Jett Page 2

  “This game is far from over!” I say with adrenaline running through my veins. “Their defense is getting tired. Let’s run the play just like we have a hundred times in practice. Let’s get some points on the board.”

  “Hawks!” we chant in unison.

  We get ready to run a play that we’ve practiced during preseason many times. For once today, my offensive line is protecting me well, giving me plenty of time to find an open man.

  As I scan the field, I smile to myself when I notice that one of our best wide receivers, Mark Gibson, is downfield and being held by only one man five inches shorter than him.

  Perfect.

  The other team has made a huge mistake on man to man coverage. There’s no way that dude can hold my receiver. I can toss the ball up high and long, and it’s a sure bet that Gibson will catch it.

  This is it.

  This is my opportunity to turn this game around and I feel it in every fiber of my being.

  I step back and throw the ball with precision to Gibson and wait as the ball glides through the air in what feels almost like slow motion. The packed crowd of hometown spectators cheer in anticipation of the catch and the suspense of the moment is palpable. But what I don’t see and didn’t predict is one of the opposing team’s big ass tight-ends running clear across the field in front of my open guy.

  It’s Wally Mansfield, the bane of my existence. The two of us are from neighboring towns in Texas and products of the same NFL rookie class. He was the highest ranked tight-end in the draft, and we’ve played against each other many times during our college careers. He is abnormally big, athletic, and fast. No one can bring him down. I mean, it takes like three or four men to accomplish it. If we were on the same team, he’d be my new best friend, but he’s not. He never is. Even though we play unique positions, we’ve been pitted against each other since we were young enough to care about football and nothing has changed now.

  Wally stretches his freakishly long arms into the air and intercepts the ball as if I threw it specifically to him, and starts running toward the end zone like an Olympic track star. This dude is a beast. Known around the league for his enormous size and speed, he effortlessly whizzes by my linemen and is headed straight for the red zone to make a touchdown. I see pitchforks in my future.

  I feel it before I ever see a thing.

  A defensive lineman on the opposing team tackles me from behind and I awkwardly tumble to the turf on one side of my body, face first.

  Then I hear a crack.

  And then a searing pain wracks every fiber of my being.

  “Fuck!!!”

  I can hear faint boos from the crowd as the other team runs into the end zone and performs a highly orchestrated touchdown dance. They don’t realize yet that it won’t count. The asshat who tackled me late is going to be fouled for roughing the passer. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long for the spectators to become eerily silent as they see yellow penalty flags thrown on the field and me writhing in pain on the ground.

  I see several sets of cleats running towards me.

  “Hold on, Jett,” one trainer bends down to say. “We’re getting the cart.”

  “No,” I say through gritted teeth. “Help me up.”

  “We don’t want to make the injury worse. We’re getting the cart.”

  “No!” I demand again. “Help me up.”

  Getting carted off the field is not the highlight I want plastered on every sports channel in the nation. It will be a better look if I make my own way off to the locker room with some help.

  “You sure, man?” One of my teammates asks. His eyes full of sympathy.

  I nod my head yes preferring not to talk anymore in fear that I’ll fucking cry.

  The crowd lightly claps as two of the trainers gingerly help me up and off the field. I can walk fine because it’s my shoulder that’s messed up. I pray that it’s not what I think it is. A broken collarbone is the kiss of death for a quarterback because the recovery time is so long.

  While team physicians numb me with painkillers and proceed with x-rays, the team’s quarterback coach, Trent Bantom, sits with me. He’s an ex-NFL quarterback and one of the few people in this organization who I believe has never judged me. I respect him a lot.

  “This doesn’t look good, does it?” I ask him.

  His eyes drop. “It’s probably your collarbone.”

  “Is Rivera out there?”

  “Yeah, they’re on the field now.”

  “This is absolutely the worst thing that could have happened.” I lower my head.

  “There are worse things, man. Your shoulder will heal. Been there, done that.”

  “It hurts like hell.”

  “It will hurt for a while, but that’s not the hard part. The hard part is when it stops hurting and you still can’t play because your bones haven’t healed. That’s when it gets really hard.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better because I’m not really feeling this pep talk, Coach.”

  He chuckles. “Let’s just wait to see what Doc has to say.”

  About fifteen minutes later, the Nighthawks team doctor comes in the room with a solemn face.

  “Painkillers kick in yet?”

  “No, I think all you gave me were a couple of Flintstones Vitamins.”

  The doctor smiles reservedly. “I’ll give you some stronger stuff for later because you need to be home to take it.”

  “So what’s the damage?” I ask him. “Just tell it to me straight.”

  “The bad news is that it’s a pretty serious clavicle fracture. The good news is that it’s not your throwing arm, so you could come back at the end of the season. It really depends on how you heal.”

  Dammit.

  “I’m going to put you in a sling for now, but you’re going to need to see a specialist at Mercy West. He may recommend surgery. They’ll probably want to implant some metal rods and screws to help you heal properly.”

