I lift my chin. “I wish they’d sent someone else, someone willing to give me some advice, instead of letting her personal feelings get in the way of her job.”
“It’s not my job to hold your hand.” She nods behind me at Jet, who’s lying on his back on the couch, laughing while he lets Torzi lick the inside of his mouth. “As soon as Brain Trust is lucid, he’ll be more of a help. He knows the drill.” Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulls out Jet’s phone. “Oh, and here. I didn’t want him texting his dong to random people or something else equally scandalous while drugged.” Before I can thank her (however grudgingly) for covering that detail, she says, “Sweet message, by the way.”
“Hey! That was private!”
“Whatever. There are several from his mom on there, too. If I were you, I’d respond as him and tell her ‘you’re’ fine; otherwise, you’re about to have Gloria on your doorstep, on top of everything else. But whatever. Your call.”
“My mom’s name is Gloria!” Jet says around Torzi’s tongue, then pushes the dog away and sits up. “What are the chances?”
When I turn to shoot him a long-suffering look, he waves coyly, fluttering his eyelashes at me. “Hey, baby. You know how horny it makes me when you wear my jersey. Why don’t you come down here and let me prove it?”
Rae pulls open the front door. “And that’s definitely my cue to go.” She shows me her back and says as she steps onto the porch, “Get him to bed ASAP. That’ll make your job a whole lot easier.”
I want to punch her in the back of the head, but instead, I simply reply, “Thanks for bringing him home.”
She says nothing to that, merely retreats down the landscaped, lighted path to her car and quickly circles it to get to the driver’s side.
Seething, I stare after her taillights for a few seconds, then, eyes closed and arms wrapped around myself, strategize my next steps. I’ll keep an eye on Jet’s phone for updates about those tests in the morning, and afterward, we’ll have the hired car take us by the training facility to get his car.
I open my eyes. Under the porch light, I give myself a silent pep talk.
You’ve got this, Richards. He’s a grown man, after all. Get him upstairs and in bed. How hard can it be?
A crash from inside the house behind me has me spinning and running faster than an All-Pro punt returner. It’ll be a miracle if both of us survive the night.
We do survive the night. And the next morning, and the whole next day, most of which we spend at the hospital. It doesn’t take long for doctors to confirm Rae’s suspicions that Jet sustained a deep sprain to the ligament connecting his thumb to the rest of his hand, but after his diagnosis, the celebrity patient doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave the hospital.
When he first suggests we stop by the pediatric ward, I’m not particularly thrilled. After a long, restless night, part of which I spent helping two-hundred pounds of dead weight get to the bathroom when his meds upset his stomach, I want to get him home and take a nap. But I don’t object to visiting the kids, because it seems important to him, and I figure if it takes his mind off things for a while, then it’s worth it.
As soon as the elevator doors open on that pediatric floor, he’s a different person than he’s been all morning. The patients think it’s cool that Jet Knox has a boo-boo, too. He explains to them what the doctors have told him about his hand and how it means he can’t play like he wants to, either, for a while.
Then he spends one-on-one time with each child. In most cases, he makes the kids laugh by cutting loose and acting silly. Other times, for the less outgoing patients, he tones it down, talking quietly and gently next to their beds, or listening intently to what they have to say. In one instance, he holds a ten-year-old girl’s hand while she cries. At another bed, he reads a story to a boy too young and too sick to know or care who Jet Knox is.
We spend hours on that floor. Jet the hospital visitor is amazing.
Jet the patient is a pain in the ass.
I know, that’s a horrible thing to say. He’s hurt; he’s worried about his throwing hand and his job; he’s dealing with a lot. I should be more understanding. But I thought he’d be a better trouper than he’s been. I figured he’d be his usual go-getter self, the guy who doesn’t take “no” for an answer, the guy who’s all about solutions. It’s not that I thought he’d be like he was when he first came home, high and manic and silly, but I didn’t think he’d be so down and short-tempered, either.
The doctors say if he follows their recovery instructions and does the exercises they’ve prescribed, he could be back in the game in as little as three weeks, missing only two games, thanks to the team’s early bye this year. But one of the games he’ll miss is that Monday night home rematch against the Patriots he’s been looking forward to since losing to them in the playoffs. I can only imagine how disappointed he is.
Since he’s not talking to me, I’ve had to resort to just that, my imagination.
Maybe he’s simply tired and hungover from the drugs. Maybe the pain is getting to him more
