Great. I’m repelling small appliances now.
When I met Bex originally, which wasn’t even that long ago, I was happy. I was better then, not this shell of who I used to be. I was Austin Porter, one half of the amazing NFL Porter Brothers duo, a tight end for the Tampa Bay Thunderbolts, who was on his way to the Hall of Fame if he kept things up.
Now, I’m Austin Porter, the guy with a limp and no team whose toaster just broke.
There’s a hallway off the kitchen that I don’t walk down if I can help it; it’s lined with photos from my football days. From high school, to college, and then to the NFL. Mom, Levi, and Georgie had put them up after I moved in, an effort to surprise and motivate me. How were they to know it would only make my heart heavier?
“Hey, hey!” a familiar voice calls out as the back door slams closed. Emma is standing in my kitchen, grinning at me. And quite wickedly, too. “I just saw a man dressed as a dinosaur shove a bundle of what looked like envelopes in your mailbox. Is that odd?”
“No. That’s Jared—he’s a mailman by morning and one of those people who shows up for kids’ parties by afternoon.”
“Ah. And here I thought it wasn’t normal.” Emma sniffs the air. “Smells like something’s burning.”
I point to the toaster. “Breakfast.”
“Good thing I brought this.” She holds up a small bag, stamped with Red Bird Cafe on it. Treats from my favorite spot the next town over. These are treats usually reserved for bribery or asking for a favor.
Narrowing my eyes, I watch as she opens the bag and pulls out an apple fritter.
“Red Bird special of the day. Homemade, too.” She waves it in the air, taunting me. “It’s fall, y’all.”
I want to play coy, but really I can’t. “I never should have told you that cinnamon and sugar is my kryptonite.”
“We all have something.” She laughs, tossing the bag closer to me. “Plus, I wanted you to have something in your hand as I gave you the news.”
The bite I’d taken suddenly tastes like cardboard on my tongue. “News?”
She nods, pulling a chair out at the table, indicating I do the same. “We need to have a talk.”
I’ve not seen Emma since the other day, when the whole Porter family pile-up happened. As I park myself in a chair across from her, my stomach hitches. Could she be quitting because of how we acted? How I acted?
“Look, Emma, before you get started, can I say I am so sorry for the other day?” Better late than never, right?
“I’ve been around doing this for a few years now, Austin. I’ve seen athletes react in a lot of different ways, so don’t go thinking you’re special,” she says with a wink as she pops another bite of fritter in her mouth. “At least not for this.”
“Okay,” I say as I play with my fritter. Its sugary stickiness has attached itself to my fingertips and I’m a little obsessed. “What’s up?”
“Well, I was looking at your recovery timeline recently. After your injury, you had surgery and we got started almost right after that, as soon as you could handle it.”
Nodding, I allow myself the luxury of taking a bite of the apple fritter, and it is damn good. “Uh-huh,” I manage in between bites, praying I don’t start moaning with delight.
“Normally, it can take six to nine months for recovery, and longer depending on what sport an athlete like yourself wants to return to. Your doctors weren’t sure if returning to the NFL was a possibility for you. Do you remember that?”
“Do I?” I interrupt myself with a chortle. “Of course I do. I think I stopped breathing that day.”
“Sounds about right.” She chuckles. “Well, I haven’t said anything, but the last two weeks I’ve been putting you through extra tough drills, challenging you. Assessing you. I wanted to see for myself if you’d have any issues going back to football.”
My jaw locks as I freeze in my place. Time stands still; in fact, I don’t think I’m breathing.
“It’s been almost eighteen months since you were injured. Well over a year that you’ve been doing therapy with me.”
I slowly let out a breath of air, trying really hard to not let it go in a whoosh. I don’t want Emma to know I’m literally holding my breath as she speaks. I want to grip the table and scream, “AND?” but I stay calm.
“The last test you scored really well in. Neuromuscular control. You’ve also done a range of movement and weight-bearing tests, but I disguised them as your exercises.” She grins at me, pleased with herself. “The last thing you need to do is hop testing. I wanted to let you know that if you pass that this week—which I know you will—well, Austin Porter, get ready. Because I’ll be able to recommend that you get back on the field ASAP.”
If this were a Disney film, there would be birds in the air chirping, flying in a circle around my head. They would layer me with wreaths made of roses and lure me into the meadow to dance with them as the fireflies did their own choreographed show around us, like a thousand tiny fireworks displays going off at once in faerie land.
But it ain’t Disney. This is Sweetkiss. So I do what I can do best: I stand up, throw my arms in the air, and scream as loud as I can.
