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“Can you believe they benched Jimmy for Cal?” he asks, switching the topic of conversation entirely.
“Yeah, I can.”
“I can't,” he counters. “Jimmy's a legend.”
“Jimmy's old,” I state factually. “His time has passed. It's time he accepts it, along with everyone else.”
“Damn, son.” Candy blows air through his lips. “You're ruthless with the facts today.”
“Nah, Candy. I'm a realist.”
Sure, maybe it sounds harsh, but it's a reality we all face in this profession. I know time is just a ticking clock that ends careers faster than the hearts of most of these men playing. But, as I said, I'm a realist. A realist who is questioning my own comeback more often than not. Especially after therapy sessions like the one today.
It hurt. I wasn't capable of the things I mentally saw myself doing, and I didn’t know how to cope with that. While Dylan had mentioned that it's more of a marathon than a sprint, I’m struggling with the idea. I'm a sprinter in all aspects of life outside of this. Patience in healing doesn't bode well for me.
As soon as my mind travels back to that mysterious, controlled-yet-chaotic woman who surprised me by bailing mid-session, I see Dylan frantically marching through the parking lot of the small shopping center I'm standing in. If it's even possible, her hair is seemingly more unkempt now than it was about an hour earlier.
“I...gotta call you back, Kane,” I say into the receiver, my eyes trained on her erratic movements.
Her hips swivel back and forth through the cars like a damn running back through a field of defenders. My brain is so trained in football mode, I can't think in any other form.
“Hey!” I yell out, hobbling towards her with my crutch beneath one arm. I drop my phone into the pocket of my joggers, my other hand awkwardly holding my Chinese takeout. “Dylan!”
She pauses in place, her eyes wide with panic as she looks off into the distance.
“Dylan!” I yell again.
As if contemplating how to juke me like I do players on the field, I see the wheels spin in her head until finally she huffs, turning to face me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, hobbling my ass over towards her. “What are you doing here?”
A car honks before slowly driving between us in the parking lot. I round the back end of it, closing the distance between us.
“Uh, just home…” she answers, gripping the bottom of her sweatshirt as she glances behind her. “Just needed to take care of something, is all.”
Upon closer inspection, I notice a red mark above her eye. It looks like someone hit her. Did someone hit her?! I know she’s a proud woman, but even the strongest can fall to abuse. Suddenly, I feel a strange sickness in my gut. That urge to protect. My eyes narrow as my mouth drops open. I'm about to ask her what happened, but she says something first.
“The Chinese place me and mygirlfriendfrequent…” Her eyes take in the bag in my hand, and a hint of a grin pulls at her lips. “Good choice.”
I bite my lip, cringing at my earlier comment. She chuckles slightly, so I know I must not have offended her. She's making a joke.Phew.
“They threw in a free egg roll because the cook in the back recognized me asthefallen athlete of Chicago.” I wince.
“Damn, Junjie's a gangster.”
I tilt my head at the comment. Of course she knows the cook's name.
“You want to—” I point my thumb behind me towards the restaurant.
Maybe she needs some sort of escape right now. Her large, doe-like eyes are frantically looking around, almost insinuating something or someone's waiting for her. Someone she doesn’t want me to see.
“No, I-I have to go,” she interrupts, her eyes darting behind her again.
I study her movements. The anxiousness in her gaze, the worry etched onto the soft skin of her face, the red mark above her eye. It's all adding up now.
She walks backwards, continuing, “I'll, uh...see you tomorrow?”
Bumping into a parked car, she turns to look back at it before squinting her eyes in embarrassment. She finally peeks back at me through her lashes, her eyebrows raised, waiting for me to agree.
