Page 9 of My (Not So) Perfect Plan

Since there’s really no public areas for her to wait before the game starts, I take her into one of the press rooms (these rooms may or may not get used by horny football players and their willing girlfriends, but she doesn’t need to know that.)

“All right. Well, we get free wifi in here so, if you want to surf the internet, feel free,” I say.

She can’t seem to meet my eyes and the room feels surprisingly small, which is weird because there’s definitely more room in here than in my truck. I feel like I should do something before I leave, but I can’t figure out what.

“Um, thanks for dinner, and good luck,” she says as I turn for the door. I look over at her and she meets my eyes. I can’t help but rile her up a bit more.

“I can’t wait for our next tutoring session,” I wink.

Despite fall being being crisp and cool, I am pouring sweat. The game isn’t going great. We’re at 27-17 in the fourth quarter with four minutes left in play. I’ve been playing well, but our defense is dropping the ball all over the place.

“Jerry, 42! 7! 26! Hike!”

I catch the ball in my hands, looking for the opening that’s supposed to be there. Only it’s not there and I have seconds left to get rid of the ball. I know it’s a risky call, but I decide to run it up the middle. I jump over a downed group of guys in front of me. To my shock I manage to make it through and take off running for all I’m worth. I have a vision of a runaway train in my head because visual imaging helps me move that much faster. I’m almost to the goal line, less than ten yards left, when a someone slams into my side one way, and then someone hits me on the other side with the force of a mack truck. I feel my leg snap to the side as I go down, buried in a pile of muscle and pads. A guy rolls off of me and offers me a hand up. I try to move, but fall back down as the movement makes me want to cut my leg off. He stands back. My knee is in so much pain I can’t think about anything else.

I have no idea where the ball went and pain is lancing up my leg. The wild cheering of the crowd has become a death-like silence. I blink back tears from my eyes. This is bad. It’s really bad. Whatever is wrong with my leg, this isn’t something I’m going to come back from. I don’t know what has me so convinced. Call it intuition or something. I turn to the side and throw up, the puke partially sliding into my helmet to coat my jaw and partially falling out onto the grass.

Trainers and coaches come rushing up.

“Talk to me, Carmichael. You hit in the head?”

“No. My right leg. I can’t move it.”

Someone moves it and I twist and writhe in pain, holding back curses, but unable to stop the tears that spring to my eyes.

“All right. Can you stand?”

I shake my head. There’s no way I want to even try.

“Get a stretcher out here.”

Around me people are talking, but their voices and words are like gnats, flitting around my ears and I can’t figure out what they are saying. Somewhere in the stands my mom and dad are watching. Mom is probably losing her mind. But I just don’t want to be in pain like this.

“All right, son. We’re going to move you now.”

I nod. Hands reach underneath me and even though I know they are trying to be careful, something jostles my leg and I cry out. Something pricks my arm and I slip away into blackness.

When I come to, I’m in a hospital room. The lights are off except one, the blinds drawn, but I can tell it’s still night. Mom is sitting in a chair, her head leaned back, sleeping. I don’t know where my dad is, but I can feel his disappointment from here. Did they already tell him the bad news?

A nurse comes in, she’s in her forties but has a cheery smile on her face that annoys the hell out of me. Does she not realize she works in a hospital? A place where dreams come to die?

“Oh, good! You’re awake!” Her voice wakes up my mother who jumps to my side with a sad smile.

“Hi, hon. How are you feeling?” she asks, grabbing my hand and squeezing. She leans forward and gives me a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

I’m not one of those guys who is really demonstrative with his mother, but right now her touch makes me want to crawl into her lap and cry.

“I’m all right,” I say, my voice gruff with emotion. “My knee’s not hurting anymore at least.”

“I’m going to go get the doctor, okay?” She rises to her feet to go, but I catch her hand before she can turn away.

“Where’s dad?”

Her face falls and she pats my hand.

“He couldn’t come.”

No apology. No explanation. Just a pat on the hand. Figures that on one of the most important days of my life, dad isn’t here.

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