Page 129 of Against the Clock

“Hey Kels, you’re calling early today.”

“Hey Dad, I need your help.”

“All you gotta do is ask, honey. You know that.”

I smile, and it feels good. It feels good to smile, and know that no matter what, my dad’s ready to drop whatever he’s doing this Sunday and help.

“I need to know everything you know about the Beavers game today.”

“Well, that’s the last thing I expected you to say, but I can’t say it doesn’t make an old man happy to hear it.”

He laughs, and my grin stretches wider as he starts rattling off who’s out with injuries, who’s been playing well, which team has a better offense, how the coaches stack up against each other.

“You sound good, Dad,” I say quietly, hope blossoming inside me, replacing the prickling anxiety.

“I’m feeling good. Feeling real good… Does this sudden curiosity mean I’m going to get to see you at the game today?”

“It should just be the local affiliates running it,” I tell him, but I frown because I honestly don’t know.

“I’ll make sure to watch it through the app, then. Hey, Anna, our baby girl’s going to be on TV at the game today!” my dad yells out to my mom, and I laugh, feeling lighter. Feeling better.

Maybe it will work out after all.

CHAPTER 50

DANIEL

I stand in line with the other players, all of us waiting to receive our daily allotment of Toradol, and in my case, a few other injections. The pregame atmosphere is tense, worse than usual, even though the line for shots never has quite the same vibe as the rest of the facility.

Something about the white walls and motivational posters and flimsy blue curtains and syringes laid out drives home the fact that there’s a reality outside this stadium just waiting to catch up with us.

Finally, it’s my turn, and I sit in the spot recently vacated by one of our offensive linemen, who stoically took a syringe to the knee like an old pro. Like this is fucking normal.

None of this is fucking normal.

Kelsey’s words keep ringing in my ears, like they have since she left last night.

What’s after football?

“Harrison?” the doc says, and it’s clear he’s been asking me something.

I grunt at him.

“I asked how your shoulder is today.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me, doc. Stronger the better.”

“You got it,” he says, agreeable as ever.

That’s the thing about the doctors here. They want to help, sure, but they know who pays the bills, and it’s the franchises and the owners and the fans who want to see us fucking smash together like live crash test dummies.

I don’t even flinch as the first shot goes in.

“Numbing agent,” the doc tells me cheerfully. “Straight into the AC joint.”

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that.

The next shot burns, familiar liquid heat spreading through my shoulder joint, a welcome sting that’s gone nearly as fast as it starts. It reminds me all of this is fleeting. That I should be grateful to be able to do this job. That it can all be over in the blink of an eye.

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