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I hate press, but it’s a necessary evil in this sport.
I have sponsorships and endorsement deals that are based around my public image. Acting like a dick to reporters might feel good in the moment, but it wouldn’t be worth it in the long run.
Doc, our head trainer—an orthopedist with thirty years of experience in sports medicine—kneels down in front of me and asks to examine my ankle.
“I don’t think it’s bad,” I tell him as he unties my cleat, tugs off my sock, and starts to work through a few mobility exercises. He dorsiflexes and plantarflexes my foot, rotating it and asking me when and if I experience any pain in my ankle. I have a pretty high threshold for pain. In this sport, you have to. There’s no other way to survive a three-hundred-pound lineman pounding me into the turf if one of my guards fails to defend me in the pocket. Fortunately, though, that doesn’t happen all that often.
Doc rotates my ankle again and it tweaks a bit, but nothing like I’ve experienced in the past with broken bones. Nothing, and I mean nothing can compare to when I broke my clavicle during a game back in high school.
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I’ll sit in the ice bath after this. It should be good to go for tomorrow.”
He nods and stands, relaying notes to the assistant standing beside him and carrying a small laptop. They keep careful track of all my injuries, and I get it. I’m a commodity, something they’ve paid top dollar to acquire and something they’d like to ensure stays fit for the next decade. Sure, they might care about me as a person somewhat, but more than anything, they care about my body and the way it will perform on the field come next season.
Darius finds me on the bench after Doc leaves to assess another player.
“Guess we’ll have to take you behind the barn and shoot you,” he jokes, nodding at my foot.
“It’s nothing. They’re just being overly cautious.”
He laughs and glares over at the reporters. “I bet the top story on SportsCenter later is about your damn ankle.”
I laugh and shake it off. I don’t watch that crap, so I don’t really care.
“Anyway, what happened Saturday? It looked like you and Candace were getting pretty cozy in the pool.”
I half-laugh, half-grunt in response.
“What? She rejected you?” He grins as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Damn, you win the Super Bowl and you could get any girl you want, and you happen to go for the only one in Manhattan who turns you down? That’s some shit luck.”
The idea of her turning me down chafes my ego. “She didn’t turn me down. She told me we can’t be together because it’s against the rules. I guess since she’s my nephew’s teacher, we can’t date or she’ll be fired.”
Darius makes a face like that’s the most fucked-up thing he’s ever heard.
“These damn private schools…I swear, man.”
I look away, thinking back on last night. Showing up to Candace’s apartment was like a scene out of a comedy movie: her lying on the floor in her bathroom, blonde hair spilling out around her head, her baby hairs stuck to her temple with sweat. She looked so sick and yet somehow still so goddamn beautiful. It’s the smile; she’s always smiling.
I inwardly groan as I dig the palm of my right hand into my eye. Do I seriously have it this bad for the girl already?
“So what are you going to do? Leave it? Find someone else? You know we have that Feeding America gala this weekend. I’m taking Liz, and I know Melody’s planning on going too. We could just all go together.”
Fuck no.
“I’d rather not. Melody and I aren’t going to happen.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs. “Would have been nice, dating friends. And you can’t tell me you don’t think she’s hot.”
Yeah, sure, on paper—but what does that matter when I can’t seem to get a tiny British girl out of my head?
“I’ll ask Candace to go with me,” I say, standing up so I can head inside to take an ice bath.
“I thought you said she was off limits. Are you going to get the girl fired?”
Maybe.
If it comes to that…Chapter TenCandaceAfter spending the entirety of Monday in a vegetative state on my couch, I feel much better on Tuesday, keen to head into work. I get up early and dress in clothes slightly nicer than what I usually wear to teach toddlers: smart black jacket, sleek ponytail, a swipe of lipstick. I call out farewells to Yasmine and Kat then set off to grab another round of coffee to bribe Mrs. Halliday and Laura. I can’t keep doing this. My bank account is screaming at me, but I can’t just walk in there empty-handed, asking for favors.
