Page 42 of Rocking the Receiver
“Thank you, sir,” Rupert replies when my dad releases him from his embrace.
Dad remains unshaken, his impressive and weirdly demonstrative frame showing his emotions in all their glory. Mom grins at everyone and takes the lead again in a gentle and composed voice. “Now, I think we should stay in the waiting room and leave the medical staff do their job. I need to know that mybabydoes not have a fractured ankle and will be back on the field in no time!”
I grunt at the moniker—which has her rolling her eyes—because I’m no longer a baby, but can’t get enough of Rupert calling mebabe. We all chuckle at her pragmatism, though.
“Also, just a heads up. After the doctors send you back home, you owe us a party for your football success and this.” Tim points at us. “If you need help with the wine, I’ll help, obviously.” He shoots us the goofiest of smiles before heading to the door.
I’m both surprised and pleased at how well they’re taking the news. It’s a lot to process, and the rest of the family has to be updated eventually, so there’s that. But between the numbing painkillers and the positive vibes that are making me hyper, I’m a hot mess.
Oh, well!
CHAPTER 20
A VIOLENT NOISE
Elliot
My padding weighs nearly as muchas the expectant eyes focused on me in the locker room. It’s heavy yet unbelievably comforting.
Damn, I fucking missed this!
Shoulders squared, I step onto the field again. Countless exams to confirm the diagnosis and healing process for my sprained ankle. Weeks of rehab to make sure I was ready to return stronger than ever. Restless nights because the swelling and the pain didn’t subside as quickly as expected, and I panicked.
That’s all behind me now, so I take a deep breath to soothe my sudden nerves. Exactly like Rupert taught me.
Outside, the crowd roars in anticipation, but inside, I grapple with a whirlwind of emotions. Five games—five long games—I’ve been out, watching my team push through without me. On TV for the first part, then on the bench. Pride and irritation settled in my gut with each of their successes.
Today, I’m past the resentment and anger at myself. Today, I’m back. Today, I’ll prove I’m worth every ounce of faith The Troopers put in me when they drafted me.
My determination has always been a powerful weapon, but my resilience is even stronger. The fact that Rupert kissed me senseless before we parted ways at the hotel earlier boosted my confidence; the idea of booking two rooms angered me at first, but after all we’ve done to not get flagged, it’s safer this way, especially with the copious media people around. Earlier tonight, I crossed paths with Casey West from Football Fandom in the elevator. Granted, he’s overtly supportive of the LGBTQIA+ community, but exposing the Troopers’ rookie and his famous male lover—whose fame has been skyrocketing lately—would be a scoop nonetheless. Staying under the radar at the hospital was enough of a hassle.
All in due time.
Getting outed was never the idea. When we do come out publicly, neither Rupert nor I wish to be LGBTQIA+ spokespeople. We just happen to be two people who love each other and choose not to flaunt our sexual orientation. To each their own, but that’s how we agreed to roll, eventually.
Eventually… The adverb somehow became our new motto, but as far as football is concerned, my return and our win were always sooner rather than later.
“How’s the ankle, LeFire?” Coach Schott, our wide receiver coach, asks as he pats me on the back near the sideline, glancing sideways at Doctor Rosie and Cutter, the assistant athletic trainer.
I’m tempted to suggest a change of moniker, unsure whether my flame will be as bright as before. Or maybe it will be…
No, no, no, strike that, there’s no maybe. I will make an impact. “Good to go, Coach.” My voice is steady with a hint of eagerness… Ineedto play, so badly, so fiercely, so much that it aches. In the best of ways, that is. “Physical therapy team did wonders. I’m forever in debt to Rosie and the wizard that is Cutter. Excited to be back.”
Coach Oliveira, the head coach, glances down at my ankle, then back at me. “Take it easy at first. We don’t need you pushing too hard right out of the gate. Got it?”
“Got it, Coach.” Inside, I’m buzzing to hit the field running, but I get it: Rosie and Cutter have been hammering the same point at home during rehab. They cautioned that a premature return could lead to extended time on the bench—or worse. Neither option is acceptable if I want to cement my future with the team. I’ve worked too hard for this to fail now.
We hit the ground running, and a thrill rushes through me as we line up for the snap. I catch our quarterback’s eyes across the huddle. Cal’s his usual self: calm, single-minded, in control, which, in turn, boosts my confidence. He looks at me, jutting his head slightly.
“Ready to make a statement, LeFire?” Cal smirks.
“Always.” I adjust my gloves.
The ball snaps, and I explode off the line. I’m a live wire, and it feels fucking great—better than I expected. Taking short intakes of breath, I take a sharp cut and shake off the defender. The ball hits my hands. First down. The crowd cheers, and for a second, I allow myself to enjoy it. It’s not enough, though.
The next few plays go by in a blur, adrenaline pumping through my veins. My heart pounds in rhythm with each play call, and I ignore how fast sweat forms beneath my helmet. Instead, I’m fixated on my routes, cutting and accelerating with that well-known mix of speed and precision.
I shut down the little voice in the back of my mind, nagging me to be careful while proving myself. Thankfully, Gunner is never far, his eye eagle on me, not as a babysitter, but as a true ally. This guy is golden. The offense is clicking. I adore this team and the staff.
