Page 42 of Quarterback Sneak

Shaking her head, she exhaled.

No.

If she really wanted to be confident in her success, she couldn’t take the easy road and depend on anyone but herself.

Would she regret it? Perhaps, but right now it was the right decision for her.

“Time to ice up and put some more of this cream on.” Howler plopped down in the chair across from Sam at the round bistro table at Ivy’s place, a tube of ointment and an ice pack in hand. The apartment, a corner unit, boasted a wall of windows tinted blue and her cat, a fat tabby, sprawled on a bench seat running across the width of the narrow living room/dining room combo. It was a small space, homey and comfortable, nothing like his mausoleum of a house.

“Just let me finish this up,” Sam said. The diagnostic across the computer screen hit the 100% mark and he clicked ok. The backup of his hard drive to his cloud storage complete, he pushed the laptop aside. He’d taken advantage of his downtime with his knee to work on his grant proposal. Delving into the technicalities of wastewater management had proved a welcome distraction from his leg and he’d succeeded in polishing the second draft. One more round to go and he’d submit the grant that could potentially revolutionize the way the world processed water.

Keep your focus on something bigger than yourself. Nothing ever came of worrying except the dull throb in his leg wasn’t helping. Sam picked up the tube of medicine and rubbed the mentholated cream on his knees when the I.M. on his laptop showed a message.

Ivy: Hi, I hope you’re doing okay. I’m still on the conference call but I wanted to check in on you. Beth’s sending food.

Using his little finger, he typed in k.

“Hey, lover boy, stop staring at your computer and put on the ice pack,” Howler said.

Sam narrowed his eyes and raised his middle finger.

“I don’t need any shit from you. Your knee is part of my retirement package and I’m in vested in its future,” Howler laughed, the booming sound bringing a smile to his own lips.

“My knee and I thank you for your touching concern.” Sam scrubbed a knuckle across his nose and his eyes began to water. Shit. The strong bite of the cream on his hand burned his nasal passages and he sneezed.

“Smooth move. That shit stinks, man.” Howler picked up his phone and scrolled through his emails. “Hey, I got this email from the Epicurean Network asking about your availability to do a cameo on 3Square for some charity tournament. Since Ivy was on the show, my guess is you want to say yes?”

Eyes still burning, Sam placed the ice pack on the side of his knee before he rolled it over the injury. She said she wanted someone to make the decision for her and he wanted to be on the show to help her and his charity. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

A sharp rap at the door sent Sam’s pulse into overdrive. He was on edge and not just because of his injury. His time of anonymity had ended with a vengeance.

“I’ll take care of it.” Howler jumped to his feet, jaw terse as he strode to the door.

Sam clenched his teeth, waiting while Howler placed his eye to the peep hole.

“Who is it?” Sam asked.

“It’s some guy with to-go bags,” Howler’s said, his reply muffled. “He’s wearing a Vicenzo’s ball cap.”

Shoulders slumping, Sam glanced at the time on his phone and inhaled deep. Big mistake. The smell of the menthol made his eyes water more. Man he was a hot mess. “It’s lunch.”

Howler opened the door, said something to the person on the other side, and took two plastic bags. With the heel of his leather shoe, he kicked the door shut, locking it again. “Who is this Beth and is she hot?”

“Yes, she’s cute and no, she’s not your type. She’s not afraid of commitment and is recently engaged. Can you get me a wet cloth? I have to get this shit off my hands.”

“Sure. Man this food smells good.” Howler set the bags on the kitchen table before moving to the sink.

“I wish I could smell something besides menthol,” Sam said, his stomach growling regardless of his lack of smell. He accepted the clean cloth from Howler and wiped at the oily ointment.

After handing Sam the cloth and a fork, Howler untied the first bag, inspecting the contents of each cardboard container before he placed them in front of Sam. “Tomatoes. All of them have tomatoes in it. Except for the Chicken Caesar. Looks like this one is mine.”

“I’ll have lunch with you, and then I’ll do some damage control. I can’t believe the bastard, Miller came up with some lame lie. Stuck in the Bahama’s my ass. No doubt, he’s buried his big head in the sand until the doctors give their final decision. It’s not like you broke your leg or something. It’s a bit of swelling, so what?”

“It’s a big deal and you know it. As difficult as it is to stomach, you have to reconcile yourself to the fact my career in football might be over.” It had come as no surprise when he’d received a call the night before postponing his appointment with Miller. Sam would like to think the call hadn’t spooked him but it had. The residual throb in his temple pulsed and proved difficult to ignore.

“Bullshit.” Howler stabbed a piece of chicken and bit into it. “I’ve seen teams signed injured players before.”

Sam grabbed the container of Minestrone soup and dipped the spoon into the rich broth. As much as he wanted to avoid the truth, he had to face facts. “A pulled muscle is different than a torn ligament. If I had the misfortune to have surgery, I’ll be out for the season. My last season.”

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