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Somehow, he manages to pull a laugh out of me, but it dies quickly as I glance up at the TV screen in the corner and notice the headline.
Asher Hawthorne’s Career Ending Injury.
It’s right there, on replay, the moments in which I threw the ball down the field at the last second, only to get sacked from two directions at once. You can see my shoulder slam against the ground, my arm contorted beneath my body. Even through my helmet, you can see the agony on my face. Just watching it now makes me cringe as I remember the pain.
My shoulder was dislocated and my rotator cuff was fully torn. As I sat in the hospital bed, listening to the doctor explain to me that I was going to need surgery and weeks of intense rehab, all I could think about was getting back on the field.
I did everything I was told. Took all my medication as directed. Faithfully followed the excruciating exercise routine my physical therapist prescribed. I even wore that obnoxiously uncomfortable brace, despite everything in me wanting to take it off. But it wasn’t enough.
They tell you all about the rare complications that could happen going into surgery. There’s always a chance of something going wrong—a bad reaction, stroke, or even death. No matter how much they warn you, though, you never think it’s going to happen to you. Unfortunately, I was one of the unlikely cases that ended up with nerve damage caused by the surgery, and until they figure out how to fix it, I’m not fit to play.
It could be months; it could be years. Hell, it could be until I’m too old and have lost my ability to perform to the standard they require. All I know is that even while being in the best shape of my life, my body failed me.
“Don’t pay attention to that,” Colby pulls my attention away from watching the last moments of my career on a loop. “You’ll end up back out there. I know it.”
I snort and shake my head. “You a doctor now, Hendrix?”
“Damn right, I am. Certified and all by WebMD.”
As I finish putting the last of my stuff into the bag, I turn around to face my best friend. It only takes a second before I notice the dark purple hickey placed in the dead center of his neck.
I flick it with my finger, making him wince. “You better cover that shit up. You know how Coach feels about you partying on nights before practice.”
He rolls his eyes but does exactly what I said, knowing that if he doesn’t, he’ll be running until he vomits all the alcohol he consumed last night.
It doesn’t surprise me, honestly. Colby Hendrix has always been a ladies’ man. His brown hair and baby face make him look innocent enough to be trusted and the digits in his bank account drive it home. He’s one of the best wide receivers in the league, and he’s not beneath bragging about it. Especially if it helps get the girl of his choosing into bed with him. I?
??ve never cared to ask, but I’m sure if I did, he’d tell me that his motto in life is “less stress, more sex.”
I watch as he dabs on more of the tattoo grade cover-up, making me laugh. “Who the fuck did you sleep with, a goddamn vampire?”
His eyes meet mine through the reflection of the mirror and he simply winks. If I didn’t know him any better, I’d think it was the typical I-don’t-kiss-and-tell answer that respectful guys throw around. However, I do know him, and that wink was his way of getting out of answering questions he doesn’t know the answer to. Having to guess, I’d say he either kicked her out last night or woke up with her this morning and ditched before she had a chance to ask him to stick around. That’s usually his M.O. as the reigning king of one-night stands.
“All right, well you have fun with that. I’m going to head out.”
His brows furrow. “You’re not sticking around to watch practice?”
Slight laughter bubbles out of me. “Do I look like the type for self-inflicted torture?”
Colby smiles, displaying the dimples that match my own—our secret weapon, as we like to call them.
“Okay, touché. I’ll catch you later.”
I grab my bag and go to leave, when he opens his mouth once more.
“Oh, by the way, there’s a swarm of media outside. Just a heads-up.”
Groaning, I pull my sunglasses over my face. The last thing I need right now is to get berated with questions by people who don’t deserve the answer. It’s like rubbing salt in my wound. Sure enough, as I turn the corner, there they are—standing around like vultures waiting for their next kill.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Trent Englewood. I swipe it open and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” he greets me, sounding relieved that I answered. “I saw the news. I’m so sorry man. I had no idea.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “It wasn’t really something I wanted to talk about. I think I was in denial about it for a while.”
“I get it, man. That’s really rough.”
