I sent a text to Kristy before hitting the road, letting her know that I’d be back late that night.
‘Everything okay?’ she texted back.
‘Fine. It’s NFC Championship day. Taking Mom to dinner.’
A few minutes later, she replied. ‘Oh. Got it. Give her my love. See you later.’
I didn’t need to explain anything to Kristy. That was one thing about being friends since the early days of preschool. She understood without needing to be told.
How old was I when I started hating football? Pretty young. It didn’t take long to associate Sundays in fall and early winter with absolute misery. Dad’s behavior would start when the preseason rolled around in early August, just when the newscasters started talking more and more about the teams. He’d go from being a relatively stable, mild-mannered physician to a dude who drank too much, swore too loudly and threw shit at the TV with really bad aim. It didn’t even help during the years when the Saints had a terrific season and were the analysts’ favorite to go all the way to the Superbowl.
Inside, I was groaning as I drove home, and promising myself yet again I’d never be that way. I wouldn’t let something at arm’s length make me bitter and gripy. He wasn’t an athlete, so why did he act like there were such life and death stakes to these games? Well, I knew why, but still, I would never make my family suffer like this. Not when all they wanted to do was love me. No one deserved the crap he doled out. I was kicking myself for even wanting to tell him my good news. It had nothing to do with football so he wouldn’t care anyway.
It took an hour to get to the house, and by then he was amped up. I pointedly ignored him, going straight up to the master bedroom, collecting my mother and escorting her out the door. We made it to the Crab Shack at the wharf and had a bite to eat. After that, I dropped her off at the house and waited for her to get in her car before I drove off.
And people wondered why I was hell bent against getting close to anyone. Let alone anyone remotely into the game of football.
3
Evan
“Come on! Work it out!” I ran circles around my buddies as we lapped the football field. “Come on, grannies! You call that a game face? It’s weak as shit.”
“Dude, you gotta slow the hell down,” one of them panted out.
“Yeah, man. We can’t keep up with you. Okay? We admit it.” I thought that might have been Chad, but I wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter which one of them it was, really. They were all pathetic.
“So you admit it. Can’t measure up. Good for you, but it doesn’t mean you don’t have to keep trying!”
I took off, leaving the rest of the team in the dust. Why bother trying to get conditioned if you were only giving it a half-hearted attempt? I didn’t understand that mentality. My philosophy from early on was to always give a hundred and ten percent to whatever I did. I prided myself on that attitude. Luck didn’t factor into winning. I was one of the best players because I worked my ass off and gave it my all, every fucking day, all year round. Yes, that applied to being a loud-mouthed, opinionated asshole too.
With the combine coming up, the stakes were higher than ever. I was on my way out. I had to think of the future.
Once we finished our warm-up run, we started a quick game to keep ourselves loose. Slade’s throws were as accurate as ever. At least being with Cassidy didn’t screw up his game, which was a big relief. I would have hated to have to call him out on any kind of slacking off just because he was with her. I’d tell him if I had to, though, as the one thing I didn’t put much effort into was keeping my mouth shut.
We ran a basic screen play, one that we’d run a thousand times before. I took off downfield like I always did. It was like breathing, it was so natural. We worked together seamlessly, him and me, and sometimes I wondered how good I would be when the time came for me to play in the NFL with a different quarterback. There were times I wondered whether it was Slade who made me play this well, or if it was all me?
I’d find out soon enough.
Catching the pass, I ran it in for a touchdown, and that’s when I stopped questioning my God-given talent. I was just as talented as he was. He could get the ball in my hands, but I took it home. I was usually the fastest person on the field, and I always would be top tier as long as I kept working at it. My speed and my hands together made me untouchable.
That was not arrogance. That was confidence.
I couldn’t wait until it came time to play in the NFL, so millions of people could see my skills and I could hear my name chanted by tens of thousands of live football fans all at once.
I tossed the ball back and lined up in spread formation for the next play. I was on the outside.
Chad was subbing for one of our defensive linemen’s positions. He grinned at me. “C’mon, pretty boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I laughed. “All right, son. Time to take you to school.” I waited for the signal from Slade, then the snap. I took off.
Chad shucked and jived, trying to get in front of me, but I was too quick as always. My feet flew, and I danced to the right, then cut left. He went sprawling on his face, and I did what I could not to laugh as I flew down the field.
It was like flying. It was the closest thing to freedom I could imagine. I felt sorry for anybody who didn’t get the chance to experience this kind of wind at their faces and their bodies claiming every foot of distance with ferocity.
I turned to see the ball sailing through the air. It was coming my way, but Slade had thrown it just a heartbeat too fast, or Pete had tripped me up longer than I thought he had, or I had delayed at some point in the sprint. Realizing I was out of sync with the trajectory and of the ball, I hauled ass trying to catch up to it, and extended my body to make the catch.
Then it happened.
“Ouch!” I felt something tear. Something like fire spread through my upper thigh and crotch. I abruptly stopped and crumpled to the ground, yelling out without meaning to. I couldn’t stop myself from bawling. Everyone on the field came running over to me as I rolled around in pain.
