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Sure, he might already know. The game was televised after all, and the papers covered it. But those photos aren't for sale. Those photos are already public. My gut tells me Roni's photos are spectacular and not exactly what’s already been publicized. I'd bet on my salary she managed to snag the perfect images. Moments the other reporters and journalists didn't catch. The ones that will leave people looking at them repeatedly excited about the play, cringing at the collision.
The ones that will bring in the big money.
Those are the types of pictures that leave me with a sense of foreboding.Because if he gets his hands on those, he’ll use them against me. He’ll use them to get inside my head. Of course, he’ll suggest a way around that—but it will cost me.
Then I think about the woman behind the camera. About the passion, she has for her career. Like me for football, a woman with that kind of passion probably stokes similar fires in other aspects of her life as well.
I shake those thoughts away and focus when the door opens, and the team's doctor strolls in.
I know it's only been a week, but I'm climbing the walls. I need to get back to training. The team's already played two games with me sitting on the bench, my fingers gripping the edge, my feet tapping an agitated rhythm. Had I been in full uniform, they would have had to hold me down to keep me from jumping into the play.
I remember little of the actual hit. A blur followed by a jarring impact that sent me flying, and then blackness.
The next thing I recall is blinking my eyes open and seeing a beautiful blond angel leaning over me. Her features angelic, her greenish eyes filled with concern, and her face framed by golden waves of hair. Then I lost consciousness again.
When I sat here the day after my injury, my brain still fogged from painkillers, the bruises on my body dark and ominous looking, I pleaded with Noah Donahue, our doctor, to expedite my recovery period. I promised I'd do anything. Daily exercise. Daily physio. Hell, I'd eat two servings of Brussel sprouts daily if it would help. He'd told me then that four weeks was the best-case scenario. Two weeks of taking it easy, and then the next two introducing light exercise.
“So, any improvement?” I ask. We'd taken new x-rays today, more at my instance than his. My gaze strays to the negatives clipped to the light board thing on his wall, as my fingers tap out a beat on my thigh. Other than his medical degree, diploma, and eye chart, that's the only other item on his wall.
Noah sighs and rubs a hand over his face before walking over to it. He studies one image long and hard before he unclips it, then turns and makes his way over to hand it to me.
I hold it up to the light but can't tell what I'm supposed to be looking for.
“Listen, Drew,” Noah starts.
Uh oh.
“A hip pointer injury is nothing to rush. It's an extremely painful injury to the iliac crest of the pelvis.”
“Yeah, I know that. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. But what can I do to speed up the fix?”
It hurts like a motherfucker, and not only in my hip. Coughing, laughing, hell, sometimes even breathing deeply causes pain to shoot through me. I've been battling swelling and bruising, but at least the colors are fading. Thankfully, I haven't experienced muscular spasms. And excessive movement hasn't increased the pain level—it's just constant.
“Frankly, I'm more worried about loss of strength and range of motion.”
Me too. That's why I need it fixed. Otherwise, I'm done. “Can't you just give me a cortisone shot?”
Noah shakes his head. “I don't advise that at this point. It could mask symptoms and increase the risk of re-injury.”
I groan. That is not what I want to hear.
“Ice for pain, elevation to keep the swelling under control, and avoid any aggravating activities that cause significant pain or discomfort for the next two weeks. I can prescribe anti-inflammatory drugs to help if you'd like. But I would suggest gentle range of motion activities for the next week. But if it hurts, stop.”
Mitch sits beside me in the twin to my black leather chair, his face expressionless as he waits for the doctor to finish. He knows how I'm feeling. It wasn't all that long ago that he sat right here while Noah talked abouthisinjury, the painful recovery, and the implications of provoking the damage. I've heard the story. When I first approached Mitch, he'd recently retired and opened shop as an agent. I wanted him, figured he'd understand and could represent me better than most.
Thankfully we hit it offalmostfrom the start. Initially, I was a cocky kid. Thought my rookie ass deserved special treatment and complained loudly when I didn't get it. Mitch set me straight. He taught me the rules of the game and made me the player I am today.
And because he gets me, he will side with the doctor.
My sigh is heavy. The disappointment palpable.
Noah reaches across his desk for my file and opens it up. Glancing down, he flips through a couple of pages, reading his notes.
Mitch and I exchange a look. He responds with a sympathetic smile. I can tell he's worried about me, but he knows me well enough to know how badly I want to return to the field. Logically, I know rushing this is not good, but I don't want to let the team down.
He meets my eyes and nods, understanding my silent plea. “Let's take it easy for at least another week. We can reassess the situation then.”
I swallow hard, mentally preparing for what's about to come.