  “What’s the minimum time you think?”

  “At least six weeks.”

  I close my eyes in utter disbelief at my horrible luck. I’ve never been seriously injured before, and now I’m going to probably be out most of the season. What the hell am I going to do?

  “I’ll be right back with the sling.”

  For a moment, I forget Coach T is even in the room until he speaks again.

  “This could be a blessing in disguise.”

  My eyes flash open.

  “How?”

  “Use this time to lie low and keep your name out of the press. No trips to any Caribbean islands. No grandiose purchases. No celebrities in your bed. Just stay under the radar.”

  For a moment, Coach’s recommendation feels like a parental reprimand, but then I remember who I’m talking to and recognize it for what it is, well-intentioned advice and a little tough love.

  “I have little choice now, do I?”

  “There’s always a choice, Jett. The question is, will you finally make the right ones to salvage your career?”

  “Salvage?” I feel totally offended. “I’ve barely gotten started. I don’t think my career is in a place where it needs to be salvaged.”

  Coach T looks around to make sure no one is listening, as if he’s not really supposed to be sharing what he’s about to say to me.

  “This a pivotal moment in your life, Jett. Trust me, I’ve been there. You think your life is forever set when you’re at the top of your game and the money is flowing, but then a life-changing event happens that rocks your entire world–and today is that event. When I was leading the Saints, I went out with a back injury for six weeks and by the time I recovered someone took my slot. Now I’m coaching quarterbacks instead of being one.”

  “That won’t happen to me.”

  “That’s what I said too.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I’ve put everything on the line for this team since I’ve gotten here, and now my collarbone is broken. It’s not fair. How can I stop them f
rom replacing me?”

  “Nothing is fair about this game. A lot of it is luck, but what you can control is the other work you need to do. The internal stuff. Just rest and heal, lie low, do what the docs tell you, and stay under the radar. Don’t you paint or some artsy shit like that?”

  I nod my head yes. Few people know this about me, but I enjoy painting as a release from the physicality of football. Give me some tubes of Old Holland oil paints and a few brushes and I’m a happy man.

  “And quit fighting with the media all the time. Stop giving them shit to write about. The front office will take notice and you’ll be more likely to have a job when you’re ready to return.”

  Trent stops talking when the doctor returns and I remain silent myself as the Doc wraps my shoulder and arm in a bandage then rests it in a sling.

  Lie low.

  Be quiet.

  Stay under the radar.

  I’m Jason Jett Caraway, one of the most highly recognizable athletes of the year. That’s going to be virtually impossible for me. But to keep doing the one thing that I eat, shit and breathe?

  I’ll give it my best shot.

  Three

  ADRIENNE

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just a kick in the gut,” I tell Penny, the nursing supervisor of Mercy West’s pediatric clinic. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I should have sent Mary in there with you. She could have held the little demon down.”

  I chuckle lightly. My last patient of the day is one of my favorites. He’s an intelligent little seven-year-old boy with a bright smile and a bad reputation. He hates inoculations and the doctors and nurses in the clinic loathe giving them to him. Every year without fail he kicks someone straight in the gut, and this year I’m the lucky one.

  “He’s a strong one, but I’ll survive.”

  I finish my last patient chart and hand it to Penny for filing.

  “Dr. Hodges, do you have any idea when they’re going to finally transition us to a fully digitized record keeping system?”

  “Dr. Hart has a meeting with the hospital to discuss it next week.”

  “Discuss it?” she says, unconvinced.

  “It’s a budget issue.” I sigh. “In this economy, the hospital has to be careful about any non-budgeted spending. It has to make sense.”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  Penny sounds disappointed and I totally understand why. I admittedly feel the same way. The “changes” they promised me were coming when I was selected for a residency in the pediatric department of Mercy West Family Medicine differ greatly from what’s actually come to fruition.

  I’m in no position to question the system, though. I am a resident who is hoping for a permanent spot with the hospital, preferably here at the clinic. So I keep my head down, I work long hours and pray that I am making a difference for all the little patients that I see.

  I check the time on my phone and then slide it in my purse. I’m actually going to make it home early for once in three months. My fiancé, Troy, is going to be so excited to have dinner at a normal hour. We don’t technically live together but he spends a great deal of time at my apartment because we both work in New York City but he lives across the river in New Jersey, so it’s just easier for him to stay over my place a couple of nights a week.

  “You have plans with that sweet fiancé of yours tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to cook him my famous chili but with vegetarian ingredients.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had chili. It’s not something I grew up eating.”

  “Well, most folks use ground beef, but I’m going to use the plant-based burger crumbles in mine. It’s still delicious and will have a sort of smokey flavor to it.”

  “Aww, sounds yummy. I’m sure he’ll love that.”

  “Yeah, he’s been so understanding about my work hours lately that it’s the least I can do.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard it must be to be a resident here and also be in a relationship with someone.”

