I looked closer, past the surface. “Someone who's been performing his whole life and forgot how to just exist.”
“Keep going.”
“Someone who built his entire identity around one thing and now has to figure out who he is without it.” The words came easier than I expected. “Someone who's scared as hell but starting to think maybe that's okay.”
Dusty's hands squeezed my shoulders. “What do you love? Not what you're supposed to love, but what actually makes you feel alive?”
The question caught me off guard. I'd spent so long focused on what I was good at, what was expected of me, that I'd stopped asking what I actually wanted.
“Cooking,” I said. “Not fancy stuff, just experimenting with flavors, seeing what works together. Creating something from scratch that makes people happy.” No one knew this, but the large, gourmet kitchen in my Denver penthouse had been the deciding factor when I leased it.
“What else?”
“Music. Not performing, just listening. Getting lost in the complexity of a good composition.”
“Keep going.”
“The way morning light looks on water. Dogs… I've always wanted a dog but never had time. Building things with my hands. The smell of rain on hot pavement.” The words tumbled out, each revelation surprising me. “Reading about architecture and design. Learning how spaces shape the way people feel and move through the world.”
“Open your eyes.”
When I did, Dusty was smiling at me with something that looked like pride. “That's who you are when nobody's watching. Someone who notices beauty, who wants to create rather than just compete, who finds joy in simple things.”
The realization sat heavy in my chest. Not bad heavy, but significant. Like discovering a room in your house you forgot existed.
After lunch, I found myself alone on the porch with a legal pad, finally ready to organize the information Ruben had givenme. Three genuine opportunities spread before me like plays on a whiteboard.
At the top of the page, I wrote “STANDARD SURGERY - DENVER” and started making notes. Five percent complication rate, eighty percent recovery to pre-injury function. Dr. Pham was one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country, had done hundreds of rotator cuff repairs on professional athletes. The timeline was clear: surgery in two weeks, four months of intensive rehab, cleared for light throwing by spring training.
But eighty percent meant I'd never be quite what I was before. Good enough for a backup quarterback, maybe. Good enough to hold a roster spot for a few more years if I was lucky. Not good enough to take over when Jamal Jackson retired. Not good enough to be the player the coaches had groomed me to become.
Next column: “EXPERIMENTAL SURGERY - ISTANBUL.” Dr. Arslan's technique using stem cell integration and advanced microsurgery. Ruben had sent me case studies of athletes who'd come back at ninety, even ninety-five percent. Pitchers throwing harder than before their injuries. Soccer players with better range of motion. The kind of results that seemed impossible.
But the complication rate was fifteen to twenty percent. If something went wrong—infection, rejection, nerve damage—I could lose more range of motion than I had now. Maybe permanently. And the procedure wasn't FDA approved yet, which meant if I needed follow-up care, I'd be on my own to find doctors willing to work with experimental techniques.
I drew a line down the middle of the page. On the left side under Istanbul: “10+ more years at elite level. Starting position. Everything I worked for.” On the right: “20% chance of permanent disability. No safety net if it fails. Career over for good.”
Third option at the bottom: “WALK AWAY.” Alabama's coaching offer, working with their quarterbacks and offensiveline, sat in my email, guaranteed money and a respected program. Kendon’s suggestion of working as an analyst was another safe route. Both paths let me stay in football without risking further injury.
But neither one was playing. Neither one was being on the field, feeling the snap in my hands, reading the defense, making the split-second decisions that separated good from great. Neither one was the dream I'd been chasing since I was eight years old.
For the first time since the injury, having options was energizing instead of overwhelming. I created pro and con lists, weighing variables like I used to study defensive schemes. The standard surgery was the safe play, with predictable outcome, known risks, guaranteed partial recovery. Istanbul was the gamble. All or nothing, either complete recovery or potential disaster. Walking away was giving up the dream entirely, but at least I'd still have my health and new career prospects.
My shoulder throbbed as if reminding me it had a vote in this decision. I rolled it carefully, testing the range of motion. Better than it had been weeks ago when I got hit, but nowhere near what I needed to play at an NFL level. Without surgery of some kind, this was as good as it got.
The cabin's phone rang. Dusty answered, and I watched his expression shift from casual to concerned.
“It's Vincent,” he said, holding out the receiver. “He needs to talk to both of us.”
I took the phone while Dusty leaned close to listen.
“Sorry to interrupt your retreat,” Vincent's voice carried tension I'd rarely heard from him. “But Dusty, your brother Sam called. He said to tell you no one's hurt, but he needs to talk to you as soon as possible. Said it was urgent family business.”
Dusty's face went pale. “Did he say what—”
“Just that you need to call him back tonight if possible.”
I looked at Dusty, seeing real worry in his eyes for the first time since we'd been here. Without hesitating, I made the decision.
