Free Loved by the Linebacker by Lyssa Layne Page B

still grip a bottle of beer, most of
it tipped over and soaking into the mattress by this time. Slowly, trying not
to wake her, I pluck it from her hand and she rolls over, mumbling as she does.
I pull the blanket over her and push her gray and blonde hair out of her face.
    “Hey, Ma, it’s me, Evan,” I say softly instead of
screaming at her like I want to. I’ve been here and done that enough times to
know that I have to be calm and rational with her in times like this.
    She tries to smile, hiccuping as she does. “Hey,
how’s my baby boy?” she asks, patting my leg.
    I nod. “I’m fine. What about you? I thought you
quit drinking.” I look around the room and see half a bottle of vodka on the
nightstand, surrounded by empty beer cans.
    “Well, you and Blakey’s season was over so I
didn’t have nothing better to do,” she slurs her words while she pats my face
adoringly.
    Sighing, I shake my head. “That’s not the deal,
Ma. Sleep it off and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
    I kiss her forehead and stand up. She rolls over,
falling right back to sleep like we hadn’t just had a conversation. Grabbing
the bottle of vodka, I start to unscrew the cap then stop. If I take a drink of
this then I’m no better than she is. Two more bottles of bourbon stare at me
from her dresser. Swiping them, I begin my routine run of the house, checking
for any and all forms of alcohol. Thirty minutes later, I’ve recovered five
more bottles of liquor, two bottles of cough syrup, and a skunky box of beer
sitting in the garage. I know all her favorite hiding places and I didn’t take
it easy. Turning a blind eye will help no one.
    Bottle after bottle, I empty them down the kitchen
drain wondering how things got to the point. Ann Purser is the mother of two
starting NFL football players. We both make more than enough money to get her
out of this shithole and into a rehab program that could turn her life around,
but she refuses any help and Blake’s a fuckin’ idiot who pretends we have the
perfect home life in interviews.
    The last bottle emptied, I turn around and hurl it
at the wall. Listening to it break into a million pieces, I slide down the
cabinets and lean my back against them. My elbows on my knees, I hang my head.
Blake’s always had the good life. When our father left, the asshole still sent
Blake birthday cards every year with a five dollar bill. I never so much as got
a card or phone call. Blake leaves for his division one college and Ma brags
about it to all her friends. I win three high school championships and wash the
puke out of her hair. Blake deserts our family for a beautiful, driven woman
that he could’ve had, and probably still could, if he wanted but never took the
opportunity. In turn, I fall for the same woman knowing she’s not available.
He’s the fuckin’ golden child and I’m no one.
    I hear sobs but it takes a moment to figure out
they’re coming from me and that the wetness on my face are tears. Fuck, I’m
falling apart. I need someone to calm me, tell me it’ll be okay. I need
Camila. Without thinking, I press her number into my phone and hold it to my
ear. Her sleepy voice is even sexier than normal when she answers. I pinch my
nose, pressing my fingers against my eyelids in hopes that will stop the tears.
    “Evan? Evan, are you okay? Talk to me,” Camila
says into the phone, panic filling her voice and I feel like a dick for causing
her to worry.
    Swallowing the lump that’s formed, I clear my
throat. “Yeah, I’m fine. I—” And like that, I break down in front of a woman.
In front of her, Camila, the one I want to take care of. Her words are calm and
even as she tries to reassure me and then like a punch in the gut, I remember
who she’s with.
    “Fuck, you’re with Gregg,” I mumble, ready to hang
up.
    “No, I’m not,” Camila’s voice says over the line.
    Shaking my head, trying to translate her words, I
repeat, “You’re not?”
    “No, we had a drink