  “I will not lie, there are definitely tough days, but I’m very committed to my work and to my relationship. Sometimes I have to compromise or make a hard decision about one over the other, but it all seems to work out in the end. Troy is a very understanding partner and most of all he’s my best friend.”

  Penny sighs. “Maybe that’s why I’m still single. That’s a hard combination to find.”

  “No, Penny, you’re only single because your Mr. Perfect has yet to reveal himself. He’s coming.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” She chuckles.

  “Trust me, I thought after my last relationship that I’d never find the right man, but falling in love with Troy has changed everything. I’m a genuine believer.”

  “How did you meet him again?” she asks wistfully. “And what do I need to do to meet his doppelgänger? Join a new church? Get on a dating website? Sacrifice my first-born child?”

  “I didn’t really have a strategy.” I smile. “I guess I was just lucky. We have a mutual friend who introduced us. He thought we’d be perfect together, and he was right.”

  “You are so lucky. It’s hard out here for us single girls. Trust me when I tell you should hold on to that one you’ve got.”

  I nod in agreement. “I will.”

  Penny turns toward the file folder cabinet and says,“Have a good night with your Mr. Perfect. I don’t work for the next three days, so I’ll see you on my next day on.”

  “Thanks, Penny. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I dash to the supermarket to pick up the fresh ingredients I need to make my chili. I don’t have time to soak the beans overnight like I normally would, so I settle for canned beans instead. Troy won’t know the difference. It’s all about the seasonings, anyway.

  I decide to use my time in the store to check in on my mom. She’s been a widower for four years now, and I worry about her sometimes. She’s still quite young and could easily date again, but she’s just not motivated to meet anyone new. Even in death, she’s completely faithful to my father. In some ways, it’s a moving tribute of her commitment to him.

  “Hi, mommy.”

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m trying to replicate a recipe I pulled out of my women’s magazine.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing you would want. It’s for marinated lamb chops.”

  “But you already make a great grilled lamb chop.”

  “You and your father loved them grilled and practically burnt, but I never did. Just trying to see if I can prepare them a different way.”

  “Hmm, I didn’t realize that you didn’t like your chops that way.”

  “Not a big deal. I’m not that picky about my food.”

  Huh.

  “Right.”

  “So where are you, sweetie?”

  “I’m in the market picking up some things for dinner. I’m cooking tonight too.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. What’s on the menu?”

  “Vegetarian chili.”

  “That sounds interesting. I’m sure Troy will like that.”

  While I am making this dish, hoping Troy will enjoy it, I realize that there’s something about my mom’s comment that rubs me the wrong way.

  “Well, sure, he probably will like it, but that’s not the only reason I’m making it. What’s more important is that it’s the healthier option.”

  “Of course, dear. You’re right. I heard many people lose weight on those vegetarian diets.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “That’s not why either, mom.”

  My mother changes the subject because I get touchy when she alludes to some sort of problem with my weight. I am built very much like my stocky paternal grandmother and not at all like my mother’s waif thin side of the family. A fact I’ve accepted long ago, but one she never lets me forget.

  “Listen, sweetie, your cousin wanted me to dou
ble check that you can attend her bridal shower.”

  “Of course I can,” I say with an attitude. “I already told her that I was coming.”

  My first cousin Cecily is the biggest pain in the ass since she got engaged. She is a classic Bridezilla, wanting to control every single part of the planning of her wedding. I have told her on three different occasions through text messages I was confirmed for her shower, but that isn’t good enough for her. Now she’s getting the moms involved. Our mothers are twin sisters and very close, but Cecily and I couldn’t be more different. In fact, we barely tolerate each other.

  “Don’t get so frustrated with her, Adrienne. The date of the shower is right around the corner and you work a lot. She just wants to make sure that all of her family is there. When you finally start planning your big day, you’ll see how much of a monumental task the planning is.”

  My mom places a slight emphasis on the word finally, because in her opinion Troy and I should have planned our wedding a long time ago. Cecily and her fiancé got engaged after us and will be married before us, and she never let me forget that either. I don’t think my mom is necessarily embarrassed by it, but she is definitely concerned, especially with my track record with men being what it is.

  “I hear you, mom. I will call her so that there is no doubt that I’m confirmed, okay?”

  “Perfect. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

  I seriously doubt that.

  “Do you need anything while I’m at the store, mom?”

  “No, hun’, I’m just going to get back to my chops, then maybe watch an old movie.”

  “Are you watching anything I might like?”

  “I think I’m going to watch Bye Bye Birdie. I haven’t seen that musical in years.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. I love the old musicals.”

  “Me too.”

  “Alright, talk to you later, mom.”

  “Bye, sweetie.”

  When I pull up in front of my place, I can see my tabby cat, Mittens, sitting in my home office windowsill, which is weird. She normally only goes inside that room when I have to put her away because someone with allergies has come over but maybe she’s sitting there because she senses that I’m coming home. Cats are smart like that.