Vendetta’s are not always personal. Dylan’s wasn’t. This was about domination. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He leaned forward, settling his right hand into the cool turf. His dad played on real grass, slopped around in the mud when it rained. A real man.

Christmas Day eight years ago, six months after his dad died, there was a football under the tree. Nothing else. Before tearing it open he held it and imagined his mom rolling it in the newspaper that served as substitute for real wrapping paper.

She was angry then. Her eyes had turned into green blazes that flashed and flickered with her moods. She would have wrapped it while watching David Letterman and smoking a joint. Or maybe after Lou left and she reeked of gin and sex.

Dylan was angry too. It wasn’t fair that his dad died and left him alone with her or that Lou came over and yelled at him to go to bed so he could be alone with Dylan’s mom. None of it was fair. But he was just a boy who couldn’t change anything. He was mad about that too.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You're welcome, sugar. Your daddy played, you know,” she said. One arm lay across her thin stomach, the other held a Marlboro languorously in the air. The smoke swirled around her. Looking at her through the haze he thought she looked like a movie star.

Dylan smiled and tossed the ball into the air. It tumbled down and bounced off the tips of his fingers into the Christmas tree.

Like a vacuum, his mother sucked all the air from the room. She slowly uncrossed her legs and leaned forward until her face was even with his. Smoke seeped from her parted lips as her eyes flashed and narrowed.

“Can't you catch a ball, you fucking pussy?” Her voice was even, cool.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then I better not see you drop it again. Your daddy wouldn't have me raise no fucking pussy, you hear? He'd have my ass. You catch that ball. Every. Fucking. Time.” She emphasized those last words by poking him in the forehead on every syllable, then she flicked her cigarette in Dylan’s direction, lifted herself off the couch, and hid in her room the rest of the day.

As angry as he was, Dylan knew she was right. His daddy had had her ass for less. When she drank, his mother liked to tell stories about his father. They usually started out sweet and romantic, but, depending on the kind of liquor she was drinking, she would also talk about the fights and how they led to making up.

“Green 80. Green 80. Hut-hut.”

The center snapped the ball, and Dylan ran. He ran as though his life depended on it, and, in his mind, it did. Somewhere in the cheering Friday night crowd was a recruiter for Oklahoma University. If Dylan ever wanted out of this shithole of a town, he had to impress him. A scholarship meant freedom.

The 50 year old rivalry between Dylan’s team and the Bulldogs caused everyone to play harder and it was a close game. The Bulldogs were up by a field goal with two minutes left on the clock, but the Rangers had the ball and Dylan found an opening. He saw the quarterback move the ball from the carriage to the loaded position and throw. As the ball soared through the air, Dylan could hear his Tight End, Billy Brown, take down one of the opponents, clearing him for a clean catch.

The ball soared in the air and Dylan leapt to catch it, stretching his arm to its limit. When both feet were on the ground, he pulled the ball in tight, securing it next to his body, and ran for the goal line.

The stands were always packed at home games, but never so much as at the Ranger/Bulldog game. The two towns were only ten minutes away from one another so the visiting team’s stands were also full. Regardless, there were two voices he heard above all others as he crossed into the end zone: his mom and his girlfriend, Ashley.

The game could not have ended better. The Rangers went for and scored the extra point and managed to defend the goal line, securing their victory.

The buzzer signaled the end of the game and the bench emptied. The team, the cheerleaders, and the fans rushed the field. Ashley came bounding toward Dylan with her arms spread wide, tears on her cheeks. She threw down her pom poms before jumping into Dylan’s arms.

“You did it, baby,” she said, beaming.

His helmet was already off and somewhere on the field, so he kissed her hard on the mouth.

“Enough of that shit!” Dylan heard his mother yelling from the crowd. She stumbled over to where he and Ashley now stood. “Y’all see my baby win this game?” she shouted, looking around at the crowd and smiling.

“Mom,” Dylan said, “it was the team, not me.”

She scrunched up her face in disdain and waved her hand in front of her face as if she were knocking the idea out of the air. Pushing past Ashley she wrapped her arms around Dylan and squeezed. “Your daddy would be proud,” she said.

“Thanks, mom,” Dylan replied, noticing she didn’t say she was proud of him. Then he saw Coach Reynolds talking with a man Dylan thought must be the OU recruiter. Coach was laughing and patting the man on the shoulder. It looked like things went well and Dylan could feel himself getting anxious.

“Here comes Coach,” he said, taking his mom by the arm and directing her attention toward the two men heading their way.

His mother patted her hair with one hand and ran her tongue over her teeth. “I don’t have anything in my teeth do I, Ashley baby?” She bared her teeth in something like a smile.

“No, you’re good, Ms. Wilson,” Ashley said, smiling.

She was beautiful. Dylan made a mental note to tell her later.

