Prologue
Cord
“The snap's a little wide, but Morales catches it, steps back into the pocket. On the left, Gunnerson's heading his way—no, Morales sees him and dances to the left there.”
“Fast on his feet, Cordero Morales, in his fourth year out of Arizona State. Former Heisman finalist. He spots Simmons downfield and yes, throws a perfect spiral for a first down.”
The TV flickered in the dark living room, the only light source in my apartment. I stepped back on screen, almost life-sized on my giant flat screen, and launched the ball downfield.
The crowd exploded into chaos.
“Still think he was robbed for the Heism—NO!”
I barely felt the cold glass of my breakfast beer as I watched the hit play out in slow motion. I winced, slumping deeper into the leather couch, my heart clenching every time I saw myself on screen, right shoulder battered under the crushing blow, pain blooming across my face even through the helmet as the commentators' raised voices talked over each other, detailing the late hit.
A shudder ran through me, reliving the agony of torn muscle and shattered dreams each time I watched.
“Why are you still watching this?” Ruben's voice cut through the darkness.
I paused the video, grimacing as it froze on a close-up of my twisted face. The hit that changed everything, replaying in my living room for the hundredth time.
“Fuck off, Ruben,” I muttered, not looking away from the screen. “Leave me alone.”
That didn't work. Instead, Ruben Bernard marched toward me, standing over me with arms crossed. The familiar weight of his disappointment filled the room like smoke.
“C'mon, Cordero. That hit was three weeks ago. Time to move on.”
Three weeks since my shoulder got crushed under a deliberate late hit. Since my career potentially ended on national television while Kris Lowry smiled about it.
But who's counting?
“I really don't need this right—ow, fuck...” Pain shot through my shoulder as I shifted on the couch.
Ruben walked over to the window, pressed a button and raised the floor-to-ceiling blinds. Sunlight flooded my penthouse apartment, chasing away the shadows I'd been hiding in. I squinted against the brightness, watching my agent, impeccably dressed in an Italian suit as always, survey the wreckage of empty beer bottles and takeout containers.
Once, this place had been magazine-worthy. Perfect for hosting teammates, impressing journalists, maintaining the image of Denver's rising star quarterback.
Now it looked like a frat house after a bender.
“Tell me what the doctor said,” Ruben demanded.
I rolled my eyes. “You know what the doctor said.”
“I know what he said.” Ruben shoved aside an empty pizza box and sank down on the sofa beside me. “Tell me anyway so we're on the same page.”
I slumped back against the cushions, wincing as my shoulder pressed against one of the pillows. “Therapy's not working. It's surgery to fix the torn rotator cuff, or I'll never play again.”
Ruben shook his head. “I don't see what the problem is. Then you get the surgery. Isn't that what you want? To play again?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Play again? The standard protocol gets me to maybe eighty percent. Eighty percent doesn't cut it in the NFL, Ruben. Not at my level.”
“What about the other option?” Ruben leaned forward, his voice dropping. “I've been making some calls. There's a surgeon in Istanbul—Dr. Arslan. He's been pioneering a new technique with stem cell integration and advanced microsurgery. It's experimental, but the results I've seen...” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through something. “Cord, he's gotten athletes back to ninety, even ninety-five percent.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Istanbul? Seriously?”
“He trained at Johns Hopkins, and did a fellowship in Munich. This isn't some back-alley operation. The European sports medicine community is watching him closely.” Ruben paused, his expression growing more serious. “But I have to be straight with you. There's risk. If something goes wrong, if your body rejects the treatment or there are complications... you could lose more range of motion than you have now. Maybe permanently.”
“How much more risk are we talking?”
