"Maybe you do, but not me. You forget that I grew up with parents who acted like I didn't exist. I'm used to doing stuff on my own."
"Still. I could've been there for you. All you had to do was call."
"Thanks, but I'm good." I glance around at the mess in my bedroom. "I gotta go. Can we talk later this week?"
"Sure. Good luck at your appointment tomorrow. Let me know how it goes."
"I will. See ya."
Jackson's always nagging me about getting out of the house. I know he means well but he doesn't understand. If I leave the house, I'll be under a damn microscope. Everyone will be watching me, placing bets on whether I'll play again. And some of them might contact the sports media, and then I'll have even more people speculating about my future.
I don't need that. I can't deal with it. I've got enough scenarios running in my head, trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my life. So far, I keep coming back to football. It's all I know. It's all I'm good at. Even if I'm tired of it, even if it no longer makes me as happy as it once did, it's all I have. And if I lose it, I have no future.