“We’re just happy to see you, man!” Jace reaches across the table and ruffles my uncombed hair. I knock his hand away.
“Bro, we thought you were dead,” Knox says with a creased brow. “Had to hunt you down through your agent.”
The guys have been bullshitting about the Paragon’s season. We lost another game two nights ago, so understandably, my friends are bummed. Meanwhile, I keep my face a blank mask. Reminders of my injury sting.
At the moment, I’m still on the team, sitting uncomfortably on the injury reserve list while Fletcher, the second-string tight end, makes an absolute shitshow as my replacement. But at the end of the season, the general manager will have to make a decision about my fate.
The Iowa Paragons are a winning team, mostly thanks to Maxwell, our all-star quarterback. But what good is a fifty million dollar per year quarterback if he doesn’t have the weapons around him to get the job done?
In the offseason, we drafted Knox. Between his running game, and my ability to give Maxwell a stellar receiving target, this was going to be our year. Then, I had to go and fuck that up. I just hope team management is willing to give me a shot to redeem myself before drafting another superstar tight end to replace me.
“We’ve had three straight losses,” Maxwell complains. “Did you see our last game? They double-teamed Knox on defense. We don’t have a chance if we can’t get our passing game going again.”
Knox bows his head in frustration and tears off his cap. “I haven’t been playing at my best,” he admits, running a big, brown hand over his short, compact curls. “Ever since Arlene filed for separation.” The guy has a lot going on in his personal life, especially the child custody drama.
Maxwell drops a palm on his shoulder. “You can’t take all the blame, man. Don’t beat yourself up. The rest of the team has to pull their weight, too.”
“What about Fletcher and Cora ?” I ask about our other tight end and our veteran wide receiver. They’re not consistently great, but they have their moments.
“Between the pair, we had six dropped passes in the first quarter alone,” Jace groans. “It was fucking painful to watch. Maxwell’s pass rating is taking a huge nosedive, and Coach broke another headset.”
“Sorry, guys.” I don’t know what else to say. I hate this. We all hate this.
“How’s PT going?” Knox asks, “I’ve heard whispers that you’re not coming back. But they’re not true, are they?”
“PT’s going slower than I’d like.” I hesitate before continuing but my teammates deserve to know the truth. And anything I say will stay here. The four of us hold unspoken loyalty. “For a long time, I wasn’t making much progress but that was because I was working with the wrong people. If my PT therapist isn’t taking me serious, then what’s the point, y’know? So I had to fire the first four assholes. I’m on my fifth physiotherapist, at this point, though. I’ve been making gradual progress with his help. The pain in my knee is subsiding and it’s getting easier to walk without a limp…I’m gonna make a comeback, guys. I’m sure of it.”
There’s an uncomfortable lull in the conversation. I can see the pity in Jace and Knox’s expressions. Maxwell gives an unconvinced nod and turns back to his beer. Clearly, my teammates think I’m delusional.
Experiencing a career-ending injury is every athlete’s biggest fear. You’re so freaked out, worried about jinxing yourself, that you almost feel as though you’ll catch an injury like a fucking illness. No one wants to talk about it too much for fear that I’ll pass it along. On some level, I’m grateful my teammates don’t voice that negativity out loud.
But I can recover from this. Hearing Iris say she believes in me, right when I was about to give up. It’s like she injected a double-dose of self-confidence into me. And having her working out alongside me has given me a boost I didn’t realize I needed. It’s her friendship—her faith in me—that’s been keeping me going these past few days.
“Who’s that babe you’re shacking up with?” Knox asks, awkwardly changing the subject.
“Iris?” Just saying her name and I need another swig of beer. The sexual tension between us has been bananas since that wild kiss in the hallway.
I spend all my time replaying that kiss…with an alternate ending. An ending that involves us together in her bed, me pounding into that sweet, curvy body of hers until she screams my name.
“You hitting that?” Jace asks with a smirk on his face. I know that look. He’d hook up with her, if given the opportunity. A territorial spark of jealousy ignites in the center of my gut.
That’s not fucking happening…
Knox reads my expression, his own face lighting up with a mischievous grin. “Oh, you are hitting that!”
“Dude, it’s not like that.” I take a long pull of my beer. And because I’m too chicken to face what I’m really feeling, I fall back on my classic excuse. “She’s my best friend’s ex-wife, and I wouldn’t do that to him.” I’m so full of shit. If my teammates hadn’t rang the doorbell when they did, no doubt I would have kissed Iris again. And dealt with the guilt later.
Jason narrows his eyes. “You said ex-wife, right? So what’s the problem?” His reasoning hits a nerve. Jace is the eternal bachelor. He just doesn’t get it.
I look at Maxwell, the only happily married man of our group. If anyone will understand my reasoning, it’s him. “Help me out here, Masters. You can’t hook up with your friends’ ex-wives. That goes against every rule of the bro code, doesn’t it?”
The team captain surprises me by tilting his head back and forth as he weighs the question. “I say it depends…”
“On what?” Knox asks, his expression guarded, clearly telegraphing that if any of us ever hit on his estranged wife, we’d have his fists to contend with.
Maxwell shrugs.
