Page 74 of Tight End

Shit.

I’m too late.

One of the Arizona defensive ends drives through the gap and tackles me to the ground.

The whistle blows.

And my fucking knee is on fire.

Bryce runs over to me and gets down on his knee. “What the fuck was that? You knew the play. How the hell could you let that asshole pummel you like that?”

I sit up and stagger to my feet, wincing when I start walking toward the sidelines.

Coach Taylor rips me a new asshole as soon as I’m in earshot.

I pull off my helmet after the verbal lashing and sink onto the bench, trying to ignore the searing pain shooting down my leg.

Goddammit. That was a royal fuckup on my part.

The team doc, Rich Abrams, helps me into the training room and tapes up my leg.

“That could have been a whole lot worse,” he says,adjusting his glasses. “It’s not like you to snooze on a play. You feeling okay?”

Since being sick with guilt and regret probably doesn’t qualify as an answer to the doc’s question, I nod my head.

“My bad. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. Because a tear will ruin the rest of your season.” Rich smiles. “And we need you for the Super Bowl.”

I force my lips upward. “Right.” I hobble back to the sidelines and watch the next play go right down the shitter. Arizona scores and Coach Taylor turns so red, I’m a little afraid his head is gonna spontaneously combust.

We get the ball back. I jog onto the field and get into position.

“Knee alright?” Bryce says.

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“Okay, guys we’re gonna run Eagle 26 Swing,” Bryce says. “Scat, scat.”

We nod and break, getting into formation with two receivers, me, and two running backs. We’re running a screen pass, which means my ass better work hard to keep the wall in place so Baxter can hustle that ball into the end zone.

Bryce gets the ball and passes to Baxter. I’m protecting the line of scrimmage, keeping my eyes on one of the Arizona defensive linemen. I rush him, twisting my leg and stumbling into one of their linebackers as the lineman slips past and tackles Baxter behind the line of scrimmage.

I crumple to the turf, my leg in flames. Clutching my knee, I roll over, teeth clenched in agony. I crack open my eyes under the stadium lights, flashes of color blurring my vision. Coach Taylor runs onto the field with one of the EMTs and Dr. Abrams. I hear them murmuring to themselves and I don’t like it.

“What is it?” I gasp once we’re back through the tunnel and in the exam room.

“It might be a tear, but we won’t know for sure unless we get an MRI.” Dr. Abrams exchanges a look with Coach Taylor.

“What does that mean for the rest of the season? Can I still play?” I clutch the sides of the table to pull myself up.

“If it’s a tear, you’ll need surgery. We can’t say until we get to the hospital.”

I collapse backward and fling an arm over my face. “Fuck. I can’t miss the rest of the season.”

“You need to take care of yourself,” Coach says. “Nobody is making any decisions right now. We’ll make the arrangements and get you to the hospital.”

“My family…” I start to say then trail off.

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