It’s deja-vu. This fresh injury is almost identical to the original damage that halted my career and brought me back to this stupid town to begin with.
My ACL is torn again. A jagged rip that shredded through the surgical graft and then through more ligaments. And for the icing on top of the shit cake? The scans also seem to reveal permanent damage to my knee cartilage. My knee is done.
I’m having a hard time coming to grips with the news. I hear myself asking, “What does this mean for playing football? I’ve been in therapy, working hard at it every day, and I was going to be back on the field at the start of next season.” It’s like I’m trying to convince him—and myself—that this isn’t the end of the road for me. At this point, I wouldn’t even be able to say where my injury is. My whole body is pounding with agony.
The doctor takes a deep, audible breath, shaking his head. I read the sympathy between the lines in his forehead. I’ve seen that look before. From the other doctors who examined me the first time I blew out my knee. Pity. More pity.
“Given the gravity of this new injury and especially given the fact that it’s your second ACL tear, I’d say that playing professional sports just isn’t an option for you anymore. The colleagues I’ve reviewed your file with agree. I’m sorry, Jude. I know that’s not what you want to hear.” He closes his folder definitively and tucks it under his arm. “Let’s just focus on getting this repaired correctly and making sure you can walk without aid.”
The moment the doctor exits and shuts my door, I scream. And then I hold onto the bedrails of this stiff, flimsy hospital bed and I scream some more.
This is not supposed to be happening to me.
Rage ripples through every limb. It’s almost strong enough to entirely blot out the intense pain in my knee. The pain is there, all right. It’s throbbing inside the cells of my swollen, double-sized joint. But it’s no match for the agony pulsing through my heart.
I’m done.
Life as I know it is officially over.
No more practices. No more games, playoffs, or championship rings. No more locker room pranks. No more teammates to call my brothers. No more cushy retirement fund in 10 years.
No. More. Football.
The sting of my disappointment needles the backs of my eyes. I don’t even try to stop the tears as they fall.
A nurse pokes her head through the door. “Your family is here. Is it okay to send them in?”
“No,” I grunt.
The smile falls right off the lady’s face when she sees the state I’m in. I can’t imagine what I look like, a hulking professional athlete sitting here broken and powerless and blubbering. Thanks to a man I once called my friend.
Kirk knew exactly what he was doing when he sucker-kicked my feet out from under me. The jealous fucker was trying to end me. Congratulations, jackass. You did.
If only my stupid, fucking heart hadn’t gone and fallen in love…
Don’t even go there, Jude. Don’t even try and blame this on Iris.
I lie back and shut my eyes, scrub my hands down my face. I can’t think about Iris right now. Not when my mind is warped the way it is.
At some point, another nurse comes in and stabs me with a needle, setting up my IV with some miracle-making liquid painkillers. Morphine, I’m sure.
“Your family is still in the waiting room,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “They’re really worried and want to see you. Maybe we can just bring in two at a time?”
“No,” I say, my voice gritty and tired. “No one.” I bark again.
What is their obsession with freaking visitors? I’m the one in the hospital. I am the one in pain. I’m the one who has to call my coach to tell him to drop me from injury reserve because I will never, ever be returning to football again.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but I wake when someone brings in a food tray. “It’s well past meal time, but I managed to snag you a sandwich and a fruit cup,” the same mild-mannered nurse from before tells me in this saccharine sweet voice that annoys the hell out of me. She pauses, hesitates. “Your people are still here, waiting…”
I don’t want to see any of my family. I’d rather just let this morphine seep into my bloodstream until exhaustion creeps in and pulls me under again. But I know that if I don’t show face soon, my mom will cry herself into a dehydrated frenzy, Cannon will end up suing everybody, and Walker will punch inanimate objects and throw hospital chairs until security personnel kicks them all out.
“Send them in together. I just want to get it over with.”
Moments later, Ma rushes in. “Jude!” Her tears come instantly. I open my arms for her and she practically throws herself into me for a hug.
My father and brothers stand back, their expressions saying everything they won’t say out loud. Mom rambles comforting words against my chest even though she’s clearly in need of comfort herself. I shut my eyes to avoid her anguish as my own tears come again.
Eventually, my mother pulls back to inspect my face. She brushes my tears with her fingertips. “Baby, Iris is here,” Ma says softly, “and she’s a wreck. She’s asking if you’ll let her see you.”
Right now, I’m motherfucking mad at the world. Angry that I didn’t smash Kirk’s ugly face in when I had the chance. Rather, I chose to be the bigger person…and he smashed me instead.
He should have never had the clear shot to attack me, but I was too worried about Iris’s wellbeing to do what I should have done.
More than