“What the hell happened? Are you okay?” Slade took a knee beside me. One of the coaches came running. I saw his look of concern through the legs of the players now hovering around trying to help me.
“My groin. Oh, fuck, that hurts.”
I groaned, cupping myself and pulling my legs closed. It felt like a horse kicked me in the nuts. The pain wasn’t centered in my balls, but beside them, and it radiated all throughout the area.
“Let’s get someone to take a look at you.” He waved over one of the medical staff already heading our way, then he focused back on me. They made sure the injury wasn’t to my head or neck, then the two of them got on each side of me and began checking the rest of my body. I tried to sit up. Fuck, it was excruciating. Coach Jones got on one knee, reaching an arm out for support.
“Owwwww.” I rolled away from him. I didn’t want anyone or anything to touch me. I wanted to die. I couldn’t believe how much it hurt.
“Tell me what happened.”
“It’s my groin. It fucking hurts, Coach.”
“All right.” He turned to Jeff, the graduate assistant on staff working under the sports doctor’s supervision. “Let’s get him on a stretcher.”
“No! I can do this.” I winced to sit up.
“Come on. We’ll take you back to the locker room.” Jeff and the coach slid their hands under my shoulders, with me crying out in pain as they brought me to my feet. I hated that I sounded like such a pussy, but I had never been injured this badly or felt this kind of wicked pain before. I’d experienced a few minor injuries before—anybody who played football and actually put their ass on the line instead of screwing around faced injury—but this was different. Every step sent flames up and down my legs.
“We’ll wait for the medical staff to confirm, but it sure sounds like a strained or torn groin tendon,” Coach Jones said calmly.
Ya think?
That’s
what I was dying to ask, along with what he thought was his first clue, with my hands refusing to move from my junk. At the moment, he was helping me get back to one of the treatment tables in the athletic training center. Mouthing off at my coach was not a good idea at a time like this. They helped me onto a table, and I did everything I could not to curl up in a miserable ball. The graduate assistant immediately put ice packs high up at the top of my legs, avoiding my crotch. He explained that he had gotten in touch with the onsite X-ray staff, who would help confirm the diagnosis with the sports physician. Nodding, I breathed deeply and reminded myself to stay calm. Freaking out only made it worse.
“Were any of the medical observers around when you were hurt, buddy?” the coach asked.
“Just me,” Jeff answered. “I was at the edge of the field, but was monitoring one of the injured players doing a post-therapy set.”
“Shit. Where are the two others we’re supposed to have on hand?”
“Not everyone’s back from Christmas vacations. We’re short-staffed until Tuesday. I can get Andy over here, but he’s covering for one of the trainers on the women’s basketball team.”
“All right. So how did this happen, Evan? Walk us through the play.”
“It was my fault,” Slade announced, running a hand through his hair after he used the towel now around his neck to wipe the sweat from his brow. He looked guilty as hell, but it wasn’t his fault. “I threw too soon. I should have read your position better. I’m sorry, man.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I spoke through gritted teeth, panting for breath. “It wasn’t your fault. I could have let it go.”
Take it easy. Breathe slowly.
The faster I breathed, and the more I moved around, the worse it hurt. I couldn’t stop myself from writhing in pain.
“Don’t beat yourselves up over it…either of you. Pushing yourselves past your limits is part and parcel with playing pro. We’ll get through this.”
“In time for the combine? I ain’t got time to be injured right now.”
Coach squeezed my shoulder. “That’s close to two months away, son. Let’s hear what the medical team has to say after they run some tests.”
“Thanks, boss.” His pep talk didn’t do much for the pain. At first, all I could do was close my eyes and hope the ice packs would work their magic soon. Then I realized, this was shitty timing. Pain or not, I had to recover from this, and fast.
“The sports doc should have been here already. I’ll make a few phone calls so we can get this checked out fast.”
“It don’t hurt so bad,” I told him through clenched teeth, groaning through the stinging ache and disappointment.
“I hope it’s not a grade three strain or a full tear. If it’s that serious, you will need surgery.”
No way.
No fucking way.
It just couldn’t be so bad that I’d need surgery. It could take months to recover from something like that. Only when he left the room and I heard the door shut behind him did I look over at Slade again. He was scared as hell.
“I should have been watching your pace, man,” he muttered.
“I told you. It’s not your fault.”
“I guess the upside is you’ve been good all through the season, and played like a boss for SECs and the bowl game. The coach is right, you know? We’ve got under two months until the combine. At least it didn’t happen the week before, right?”
“Sure, if you put it like that.” I closed my eyes again, pressing my fist to my forehead. To think that here I was busting my ass for the combine, telling myself I had to work harder to be ready. “I may have just fucked myself with this injury. Wouldn’t that just be perfect.”
“Don’t go talking like that until we know what we’re dealing with. We have the best athletic team in the SEC and the NCAA right here on campus. They’ll fix you up good as new.” He meant well, but his eyes didn’t back up the encouraging message. He was just as afraid as I was, and that caused me to look away.
