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Cosech ran off the field and over to where I was standing.
“That sucked,” he breathed.
“Yeah, they read your every play.”
“What do you think I should do?” he asked.
The guy was a second year quarterback. No one every expected him to play. He barely got a touch on the ball in practice. This week was his first foray into our routes, our plays, our calls. I felt sorry for the kid.
“Look,” I slung an arm around his shoulder. “They can read your eyes. You’re not looking downfield like you’re going to pass it. You look right at Persons the whole time.” I sighed. “You’ve got to keep your eyes moving constantly. Keep them guessing. They won’t know if you’re going to throw short, long, or hand it off.”
He nodded. “I’ll try it.”
I knocked him on the back. “Don’t try it. Fucking do it,” I snapped at him.
I couldn’t believe this. Our entire season I had won games. We had won, and now this moron was on the field. We had to get through tonight and in two weeks, I’d be back.
I looked at my right hand. It hurt, and I knew it wasn’t anywhere near capable of throwing a pass, let alone picking up a football. I was going to have to have help.
I sat on the table, waiting for Dr. Jones. I knew that wasn’t his real name. He’d never tell me, or anyone, what it actually was. And I wasn’t going to ask. That was how this worked.
A nurse came in with a tray of syringes and placed them on a table next to me.
“The doctor will be in any minute.” She smiled, then left.
I wasn’t the kind of man to hesitate or second guess my decisions. This had to be done. It was the only way. The point in life was to win. It was to be stronger and better than everyone else.
My dad beat that philosophy into me. I had every trophy to prove it. Every title. Every recognition, except the Super Bowl.
I waited for Dr. Jones. The man who entered the room had a pointy nose and gray hair just above his ears.
“Eric?”
I nodded. “That’s right.” We all used aliases when it came to this kind of medicine. But we both knew he would recognize me from a hundred feet away. I was the most recognizable quarterback in the country.
But there would be no paper trail for Wes Blakefield. I’d signed everything as Eric Hawkins. Eric Hawkins was the man getting gel injections to fuse his bones together. Eric Hawkins was getting as many doses of HGH as a man his size could tolerate.
“This will be simple.” Dr. Jones picked up one of the syringes from the tray. “First, I’ll numb the area with an anesthetic.”
I nodded, appreciative there would be some pain relief involved. My hand hadn’t stopped hurting all week.
“Next, I’ll insert the gel with a larger needle. I’ll use the ultrasound camera to guide the needle between the bones.” He pointed to the suspension system hanging overhead. I looked up to see a lens pointed at my hand.
“All right.”
“Once the gel has penetrated the area, I’ll start with the first round of HGH. We’ll begin a regimen at a high dosage, and I’ll show you how to administer the rest at home.”
It sounded standard and practical. It sounded exactly like what I should have done the instant the linebacker crunched my hand. But then I thought of Lennon. And how I wouldn’t have met her. How I wouldn’t be in whatever I was in with her if I didn’t end up in her OR.
“Go for it. I’m ready to get this hand back together.”
“Just lie back. Try to relax and we’ll begin.” Dr. Jones certainly didn’t have the same bedside manner as my surgeon. I closed my eyes and pictured her hair falling around my face. I tried to block out the stabbing needles poking through broken bones. I focused on her breath in my ear. The sounds she made when she clenched around my cock. God, she was everything I needed.
An hour later, Dr. Jones squeezed my shoulder. “I’m finished.”
I opened my eyes. “That’s it?”
He nodded, handing me an opaque white bag. “You have two weeks worth of syringes inside. They are pre-measured. I still think you’re rushing it a little if you expect to play in two weeks, but it’s possible.”
