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Chapter 27
Cornell should have cared that his team lost. He should have cared that his offensive line—one of the biggest in the league—seemed just fine letting anyone through to get to Julian, whose release was as slow as the receivers who completed their routes at a snail’s pace.
He should have cared that when the final whistle blew, it was nearly another shitstorm, that his players, all of whom knew better, were just as wrong as Ridgewood’s. He should have joined the other coaches, trainers, and managers in yanking Hopperville players back one by one. He should have cared that the tension was so high that Ridgewood’s coaches ordered their players to skip the shower, gather their bags from the locker room, and head straight to the bus.
But Cornell didn’t care.
Because for the whole game and the abysmal, embarrassing after, Cornell only focused on one thing—Graham. He left the field and walked in circles until he found himself at the opposite end of the locker rooms, where Ridgewood’s players slowly trickled out, Cornell’s fists clenching and unclenching as each one walked by him down the path to the parking lot.
What are you going to do?He argued with himself. Strangle him right here?Bash his head into the bricks? Cornell blew out a long breath. Talk to him. I’m going to talk to him.I don’t know what the fuck I’ll say, but I’m going to talk to him. But talk is cheap.
Cornell’s fists tightly clenched along with every other muscle as his mind began to spin the montage of nightmares he had been so desperately trying to bury to support Ali moving forward.
Graham on top of Ali.
Graham pressing her into the car.
Graham writhing, trying to rip her clothes off.
Ali screaming. Ali crying, and though she had never admitted it, Ali heartbreakingly calling out his name into the useless night when she needed him most.
“Cornell?”
Not like that,he thought, shaking his head and hearing her voice softly. More afraid. Terrified. He squeezed his eyes shut as if that would somehow stop the noise. But it didn’t. Because it never was that voice of Ali’s, the one that said his name so painfully it ripped a hole straight through his heart. It was her voice beside him, speaking cautiously.
“Cornell, what are you doing back here?”
His eyes flew open, mouth dropping agape. He cleared his throat. “Hey.” Look how beautiful she is, Cornell thought. Look at the way she’s fucking looking at you even though you’re about a hair away from losing your damn mind. His hands found her shoulders, rubbing gently. She’s here. She’s safe.
“What are you doing back here?” Ali asked again, doe eyes rounded, wondering.
I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Cornell just kept running his hands lightly over her, reaching up to tug down the beanie she wore.
“It’s freezing. Let’s go home.” He reached down for her hand, gently pulling her with him.
“Cornell—”
“Hey, Coach Crawford.”
It was Graham’s voice sounding like it was any normal day. Cornell stopped dead in his tracks before turning his head. Graham swung his chest protector over his shoulder and grinned smugly. “Julian hasn’t really gotten a grasp on that spread you guys are running yet, huh? Tough loss.”
From behind him, Ali squeezed Cornell’s hand, her nails digging into his palm.
Graham shook his head, his sweaty hair falling to the side. He narrowed his eyes slightly before looking over Cornell’s shoulder, biting at the corner of his lip. “Hey, Alison.”
It was a noise that Cornell didn’t recognize—a growl—that erupted from the center of his chest as he fought Ali’s grip on his hand. I’ll fucking kill you.
“I want to go home,” she hissed from behind him, pained and pleading. “Cornell,” she whined, now holding onto him with both hands. His name leaving Ali’s mouth was full of such distress he wondered if that was the way she might have said it that night, and instead of wanting to turn and comfort her, the thought hit repeat on the vicious cycle of rage pumping through Cornell’s veins.
All it took was a shout in the distance, a teammate calling Graham’s name. All it took was a slight nod of Graham’s head at Cornell and Ali before he turned and walked away, heading for the bus, and the moment—the only chance Cornell would have—was gone.
Cornell wanted to turn away from the direction Graham walked in, but was trapped—dumbfound—wondering how it was possible that he could just walk along the path and into the dark parking lot, back into his normal life while Ali and Cornell were left clinging to each other in the puddle of all his consequences.
Ali cleared her throat from behind him. “Cornell?” She pressed one hand against his back, rubbing it, and Cornell shut his eyes and grit his teeth, angered by the soothing, angered by the fact that Ali was the one trying to make him feel better.
Comfort her, you piece of shit. Cornell tried to will himself to graze his hands over Ali from head to toe, to cup her face and reassure her she was safe, he was there. Are you okay? he wanted to ask. I’m here. He’s gone, but I’m here. But in the mental battle between what Cornell wanted to do against all of the pent-up rage and distress, he froze.
“Come on,” Ali said, gently pushing him forward, one foot in front of the other. “I’ll take you home.”
