Page 1 of Jason

Chapter One

Jason

“Fuck,” I hissed through clenched teeth, barely able to squash down the urge to roar in agony.

Even before my body hit the soft grass of the field, an excuciating pain radiated up my leg right to my stomach, threatening to bring back the salmon and veggies I had for lunch.

It was bad.

Really bad.

Possibly career-ending bad.

“Do. Not. Move,” I looked up at the coach hovering over me, everything was hazy.

No shit, Sherlock.

I didn’t say the words. I knew if I let them slip out, the club would slap me with a fine that would have even the toughest of men weeping like a schoolgirl after some punk kid pulled on her pigtails. What was worse, I would end up benched for the rest of the season. And that simply was not acceptable.

One thing that was absolutely forbidden as a Denver Thunders player was to mouth off to our coach. The coach wasn't the only man who had his hand firmly squeezed around all our balls. We had to do every single thing he said, and he was considered our God. He was that good. And he deserved respect. Not only because he had our careers in his hands, but he also had the power to take it all away just by putting you on the bench. He also knew what he was doing. The man was the proud owner of eight fucking Super Bowl rings, and was supposed to help me get my first one.

First of many.

I was determined to give my all to bring glory to my team and maybe retire as the record-holding Quarterback in the history of Super Bowl rings. So yeah, fuck yeah, I squashed the words down my throat and bit my tongue for good measure.

“Get him off the field. We need to find out how big this fuck-up is.”

I knew it was big. How big, was still yet to be determined. I couldn’t grasp the fact of how the hell my foot stayed in place as my entire body turned to the right. Dylan pushed my shoulder down, preventing me from rolling over onto my side and trying to curl up into a protective ball. My leg was twisted in a way I couldn’t comprehend. I was always careful running drills during practice, always on alert not to get into this kind of situation.

“The rest of you, start over, and I want to see real players and not little fucking girls jumping rope. This is not preschool, ladies,” the coach roared, and unfortunately for me, blew his whistle just as he bent back down to hover over me...and that meant, right into my fucking ear.

Fucking perfect.

*~*~*

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” I sighed the moment the door opened and a grim-faced man entered the room.

I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer since the doctor’s face stayed grim. I was ready to get out of this hospital room and head home.

After the assistant coach sprayed my ankle with something that made my joint and calf almost freeze over, the coach called an ambulance. Not even fifteen minutes later, I was transported to the hospital that took care of all the Denver Thunders players. When the doors of the ambulance opened, I could see the doctors running toward it, obviously, they stood there waiting for us at the entrance bay. They put me on this bed after an MRI, and the doctors right along with my coach went to pour over my scans, leaving me here alone for almost two hours. Alone, wondering what will happen, and not knowing if I would ever get the chance to go back to what I was meant to do.

Play football.

The only thing that made it better was the fact that the pain has subsided, but the swelling started to make my skin feel like it was going to split open at any second.

“You were lucky, Mr. Harris. The damage could be a lot worse; it’s practically a miracle that all your ligaments and tendons weren’t torn, I suspect it’s only thanks to your excessive training and following our recommendations of eating right, taking all your vitamins, and not indulging in, let’s say…unprofessional behavior, that this didn’t become much worse,” the doc started off by lecturing me.

I didn’t need a lecture. I knew I was one slip from a fuck-up, so when doctors and trainers talked, I listened. I needed to know how extensive the damage was. And when I could go back to playing.

“Just say it,” I demanded. I wanted to get out of there. There were reporters waiting for me to come out of the locker room, and I knew they were following the ambulance. I didn't have the patience to deal with them.

“Five weeks wearing the boot and at least six weeks of physical therapy,” the doctor rattled off like it was nothing.

Fuck.

It was August.

With almost three months of recovery, it would mean I was out for almost the entire season. That is if the Denver Thunders made it to playoffs.