“That nigga already about to piss me off,” he mumbled.
“Why?”
“Because he’s giving you matching tattoos and shit. What if I wanted you to get one with me?” he asked.
“We still can. I feel like I’m gone be addicted.” I shrugged.
“Yeah, I bet.” He leaned over and grabbed his bag before he got up.
“Come help me with this shit and I’ll help you study afterward,” he offered.
I got up and followed him into my room.
“That’s why you came over here?” I questioned.
“Yeah, and because I wanted to sleep on them soft ass titties.” He smirked.
I couldn’t do nothing but shake my head because he always had a crazy ass excuse, and I always followed his ass up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Titan
Three and a half weeks into rehab and I’m already over this shit… not getting healthy or doing what needed to be done to get back on the field. I understood that part. What I was over was the process. I was over hearing words like progress and recovery. I was over people celebrating the fact that I could raise my arm a few degrees higher than I could last week. I was over spending my mornings in rehabilitation rooms while the rest of my teammates prepared for games. I was tired of people telling me to trust the process while the season kept moving without me.Every week I was sitting in a rehabilitation room was another week I wasn’t doing what I got paid to do.
Don stood a few feet away while I questioned why a resistance band had somehow become the most important part of my day. Three weeks ago, I was catching touchdown passes in front of seventy thousand people. Today I was standing inside the Cannons’ training facility preparing to spend the next hour doing exercises that looked simple until it was time to actually do them.
“One more set.”
I looked at him before glancing at the band attached to the cable machine.
“Damn, how many one more sets you gone have me do?” I hissed.
“As many as you need to do to get back where you need to be,” he countered.
I shook my head and grabbed the handle, anyway. The exercise itself wasn’t difficult. The frustrating part was how much concentration it required. Every repetition forced me to think about things I’d never paid attention to before. Shoulder position. Range of motion. Whether another muscle group was compensating for what hadn’t fully returned yet. Football had always been second nature. Rehab made me think about every movement, and I hated this shit.
By the tenth rep, I’d had enough. I released the handle and stepped away from the machine, grabbing my water bottle before Don could tell me to keep going. My shoulder wasn’t bothering me nearly as much as it had during the first week, but that wasn’t the point. Three and a half weeks into rehab and every day felt exactly the same. Everybody kept talking about how much progress I’ve made while I kept looking at everything I still couldn’t do.
“You need to finish the set, Sam,” Don called out.
I took a long drink before looking over at him.
“I’m done with that shit,” I spat.
“No, you’re frustrated.”
Maybe he was right, but I wasn’t interested in having that conversation. My shoulder wasn’t hurting like it was in the beginning, and nothing felt wrong. I was simply tired of spending my mornings attached to resistance bands while the rest of the team continued preparing for games.
Don must’ve seen it on my face because he set the tablet down and folded his arms across his chest.
“If something’s wrong, say that. If it isn’t, finish the set.”
Before I could come up with another excuse, Tink pushed herself out of her chair and walked over. She’d been quiet for most of the session, scrolling through her phone and occasionally looking up whenever Don introduced a new exercise. By now she’d seen enough of the routine to know what most of it was supposed to look like.
“Do it again,” she demanded.
“For what?” I frowned.
