Colin snorts. “He’s doubtful; that much they’re sure about? Where do they find these people?”
Dan and Charlie drone about X-rays and hand injuries like they’re automatic career-enders and it was nice knowing Jet, but where’s the new guy? It takes them a shockingly short period of time to start spewing Wilcox’s college stats and reversing their earlier concerns about putting the greenhorn into the game. To hear them now, it’s a wonder Wilcox wasn’t given the starting job a long time ago.
The offensive play calling, however, remains conservative to the point of coma-inducing, so the rookie doesn’t have a chance to do anything noteworthy for the rest of the half.
The announcers are underwhelmed. “Despite Wilcox’s relative success in preseason play, it appears Dick Bauer’s not going to try anything cute here with his rookie backup and is burning time off the clock to get us to halftime.”
As soon as the clock hits zero in the half, I bolt from the couch.
“Where are you going?” Greg asks. “There’s still half a game to go!”
“I don’t care. I’m going to Jet’s house.”
“Why? What’s the point in that?”
“I can’t watch this game anymore, and I’m not going to make you guys turn it off.”
“Good luck with that, anyway,” Deirdre says under her breath.
“Exactly. So, I’m going to go to Jet’s and wait for someone to get in touch with me.”
“They can get in touch with you here,” Greg says. “On your cell. We have the technology. Do you really want to be alone right now?”
“Yes! Stop asking me stupid questions.”
Colin rises. “Are you positive you’re okay? I can drive you, or…?”
I take a deep breath and smile bravely. “No! Of course, I’m fine. But I want to be alone when he calls.”
Greg waves his hands at me. “You’re weird. Give us the scoop when you know anything, so we can sell it to the Star.”
It takes every bit of willpower I have not to run to my car. When I get in, it takes still more control not to dial Jet’s cell phone. I’ll only be forced to leave a frantic message, and that’s the last thing he needs to hear when he’s able to check his messages later. I do send one text through my tears, though:
I’ll kiss it better when you get home.
Twenty-Nine
Insult and Injury
“Look, Rae’s here!” Jet says after kissing me hello.
“I see that,” I reply coldly, wishing they’d sent a different trainer with him.
“I told her I could drive myself home, but she wouldn’t let me. It’s only a thumb!” He waves his bandaged hand in the air.
Rae rolls her eyes and nudges Jet’s dropped duffel bag out of the way with her legs. “He’s high. Valium and Vicodin. Don’t let him operate machinery. Or go to the bathroom alone.”
He thrusts his wrapped hand under my nose. “I have a boo-boo. Did you see the game?”
“Uh, yes. Didn’t you get my text?”
“Huh?” He pats his pockets. “Oh, no! My phone! Where’d it go?”
“Never mind,” Rae says. “You don’t need it right now. Let’s get you settled.”
Leading them into the living room, I ask, “What’s the damage?”
Rae waits until we’re all seated and Jet’s greeted Torzi, who’s been keeping me company for the past several hours, before she answers, “Don’t know yet. X-rays were negative, so we know it’s not broken, but they’ll need to do an MRI tomorrow to get a better idea of ligament damage. The key is to keep it immobilized and the swelling down until then. It’s not the worst hand injury I’ve ever seen,” she finally finishes. “Probably a bad sprain.”
I sigh at her less-than-precise diagnosis and prognosis.
“I can’t make any guarantees or predictions. You’re going to have to wait and see what the specialists say. And maybe, eventually, a surgeon.”
“Surgeon? You think he needs surgery?”
Jet edges closer to me on the couch and pets my hair with his healthy hand. “Babe. Babe. Babe.”
I turn my attention to him, so he’ll stop calling me that.
“Babe. It’s gonna be okay,” he slurs with a dopey grin. “It doesn’t hurt at all. It’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“Jet, honey, you’re stoned,” I coo. “That’s why it doesn’t hurt.”
“For realsies?” He whirls and looks at Rae. “Am I gonna get in trouble for this? I’m not allowed to do drugs, Rae.”
“These are legal drugs, dumbass. Keep that hand still!”
“Is it in there? I need that hand to throw footballs.” He doesn’t seem all that concerned, though, which I chalk up to the Valium doing its job. Instead, he switches back to petting me. “You’re soft, like Torzi.”
Rae stands. “This should be a fun night for you.”
“You’re leaving?” I don’t want her here, but I also don’t want to be alone with the patient. “I have no idea what to do with him!”
“Put him to bed. It’s better if he sleeps, because then he won’t move his hand. He needs the sleep.”
“I could sleep,” he says agreeably, standing.
“What do I do if it starts to hurt again?” I ask Rae.
“His ‘scripts are in his bag. The instructions are on them. He re-dosed his pain meds on the plane. Around six-thirty, I think.”
“You think? I probably need to know exactly.”
“I wrote it down. Duh. It’s all with the pills. He doesn’t necessarily need to keep up with the Valium dosage. We needed him to be relaxed for the trip home.” She turns toward the door. “You’ll be fine. This will be great training for your future. Football players get hurt. When he’s finished killing himself on the field, you’ll have little diapered Jet Juniors to nurse through illness and injury.”
My temper spikes, but I have more important problems than her snide predictions into my future. After a three-count, I ask, “What about this diagnostic appointment tomorrow? What time is that?”
“Have him ready early. They’ll send a car.”
“What about his car?”
She whirls