Wildcard: Volume One

I feel something digging into my back. Reaching under my side, I pull out a stray letter. I’m about to throw it away when the childlike writing on the front stops me. I open it and begin to read.

To Ryder

I don't get you. You mess everything up. I used to like you cuz your good at tennis but your just a butthead. I act older than you and Im seven. Maybe you need to think about what you want. That's what mom says when Im nawty and your always nawty.

I cant do what my friends do cuz Im sick. I hate it. You have lots but waste it. It makes me mad. You dont know how lucky you are or maybe you dont care.

Your X fan Jake.

I chuckle, even though this letter doesn’t make me feel like laughing. There’s nothing like being berated by a child to make you feel like a total asshole. And a sick child, at that.

Is this really how people see me? I’ve always prided myself on not caring what people think—and to a point, you need that in my world or you’ll break—but I honestly thought I was pretty well-liked.

Why is this even getting to me? I know it has a lot to do with being injured, and drugged up to my eyeballs on painkillers. I’m feeling vulnerable. Not being at your best, when your best is what you’re known for, is pretty shitty.

I wonder what’s wrong with him. What if he is dying or something? The thought of a dying kid hating me makes me feel sick.

It doesn’t take me long to track down the number. I have the return address in Chicago on the back of the envelope and the surname, which luckily for me, isn’t a common name. I punch the digits into my phone and wait for someone to answer. A woman picks up. She sounds young, so I assume it must be his sister.

“Yeah, hi. I’m looking for Jake Calera,” I say.

“Who is this?” She sounds curious, which shouldn’t really surprise me considering I’m a grown man calling to talk with a seven-year-old boy.

“Sorry, this is Ryder Stevens. Jake sent me a letter, and I wanted to speak to him.” Silence greets me, and I wonder if she’s hung up on me.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope, it’s really me,” I say. A smile creeps across my face. See, this was the kind of reaction I was used to. Maybe I’m being over-sensitive with the whole world hates me routine.

“No, that wasn’t what I was referring to. I don’t doubt for a second that it’s really you. What shocks me is that you actually think I’d let my seven-year-old speak to you.”

My mouth falls open in shock. I’m not used to being told no. Or being spoken to like this.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Why would I tell you my name?” she snorts. “Goodbye, Mr Ryder.”

I stare at the ceiling and try to process what just happened as the dial tone purrs in my ear. Maybe I have way too much spare time on my hands, but I’m not ready to let this go just yet. I like a challenge, and I’m determined that this kid isn’t going to die until he knows I’m a good—well, an okay guy.

I press redial.

“Hello?”

“Do you often judge people entirely on the very little you know about them? And the fact that you encourage your son to do the same makes me question your parenting abilities.”

“What? Who the hell do you think you are?”

Her voice rises so loud I wince as it echoes through my eardrums. I smile, thankful that my hook worked. I have her attention. Now I just ne

ed to work out how to get her on my side.

“How dare you question my ability to be a mother when you don’t know the first thing about me.”

“Doesn’t feel very good, does it?” I smirk. “How is that any different to you assuming I’d somehow tarnish your son’s mind with a five-minute phone call? The kid wrote to me, and I thought it would be nice to reply. Did you even read the letter he wrote me?”

“Read it?” she scoffs. “Of course I did. I mailed the damn thing for him.”

“Really?” A smile spreads across my face. “This just keeps getting better and better.”