“The standard procedure,” I'd told Dr. Pham when I'd finally made the call tom him after the plane landed in Denver. Eighty percent recovery. Enough to throw a football with my nephew, maybe coach someday.
Not enough for the NFL, but I'd already made peace with that.
“Mr. Morales?” A nurse appeared beside my bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a linebacker.” The words came out rough, my throat raw from the breathing tube. “Did it work?”
“The surgeon will be in shortly to discuss the procedure. Your vitals look good.” She adjusted my IV, checked the monitors. “Someone's been waiting to see you. Should I send him in?”
Ruben. Had to be. “Yeah, sure.”
She left, and I closed my eyes against the fluorescent lights. My right arm was immobilized in a complicated brace that made my old shoulder harness look like amateur hour. Everything from my neck to my fingertips throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
Eighty percent chance of full recovery, of proving everyone wrong, of maybe getting back on a field.
Except I wasn't sure I wanted to anymore.
“Jesus Christ, Cord.” Ruben's voice cut through my thoughts. “You look like hell.”
“Feel worse.” I opened my eyes to find him standing beside the bed, expensive suit rumpled, tie loosened. He looked like he'd been here a while. “How long was I out?”
“Surgery was three hours. You've been in recovery another two.” He pulled up a chair, studying my face with that agent assessment he did. “Surgeon said it went well. Better than expected, actually. They were able to repair more of the damaged tissue than they thought.”
Something unclenched in my chest. “So the eighty percent...”
“Is looking more like ninety.” Ruben leaned back, but tension stayed in his shoulders. “Pittsburgh's already calling. They want to know your timeline for full mobility.”
The name should have excited me. Six months ago, it would have. Now it just felt heavy.
“Ruben.” I shifted, wincing as pain shot through my shoulder. “I need to tell you something.”
His expression changed. That agent radar picking up on what I wasn't saying yet. “What?”
“I'm done.”
“Done with what? The surgery? You just—”
“Done with football.” The words came out easier than I expected. “I'm not going back.”
Silence. The monitors beeped. Someone laughed in the hallway outside.
“You're still on the painkillers,” Ruben said. “We'll talk when you're clear-headed.”
“I am clear-headed. For the first time in months, actually.” I met his eyes. “The hit, the injury, everything that happened… it showed me something. I don't want to spend the next decade waiting for the next asshole to target me.”
“That's just fear talking. Once you're healed—”
“It's not fear.” Though maybe it was, a little. “It's clarity. I've given football everything since I was eight years old. I want to see what else life has to offer.”
Ruben stood, pacing to the window. His reflection in the glass looked tired. “Do you know how many guys would kill for the opportunities you're walking away from? Pittsburgh is offering guaranteed money, Cord. Real money.”
“I know.”
“You had one bad hit. One targeted asshole. That doesn't mean—”
“It's not just the hit.” I struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain. “Coming out changed things. Changed how I see myself, what I want from life. I can't go back to being just the quarterback. That's not enough anymore.”
He turned from the window, and the disappointment in his face cut deep. “I've spent four years building your brand. Positioning you for this comeback. Do you know how many favors I called in to keep Pittsburgh interested?”
