Third option: “ESPN/BROADCASTING.” Former players were in demand for analysis work. Didn't need coaching credentials first; GameDay was full of guys who'd gone straight from playing to the booth. And I had Kendon to help get my foot in the door.
For the first time since the injury, having options felt energizing instead of overwhelming. I broke down the variables like I used to dissect zone coverage.
Under standard surgery, I wrote: “PRO - Low risk, guaranteed partial recovery, could play backup role.” Then: “CON - Only 80% recovery, not starter quality, Pittsburgh loses interest.”
Below that, experimental surgery: “PRO - Full recovery possible, 90-95% mobility, return to elite level, prove doubterswrong.” Then: “CON - 20% complication rate, could lose everything, not FDA approved, Istanbul.”
My hand moved instinctively toward where my pills would have been. The gesture was so automatic I didn't realize what I was doing until my fingers closed on empty air.
Shit. Old habits.
The coaching column filled up faster: “PRO - Guaranteed income, respected position, develop young talent, stay in football, safer long-term.” Cons were harder to identify: “Lower pay than playing, less glamorous, might feel like settling.”
Would I be able to stand on the sidelines watching kids do what I couldn't anymore? Or would it eat me alive, that constant reminder?
Broadcasting intrigued me most: “PRO - Flexible schedule, good money potential, could work anywhere, interesting work, longevity.” The main con was uncertainty: “Unproven in media, might not translate well to TV, competitive field.”
I stared at the broadcasting column. “Could potentially work from anywhere” meant I could be wherever Dusty needed to be. No cross-country relationship, no leaving him behind. I could wake up next to that sleepy smile instead of just FaceTiming from hotel rooms.
The thought made my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with my injury.
I sat back, studying my notes. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added a fourth column: “NON-FOOTBALL OPTIONS.”
I stared at the blank space beneath those words for a long moment. What else could I do? What other skills did I have beyond reading defenses and throwing spirals?
Hit me like a blindside sack. I'd been playing organized football since I was eight years old. Nineteen years of my life dedicated to one thing, one identity. Strip away the game, and what was left?
I tried to think of hobbies, interests, talents that existed separate from athletics. Drawing, maybe. I'd enjoyed that as a kid, before football consumed everything. But I hadn't touched a pencil that way in over a decade.
The blank column mocked me. At twenty-seven, I was facing the end of the only career I'd ever known or wanted, and I had no idea what else I might be good at.
Maybe that's how Dusty felt sometimes. All that talent and creativity, but doubting himself. Except he'd taken the leap, was planning his gallery despite the uncertainty.
A month ago, that realization would have sent me spiraling. Now, after three days of breathing exercises and honest self-reflection, it felt more like opportunity. Maybe not knowing what else I could do meant I got to discover it, instead of being trapped by assumptions about who I was supposed to be.
The Ranch's communication device on my kitchen wall chimed. Kendon Michaels:Free for lunch? Would love to continue our conversation about the future.
Perfect timing. I grabbed a light jacket, especially with the breeze picking up from the north, and headed downstairs.
The main lobby buzzed with afternoon activity. Near the concierge desk, a companion in a leather harness and nothing else led an oil executive toward the private elevator, the man's hand already gripping the younger guy's ass. Business as usual at The Ranch.
I passed two tech entrepreneurs I recognized from business magazines heading toward the spa, already in robes that did nothing to hide obvious evidence of their afternoon plans.
Walking across the courtyard toward the restaurant, I passed the yoga studio where I'd first met Dusty. The windows were dark now, probably between sessions. Hard to believe that wasonly a week ago. The man stumbling around that studio, barely able to breathe without panic—he was someone else entirely.
My shoulder twinged. Doctor's voice echoed in my head: Full recovery isn't guaranteed, even with perfect compliance.
Breathe. Four in, hold for four, out for six.
The restaurant occupied a converted hacienda-style building, all exposed beams and warm stone. The host, a stunning young man in leather shorts, recognized me immediately.
“Mr. Morales, your guest is already seated. Right this way.”
Kendon looked relaxed at a corner table, the kind of casual confidence that came from having made the transition out of playing.
“You look different,” he said after I settled in. “More settled.”
“Feel different. My time here away from the rest of the world has helped me figure some shit out.”