Dylan found it easy to read Coach Reynolds’ feelings. When he was angry, he had a vein on his forehead that would stand out. When he was worried, his brows furrowed until they nearly met in the middle and the hair on the left side of his part would stand up like a gray feather. Right now, there was a little bounce in his step and he was talking at breakneck speed.

“Dylan, Mrs. Wilson,” Coach said as he walked up.

“Now, Coach, you know it’s Ms.,” his mother said, swaying back and forth girlishly. “And who is this?”

“This is Mike Clayton from the University of Oklahoma. He came tonight to watch our boy here,” he said, slapping Dylan on the back harder than he meant to. Dylan was grateful he was still wearing pads.

Ms. Wilson looked from Coach to the older man next to him then to Dylan. She had a smile pasted on her face, but her eyes said more than her mouth ever could. Her pupils were constricted, pinpoints of fire in the sea of her blue irises. As big as he was, 6’3” and 195 lbs. (a high school coach’s dream), his mother’s eyes could still turn his blood to ice. He was in for it later. Maybe he could stay out with Ashley late enough that his mom would be passed out from vodka and Xanax by the time he made it home.

But for now, he needed to charm the shit out of this guy.

“Hello, Mr. Clayton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Believe me, Dylan, the pleasure is all mine. I’d like to talk to you and your mother about your future at OU,” Mr. Clayton said, shaking Dylan’s outstretched hand then turning to his mother. “Can I take you two to lunch tomorrow?”

Dylan watched his mother’s head tilt ever so slightly and her smile widen. “Of course. How is 11 o’clock at Sharla’s Diner?”

“Perfect.”

“And I do hope you will be joining us, Coach Reynolds,” she said.

“Happy to, Ms. Wilson,” Coach said.

“Give Mommy a kiss,” she said to Dylan, tapping her cheek with a nicotine stained finger.

Dylan did as he was told, then put his arm around Ashley who snuggled in close to him. Where his mother was unpredictable and dangerous, Ashley was grounded and sweet.

“Well, I’m heading to the house. Don’t stay out too late, baby,” she said. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow.” She wiggled her fingers at Coach Reynolds and Mr. Clayton as she walked away, swaying her hips more than necessary.

That night the team celebrated their win with a bonfire at the rock pit. There was beer and several joints made their way around, but Dylan had to be at his best for lunch tomorrow so he and Ashley left early and went parking on the hill overlooking the fire.

“I’m so proud of you, Dylan. Just think...this time next year, you will be playing for OU,” Ashley said dreamily.

Most people thought Dylan was the most humble player on the team even though he had the most talent. The truth was that, while he did have some humility, compliments made him feel embarrassed and like he needed to discredit them. But here, with Ashley, he felt pride welling up in his chest.

“Come here,” he said, patting his leg.

Ashley giggled and climbed onto his lap, straddling him. A lock of her dark hair had fallen loose from her ponytail and hung over her cheek. Dylan brushed it aside and kissed the place near her left eye where the freckles formed what he thought looked like a constellation; a grouping of stars created for him alone.

“And you’ll be there, cheering me on in one of those cute little cheerleading costumes,” he said, running his finger along her leg to the hem of her cheer skirt.

“Dylan Wilson, I no more wear a cheer costume than you wear a football costume and you know it,” she said, feigning irritation and slapping his hand away.

“Fine, fine, it’s a uniform,” he said, laughing. “Cheer is a serious sport that requires discipline and skill. Blah, blah, blah.”

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“Damn straight,” she said, straightening her back and lifting her chin.

Dylan thought about how lucky he was. He could name four guys from the team who would give their throwing arms to date Ashley. She was smart, expecting a full ride to college on the basis of her academics; she was kind, helping anyone who needed it or finding someone who could; and she was beautiful, though most would probably say her round face and slightly turned up nose qualified as cute rather than beautiful. It didn’t matter. She was his and he was hers.

“My God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

She kissed him then put her forehead against his. “I love you, Dylan Wilson,” she said.

“I love you too,” he said before losing himself in her.

***

His mother was still awake watching TV when Dylan opened the door to their house that night. Trying to sneak in was always tricky because the house was so old it cried out every time a door or window was opened. Because of frequent use the front door usually gave the least objection and was easiest to use, especially on nights when he expected his mother to be passed out from drinking or pills.

“Well, look who it is,” she said, lazily lifting her body from the couch.

She walked toward him, swinging the hand that held her cigarette slowly at her side.

“Sorry I’m late.” He shut the door softly behind him.

“Guess I better get used to you being gone, huh? Mr. Big Time College Guy.”

As she got closer he could smell the beer and cheap vodka he often thought seeped from her pores.

“It’s just OU. I won’t be far.”

She pulled back her hand and slapped him hard on the cheek. The taste of metal filled his mouth and water filled his eyes.

