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In comparison, I have nothing to complain about. And yet, ‘just’ a knee injury can end a career.
I’m pissed.
“Hey,” Petal says, settling in on the sofa next to me, “why don’t we go back to Tahoe for a few days to that killer house. It would be good for you to get a change of scenery.”
I know she’s trying to help. But I’m just not in a place where I can gracefully accept anything. I’m too busy wallowing.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Did you hear on the news? There are rumors circulating my career might be over. Fuckers. They can’t wait to see a guy down on his luck.”
She turns to me. “I never thought you’d be the man to act like such a wuss when things don’t go your way.”
“What?” I snap.
She raises her eyebrows. “You heard me.”
Jesus. I am so not in the mood.
“Look. Let’s get dressed and go to the game tonight. It will be good for the team to see you and get your support. It will put an end to the rumors too.”
I look at the cane in the corner of the living room. I can’t get around without it. I’d have to use it in front of everyone.
That would blow. I can see it now, everyone looking at me with pity, like I’m all washed up.
She jumps to her feet and grabs my shoes and a jacket. “Get up.”
I look out the window of my apartment, a view I never thought I’d get sick of looking at. Fog swirls over the bay, and a couple massive container ships pass under the bridge.
Holy fuck, am I in a funk.
“Look, we’ll get stadium nachos covered with that weird orange sludge. You know, the stuff they say is cheese, but everyone knows is really not cheese? Where they throw inone tiny jalapeño slice to make you think you’re getting your vegetables for the day?”
Why does she have to be so cute?
“Look, all you’ve eaten today are the cookies your mom sent. The ones she wraps individually before putting them in the box. By the way, who does that?”
“What’s weird about individually wrapping each cookie? Doesn’t everyone do it that way?” I finally look at her and see she’s put on one of the team jerseys I got her. I’ll be damned.
Tapping her foot, she raises her eyebrows and looks down at me where I’m still slumping into the sofa. “No. Most people, at least people who are not part of the Hanson family, put all the cookies in a box or bag or whatever, and mail them that way. No offense, but I do think your mom’s method is a little abnormal.”
I’m trying not to laugh and in fact, don’t even want to smile. But I can’t help myself, nor do I really want to. I’m with this ball-busting woman for a reason. She lets me get away with zero shit, as she should.
I don’t deserve her, I really don’t.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Okay, I’ll go. Just please stop begging me.”
“Nobody’s begging you to do anything, and if you keep acting like you’re doingmesome kind of favor, I won’t help you put your shoes on.”
I love this woman.
I put my shoe on the foot of my good leg and she puts my shoe on the other. She helps me to my feet and steadies me while I pull on a jacket, and then hands me my cane, which I initially refused to use until the doctors insisted it was better than crutches because it would make me work harder.
They know their shit.
Petal helps me into the backseat of the Range Rover, where I can keep my knee mostly straight, and drives us to the stadium.The parking lot is already full, and some people are even tailgating, sucking down beers and chowing on grilled hotdogs. It’s funny, this is a part of the game ritual I never see. I’m usually in the locker room hours before a game, long before the fans start to arrive.
Petal pulls into the team parking facility and security takes us in an elevator to the family suite.
“Haven’t been up here in ages,” I say, acknowledging the nods and pats on the back I’m getting while wobbling down the hall.
