Fuck.
I scrub a hand down my face and continue digging around. I find the bottom of the bag loaded with snacks the guys must have put there. Then my fingers wrap around a bottle of tequila. The good stuff, too.
It’s been a while since I got shit-faced, and let me tell you, the urge is strong right about now. But I’m going to prove to everybody who’s given up on me that they’re wrong.
So, I’ll pass on the tequila. During the season, keeping my body and mind in top shape is my number one priority so in general, I shun the booze. I’d choose a good cup of tea over a shot of tequila any day of the week. And I’d parade my middle fingers to anyone who dares to question my manlihood over it.
Emotionally worn out, I drop back on the bed and turn on the TV. I flip mindlessly through the channels.
I stall when I get to the Sports Broadcast Network. Many of my teammates make it a point to avoid sports talk during the season. When those analysts pick you apart, shitting on your hard-earned stats and your best on-field moments, that can easily crush your spirits. But I think I’m sort of addicted to yelling at the screen and telling the announcers what idiots they are.
Plus, I’m not playing right now and I'm craving contact with the sport so much that I'm more than willing to listen to those so-called ‘sports journalists’ running off at the mouth.
I happen to tune in right as Steven and Arty are in the middle of a heated argument about yours truly.
Was Jude Kingston a hall of famer tight end? the caption at the bottom of the screen reads.
There it goes. The past tense again, talking about me like I’m ancient history.
But I refuse to think in the past tense. I've got to keep my optimism alive. Because my career isn't over. No matter what the team expects, no matter what the doctors say. There's no fucking way I'm done playing football.
The talk show hosts bullshit about my stats, and I’m a little honored that Steven is on my side. Arty is a tool, though. As always.
A cringe slithers through me as they replay the film from my last moment on the field. My right knee twitches in pain just watching it. Shit.
It was really a freak event. That’s even how my coach described it in the press. It was fourth and one, and we were going for it. I had a short carry, just two yards, but it was enough for a first down. Minnesota’s defense dog piled me, and someone landed on my leg, at just the wrong angle, and the wrong time.
I still remember the white hot lightning that shot from my knee up my quad. But once I looked down and saw my kneecap twisted out of place, all deformed and grotesque…I think I blacked out for a few.
The trainer popped my dislocated kneecap back into place right there on the field, before they carted me off. Some dislocation injuries are pretty straightforward. Pop it back in, ice and therapy for a few weeks, and you’re golden.
But, I wasn't so lucky.
The dislocation managed to rip my ACL in the process. I had surgery right away, and I just came off crutches before my trip here. A younger guy might still be in the game after this. But once you’ve dislocated your knee, it’s prone to happen again. Between that and my lovely weakened ligaments, my doctors were pretty blunt. You’re lucky to be able to walk. Don’t expect to be back out on that field.
But fuck the doctors. They don't know my body. And they don't know how much I'm willing to sacrifice to stay in the game. And I will get back in the game. It's not a matter of 'if', but 'when'.
Until then, listening to Steven and Arty’s propaganda on SBN isn’t a great idea for me. I grab the remote and surf through channels again. I find an old Bourne movie playing and settle in with that until I'm ready to drag myself into the shower.
A door in the hall slams and I hear light footsteps slapping the floor, reminding me where I am. Don’t get too comfortable, the footsteps seem to whisper.
I can’t help but wonder what happened with Iris and Kirk’s relationship. The last time I talked to him was almost two years ago. He and Iris had only been married a couple years by then, and Kirk was already complaining. Bitching about freedom and variety. I wonder what it was that finally tore them apart.
I turn up the television volume to drown out my curious thoughts. She and I aren’t friends, I remind myself.
But my stilted interaction with her earlier keeps replaying in my head. She looked sad. Broken. Maybe I should go talk to her again, catch up, try to be the sociable guy people expect me to be.
Nah, Iris doesn't seem interested in my friendship. So, I'll park my ass right here, stay out of her way.
Bourne is kicking ass in Berlin, and I just want to get lost.
Iris’s life is none of my business. I have enough of my own shit to deal with. I’m meeting with my new physical therapist in the morning to start the gruelling exercise regime that will set me on the road to recovery.
Focusing on me—my dreams, my career, my healing—that's the plan.
5
Iris
I jolt awake at the bang. Another loud noise makes me jump. I take several hard blinks to orient myself.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, with my laptop in front of me.
I must have fallen asleep while doing some late-night research for my next online business venture. Again.
But this morning, I’m not alone.
There’s a huge male body rummaging around in the cupboards.
Jude. In low-slung athletic pants and a thin, white T-shirt. Sifting through every drawer and cabinet in search of I-don’t-know-what. Why are men so flipping loud and awkward in the kitchen?
The ends of his sandy hair are wet, darker than yesterday.
