change. I could talk till I’m blue in the face and she won’t hear me. She’s so conditioned to believing his lies. Why bother trying to change it? Her choice. Her life.

“They loved you, sweetheart. They want to represent you.”

Do you really think any coach in their right mind is going to sign some asshole, law-breaker? A kid with no morals who steals from the hand that feeds and houses him?

They might have loved me and wanted to represent me, but my fucking mother doesn’t do either.

“Don’t worry about me. You keep going on with your life while I’m out here being made into a real man.”

“Ryan. Honey. Please don’t—”

“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t sweat it. It never would have worked. I’m a screwup, remember? I’ve got to go,” I lie. “Bye.”

Fuck that shit.

And when I end the call on the sat phone, I hand it to the next guy waiting in line to call home. Once on my bunk, I try to hide the tears I’m holding back, which burn like a motherfucker.

They loved you, sweetheart. They want to represent you.

Those fucking words repeat over and over in my head. They taunt and torture and haunt me.

I was good.

They wanted me.

The tears that slide down my cheeks as I shove my pillow over my face are hot and angry, and each one feels like it slices me open. Each one a painful reminder of what I gave up and will never get back.

Dickman was right.

The life I knew before coming here is one hundred percent done and over.

Fucking gone.

The letter I wrote, which is shoved under my mattress, I might as well send.