The coach returned to the room as Jeff was removing the ice packs. “Dr. Burton is on his way to see you, and he’s already got the technologist ready for you over at the X-ray room. You stay put and keep those ice packs on and off the area every fifteen to twenty minutes. And don’t move.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” I said, grim and dejected as fuck. I know I was being pessimistic, but I saw my dreams slipping away. No combine, no pro day, no draft, no contract. Nothing. All this work for nothing.
It was like Slade could read my mind. “Hey. Chill out. No sense worrying until you know the facts. It could be a grade one strain, in which case, you’ll be up and around in a week.”
“A week? That can the difference between getting drafted and being passed over. And what if it’s more?”
Slade’s brow furrowed. “Geez. Will you try not to think like that? You know it’s not true. These scouts have already seen you. You’ve got agents coming out of your ass, for God’s sake. They’re practically stabbing each other in the back to get close to you. A groin injury…”
“…makes me damaged goods,” I said, finishing his sentence. “A player gets hurt once, and they’re more likely to get hurt again. They get cautious, too. They don’t have the same full-on energy on the field because they don’t want to get hurt again. You know it as well as I do. This is a shit sandwich, no matter which way you slice it. It would have been bad enough during the season, but I only have seven weeks until the combine. I can’t afford to take it easy. Once they know I was hurt all that interest could dry up.”
“You’re blowing it out of proportion, but whatever.” He sat in one of the guest chairs in the corner, leaning his elbows on his knees. “We won’t know anything until the doc comes in.”
I held my tongue. Slade didn’t get it. He had his academics to fall back on. I wasn’t in dire straits, but my GPA was simply okay. It wasn’t stellar and unlike a few of these guys, I had no fallback career plan.
NFL or bust.
It was premature, but I started to wonder what I could possibly do if going pro was no longer an option.
The option.
My parents would be supportive. I didn’t have to doubt that. I just couldn’t imagine what other path I could take now. For my whole life, this was all I worked toward. This was all I ever wanted. Sure, I was dwelling in the absolute worst case scenario that if this injury was really bad, I wouldn’t be drafted right out of college the way I had always planned. I could wait a year, but I didn’t want to do that. Waiting was not in my DNA. I had no idea what I would do in the meantime, either, besides work out and keep myself conditioned. A whole new group of players was coming up next year too. I would be old news by then. The scouts and agents would move on.
I clenched my jaw to hold back the agony.
Falling apart and praying were not options either.
4
Samantha
I received a phone call from Dr. Jeffries around three o’clock on Monday afternoon. Kristy was at a meeting to be assigned an unplanned tutoring student due to some kind of mix-up, so I was alone in my dorm room, researching the school’s baseball team players, their stats, past injuries, that sort of thing. I knew most of them already, but liked to be on top of the people I worked with.
When my phone rang and I saw it was my department head, my stomach did a flip. Trouble was brewing. Why else would he call me? And in the middle of an afternoon where I wasn’t expected anywhere? Come to think about it, this was actually the first time I’d ever heard his voice over the phone.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Samantha?”
“Hi Dr. Jeffries. Yes it’s me.”
“I’m sorry, but an item has come up that I need to discuss with you.” He sounded tense. He might as well have said, we have a problem. I could hear it in his voice. This was bad news along the lines of end of the world stuff.
I slumped a little in my desk chair. “What is it?”
�
��One of the top-tier football players had an injury during a practice yesterday.”
I frowned. “They’re still practicing? Even in the off-season?”
“Yes. You know they condition year-round. This is one of our graduating players, one who shows promise for a top ten or top fifteen NFL draft pick come spring…which is why I’m calling you.”
“Me? I’m not sure why, Professor,” I stuttered out. This was football he was talking about. In my mind, I wasn’t interested. “It’s good to know you think that highly of me.” I was at a loss, just blabbering, hoping he wasn’t calling for the reason I thought he might be calling. He didn’t randomly contact people to report injuries, not when said person wasn’t involved in the sport in question.
“It’s Evan Marshall, the wide receiver,” he sighed out. My eyebrows shot up. No wonder he was so tense. Marshall was one of the school’s star athletes, and considered a shoe-in for the NFL. The school was dying to get a few more of its students on an NFL roster.
“What happened to him?”
“X-rays and other diagnostics by the medical staff have confirmed he has a grade two groin tendon strain down his left leg. It’s moderate to severe.”
“Ouch,” I said, feeling sorry for the guy, if only because I was sure he had to be in severe pain.
“Yes. We’re sending him in for a few more tests to be sure there isn’t any surrounding damage.”
“I see.” I went quiet. I wouldn’t lead the doctor into asking what I knew he was about to ask. I wanted to hear it from his mouth before I politely turned him down.
“He’s been assigned a certified athletic trainer as well as a graduate assistant in between follow-ups with the physician team, but they will need more help. This is a five to seven day a week assignment until the combine. A two-person support team won’t be enough.”
Win Big: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 3