“It’s just OU. I won’t be far,” she said mockingly. “But you won’t be here, will you, you fucking crybaby?” Her voice was getting louder and her words more drawn out.

“Mom --”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. You think I raised you so you could leave me, you stupid little fuck?” She stared at him as if she expected an answer but Dylan knew better. The best thing he could do was keep silent.

Once, when he was 14 he decided he wasn’t going to take her shit anymore. She was drunk and calling him the usual names -- pussy, crybaby, piece of shit, all the hits -- because he wouldn’t slow dance with her to some stupid Waylon Jennings song. He was bigger than her and thought if he stood up to her she would stop hitting him, so he yelled at her that he was grown and she couldn’t make him do anything anymore.

He regretted it instantly. She broke into baleful laughter and sauntered into the kitchen where she started rummaging through the junk drawer. When she finally finished she was holding an extension cord and coming toward him. It felt as though she hit him with that cord forever. He had welts up and down his arms and legs and he was sure she had broken the skin in several places.

After she was done, his mother told Dylan not to ever tell her no again and put the Waylon song back on. “You think you’re so strong,” she said as they danced, running her finger up and down his bicep. “But you ain’t your daddy,” she grabbed his chin and forced him to look into her eyes, “and without me, you ain’t shit.”

She had the same look she had that night and it was Dylan’s instinct to tread lightly.

“I thought you’d be happy. You’re the reason I ever picked up a ball. I thought you’d want me to go to college,” he said, squeezing past her in order to get to his room where he could shut the door and be alone, safe from her anger.

She grabbed his duffle bag in an effort to keep him there with her. He let go and left her holding it.

Once in his room, he locked the door and lay down on his bed, legs dangling over the side, staring at the ceiling. His mother raged on the other side of the door. When that didn’t work, she cried and wailed about sons who abandon their loving mothers, begging him to let her in.

And finally, exhausted, she said one last thing before stumbling off to bed. “You ain’t shit without me. You won’t go to OU. You won’t leave this town. You’re not good enough to leave this shithole.”

***

“Hey, Coach, Mrs. Burns said you wanted to see me.” Dylan pushed the door to Coach Reynolds’ office open and peeked in. He sat behind his desk grinning and the principal sat across from him. They both stood up when Dylan entered.

“Guess who I just got off the phone with,” said Coach.

The short, fat principal was about to burst with excitement and thrust his hands out in front of him. “Mike Clayton,” he said. “From OU.”

Coach Reynolds looked at the man and rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Sanders, I’m sure he remembers Mike, it’s only been a few weeks.”

“Er...of course, of course. Come in, young man. Take a seat,” Mr. Sanders said.

“They want you, son,” Coach Reynolds said, puffing out his chest and smiling big enough to show all his teeth.

Dylan couldn’t believe it.

“Say it again, Coach,” he said quietly. He was sure he had heard it wrong.

The two men laughed and Coach repeated his words, this time with more enthusiasm.

He had been hopeful, but Dylan didn’t really think OU would want him. He was a good ball player but only a mediocre student, extra tutoring is the only thing that kept him from failing Algebra II. College was a dream he only entertained when Coach pushed him to.

“Did they offer a scholarship?” Dylan asked. “‘Cause I don’t have the money to pay for it. I’ll have to say no.”

“Huh-ho did they ever,” Mr. Sanders said, rubbing his hands together briskly in front of him.

“All four years plus housing. They want you bad, Dylan.” Coach Reynolds put both his hands on Dylan’s shoulders. “How does a full ride sound?” he asked, then he sat down on the edge of his desk waiting for Dylan to respond to the news.

Dylan took a deep breath. It sounded like a ticket out of Roland, that’s what it sounded like. Freedom from the small minds and even smaller dreams of the small town. Freedom from the shadow of his father and the suffocating hold of his mother. But he couldn’t say all that to Coach Reynolds, and certainly not to Mr. Sanders. Instead, he just smiled and nodded his head, enjoying the euphoria of the moment.

“I always knew you’d get picked up,” Mr. Sanders said. “When I first saw you play your Freshman year I told Mrs. Sanders, I said, ‘That boy’s got talent. If he plays his cards right, he’s going places.’”

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” Dylan said.

The two men kept slapping his back and each other’s and talking in hurried voices. Dylan was struggling to hear and his eyelids were slamming shut, taking much more effort to open than usual. The room was a vortex of sound and light and if he opened his mouth he would scream or burst into tears, or both.

“You okay, boy?”

“Dylan?”

He could not answer. He had to find something solid, something real. Extending his arms to find something to hold on to, but finding nothing in the immediate vicinity, he decided on the floor and steadily lowered himself until he was lying down on the cold tile of Coach’s office.

He could hear the bustle of his coach and principal trying to figure out what was going on and calling for the nurse, but his eyes were closed and all he could think about was how nice the cold tile felt against his cheek and how he would love to lie there like that forever. Strange as it was, Dylan felt safe. His heart was beating, his lungs were breathing, and if he stayed here he wouldn’t have to tell his mother he was leaving.

