Page 4 of It's Always Sonny

“Glad to hear it,” he says, closing his laptop. “Now you remember what I said. Keep off that knee. I’m talking lots of rest and ice. That brace stays on. We can’t afford you messing things up for the team.”

He must be concerned to repeat himself like this when his instructions couldn’t have been clearer. It almost feels like he’s chastising me for something that’s never happened.

Is he a fan? Or is he speaking on behalf of his friend, the team owner? I smile more tightly than I’m used to doing. It feels unnatural. Smiling is my thing. I’m the face of an actual toothpaste brand thanks to this smile.

So why does it feel foreign right now?

He’s only looking out for you. Be grateful. Playing in the NFL is a dream job.

That’s right. I can’t control everything, but I can be grateful. I can find happiness in any situation, and I’m in a better situation than almost anyone. My smile relaxes into something real.

I get down from the chair more carefully than necessary. He gives me a nod of approval, and I shoot him finger guns.

“Doctor’s orders, am I right?”

He laughs and points back at me. “That’s what I like to hear!”

I grab my crutches, and he sees me back into the lobby, where my agent, Michael, is waiting. It’s not like him to make house calls, but I’m a major client, and he doesn’t mess around when it comes to making money for me. And off of me.

Michael’s attention is on his phone, but when the doctor clears his throat, his head flies up. “How’s my favorite star doing?”

He’s asking the doctor, not me.

“He’s going to be fine. Just make sure he stays off that knee, will you? We need him ready in time for training camp.”

“We got the same goals, Doc,” Michael says. He does that power move where he shakes the doctor’s hand and grips his shoulder at the same time. Michael’s suit is probably as expensive as an MRI machine, and he’s slicker than an oil spill, but he’s not a bad guy.

The doctor and Michael talk for a minute, and I notice a kid—maybe fifteen—sitting in the lobby with his mom. The office has a “No cell phones” policy, so the kid is reading a magazine while his mom fills out paperwork.

Well, he’s pretending to read a magazine. He’s actually listening to us, which I get. I’d have done the same thing at his age.

He has a cast on his leg and crutches propped on the chair next to him. He’s lean the way most teen boys are, and he’s probably taller than I am, so I assume he plays basketball. I let Michael and the doctor talk, and I sit next to the kid’s crutches.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says. His neck reddens, but he plays it cool.

“I’m Sonny,” I say. He sniffs in a “yeah, I know,” way. “What’s your name?”

“Carlos.”

“What are you in for, Carlos?”

“Strained Achilles.”

“Ouch. Do you need surgery?”

“I’m waiting to find out.”

“How are you feeling about it?”

Carlos lowers the magazine, but he doesn’t meet my eye. I think he’s probably intimidated, but that’ll change. I have one superpower, and as much as I love the game, it’s not football. It’s people.

His mom’s forehead is scrunched in concern as she makes her way to the reception desk with the paperwork. She glances back at us, and Carlos smiles at her.

When his mom is gone, though, he opens up. “I’m scared. What if I never play basketball again?”

“Yeah, I get that. What scares you about not playing basketball again?”

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