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I shook my head. “No, this has all been a culture shock.”
“What you have to understand is that football is life here. My dad shoved a helmet on my head and a set of pads on me when the ball was still bigger than my head. He had me run drills on Saturday mornings at 6am when most kids were still sleeping. I threw the ball until it was time for dinner. He hired a private coach when I was eight. I was scouted by the time I was twelve.” Wes’s eyes hardened. “It didn’t matter to him if I liked football or not, I was going to be a champion.”
“But did you like it? Did you want to play?” I tried to imagine a younger version of the strong man sitting in front of me, spending his every waking minute on a football field instead of playing Chutes and Ladders or watching cartoons.
“I didn’t know what I wanted. He didn’t ask. I never had a choice. By the time I was in high school, I was already getting scholarship offers for top schools. It was a no brainer. Football was in my blood by then. It was my life and I kept riding the train.”
“But you love it now?” I questioned.
“It’s who I am. I can’t separate it. I don’t even think about it. I live and breathe football. I always have.”
I touched his hand, the one I had so carefully put back together. I didn’t know what lengths he had gone through to heal it in record time, but I was starting to understand pieces of his story.
“But your dad isn’t making you do those things now, is he? You’re your own person, Wes.”
His eyes hardened. “He made me into a winner. A champion. And that’s who I am. I’m who I am because he pushed me. He made me.”
I swallowed. It sounded like brainwashing. It sounded like a child being robbed of precious years of imagination and happiness. It sounded like a tyrant parent living out his own dream vicariously through his talented son. The entire story pissed me off.
“I know it’s not the same as playing for a national team or having the world watch my every move.” Although lately, it seemed like the press was following me around. “But when I’m in surgery, I know that feeling. I want to win. I want to succeed.”
“No, that’s not the same.”
“Just hear me out.” I ran my fingers along his arm, swirling over the ink that ran the length of his bicep. “When I’m in there, I know I can’t win every time. People count on me. The patient. Their family. The surgical team under my direction. But we can’t win every time. And I have to live with that. That has to be okay. Because if it’s not, I can’t be a good surgeon. If every time something went wrong and I believed we were failures, how would I ever walk back into the next OR? How could I ever give someone else hope?” His eyes were on me, and I prayed he understood what I was saying. “Being a good surgeon means accepting loss. And I think it’s the same thing for you, too. Everything can’t be a win. There is a line drawn that isn’t worth crossing. Not for winning. Not if it means being unethical. Not if it means it will let more people down. Not if it costs you your health, or possibly your life.”
He gently brushed the hair off my shoulder. I sighed, believing I had struck a nerve with him.
“I don’t think we’re wired the same way.” His words smacked me in the face.
“You didn’t agree with any of that?”
“You were right about one thing. Being a surgeon isn’t the same as being a quarterback. You don’t know the weight on my shoulders.” He stood and took our plates to the sink. “You don’t know what I’ll do to win.”
I looked at the empty counter, feeling the disappointment sink in. Our first fight had transformed into an emotional story, and now I couldn’t believe I’d never felt more disconnected from him than I did at this minute.
Maybe I didn’t have the warrior’s spirit to win like he did, but I wasn’t going to give up. Not yet.
17
Wes
I washed the dishes and tried to ignore Lennon’s eyes needling my neck. She didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. We were from different worlds. Surgery and football had nothing in common.
“I’ve got to go over some plays.” I turned off the kitchen light and sank into my recliner. “Coach has changed up some things.” I started flipping through the binder the messenger had sent over.
She sat on the couch, holding her wine glass, and started switching through the channels. She landed on a show about a president and his mistress.
“Could you turn that down, please? I’m studying.”
“Sorry.” She practically muted the TV.
I didn’t like this. The fight. The tension. The fact that I had done something to piss her off, when it was none of her business. I did what was necessary to win. And the Wranglers weren’t going to win with Cosech on the field. He’d made that clear last game. We had run the ball almost every play and barely won by a field goal. My return was the only way to punch our ticket to the Super Bowl.
“I think I’ll study in the bedroom.” I kicked the recliner in place and headed to my suite. This was awkward as fuck.
“Why don’t I just leave for tonight? You can study. I’ll give you some space.”
I turned in front of the double doors leading to my room. “Hell no.”