He was sitting up in one of the chairs with Coach Reynolds standing, hands on hips, watching him and Mr. Sanders fanning him with a magazine he grabbed from the desk before the nurse even arrived. He told them all he was fine and just got a little overwhelmed and, after drinking the juice Nurse Becky had thrust into his hand, he was able to go back to class.

“Are you okay, babe?” Ashley asked. She was lying down in the seat of his truck with her hand in his lap. They had driven to their usual spot at Wilson Rock after school and, making good use of the seclusion, he had made love to her. She had been surprised by his urgency, but he needed to hold her, to feel her beneath him.

“Mmm…” he said, stroking her face with his fingers and looking out the window. A few cars he recognized from school were creeping up the dirt road leading to the water and he was glad they got here early. He tried to smile. “Of course I am. I’m here with you, ain’t I?”

Dylan’s mother took every opportunity to remind him that he was young and that there were plenty of other girls out there other than Ashley. She told him all the time that he should be playing the field and had once brought a woman home from work for the sole purpose of fucking Dylan. The woman was probably in her late twenties and he supposed she was pretty, but her makeup was too dark, she smelled like his mother, and she wasn’t Ashley. He had locked himself in his room while she and his mother got drunk and invited two guys from the plant over instead. His mother had teased him for weeks after that, calling him a fag and a pussy.

“I need to tell you something,” Ashley said, biting her bottom lip. Dylan could see tears well up in her eyes.

“What?” he asked. He stopped rubbing her cheek and sat up straighter. His back was against the door and the arm rest dug into his lower back. Ashley sat up and adjusted herself so she was facing him.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” she said, looking past him into the woods.

What could she possibly need to tell him that had her so worried Dylan wondered. The best thing about their relationship was that they trusted one another, not just with secrets or things of that nature, but with themselves. True, he had not told her about OU yet, but he would, he would tell her before he took her home.

“Just tell me, baby. What is it?” Dylan took her hand and rubbed his class ring. She wore it on her pointer finger but still had to wrap it with string to make it fit.

“I’m pregnant.” Her eyes darted to his and lingered, searching for a reaction.

“What?”

She repeated the news adding, “Eleven weeks.”

Eleven weeks? Dylan did some quick math. She knew she was pregnant weeks ago and didn’t tell him.

Ashley was crying freely now and Dylan looked down, trying to control the message his face sent. Just a few hours ago he had been faced with the freedom a football scholarship gave him. He was still processing that. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for this.

“Say something, Dylan,” she said, picking at her fingernails. She picked her nails when she was nervous. When they first started dating they were bloody and raw, they were that way now. Why hadn’t he noticed? Dylan put his hand on hers to stop her.

“Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

“I was going to but you had the recruiter coming and you were working so hard to get your Algebra grade up, I didn’t want to distract you.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers again. “So why tell me now?” He didn’t want to sound angry, but he was. The look on Ashley’s face at these words stopped him. He had hurt her.

Why did he say it like that? He was fighting himself. He wasn’t irrational. He knew they were both responsible for this. He always had condoms available. Always. Not using one was a choice they both made. No excuses. It wasn’t her fault.

“Because I don’t want to do this alone,” Ashley said softly. She turned her head away from him and pulled her hands back.

Inside his head he was screaming. God damnit! How could you do this? You’ve ruined your fucking life. It’s over. OVER.

“Come here,” Dylan said, taking Ashley in his arms and kissing her forehead. “You’re not alone. I’ll never leave you alone.”

***

Dylan’s mom was carrying in groceries when he pulled his truck into the driveway.

“Need some help?” he called to her.

“This is the last of it,” she said.

“I got it,” he said, jumping out of the truck and taking the bags from her.

When all the groceries were put away Dylan took two beers from the refrigerator. His mother was on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune, guessing out loud, always wrong. He gave her one of the beers and sat next to her.

“You ever hear from that OU guy?” she asked.

Dylan couldn’t help but laugh a little and shake his head. The universe sure had a sense of humor. He opened his beer.

“They went with another guy. Wide receiver from Yukon I think,” Dylan lied. No point telling her about the scholarship. She would want to fight about it even after he told her he wouldn’t be taking it. He wasn’t ready for the conversation that would follow, and he needed to be ready.

“Figures. That guy probably has better hands. I can get you on at the plant after graduation,” she said. “I’ll just tell Dale that if he doesn’t give you a job his wife will find out about me and him outside the Alibi last week.”

He nodded his head and took a drink. It was funny how surreal the moment felt. His worst fear had always been staying in Roland, working at the plant with his mom to feed a brood of dirty faced kids, drinking his life away.

She watched Dylan take another long drink of his beer. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I do now.”