Page 26 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"It's fine. Nothing that a massage and some whirlpool time won't cure."
"Just the same, let's have a look." He stands like the semi he is blocking my way. Fuck! I'm not wiggling out of this.
I follow him to the medical space where they prep me for an MRI. While the machine takes a look, I pray like I haven't prayed in a long time that they don't find anything. But when the technician picks up the phone, I know my goose is cooked. Fifteen minutes later, I'm seated across from Doc Latimer's desk while he examines the results of the test. "Looks like you have a small tear in your rotator cuff, Ty."
"Okay. Nothing than some aspirin or ibuprofen can't handle, right?"
"That and rest. I'm benching you for tomorrow' game."
I come to my feet, knocking over the chair. "The fuck you will."
"Sit down. Now." He doesn't bother to yell. Every football player knows his word is law when it comes to our ability to play. Whatever he says, goes.
I park my butt back on the chair.
He takes off his glasses, polishes them before plopping them back on his nose and giving me a hard stare. "It's small enough it can heal on its own, but only if you put it in a sling, and rest it. We'll reassess in three weeks."
"I have a game to play on Monday." I try to keep my voice in control. Pissing him off is not going to do me any good.
"Not anymore you don't." He takes a deep breath, let's it out. His eyes takes on a softer tone. "Look. I know how much playing means to you, but if you don't rest your shoulder, it will become a bigger tear, and then you will need surgery and be out for nine months. You'll miss the rest of the season. Is that what you want?"
Damn it. I hang my hands between my open legs. "No."
"Coach will have to know so he can prepare Pedro Santiago for the game."
The rookie quarterback with the golden arm. Damn it.
He offers me a commiserating smile. How many veteran quarterbacks have been replaced "temporarily" by the second-string quarterback and never return to play. Too many to count, that's how many.
"The three weeks will fly by, you'll see."
"Sure it will." I stand up. "Is that it?"
"Yes. Go have a shower, get in whirlpool time, a massage. Don't have them touch the shoulder. Once you're dressed, come back so we can put your arm in a sling."
"Fine."
In the recuperation room, I act like nothing's wrong and give a couple of players a 'Hi, how you doing?' before heading for the whirlpool. Once I've sunk into hot water nirvana, one of my linesmen strolls over and asks if I'm going to Platinum tonight. I shake my head. Not exactly in the mood to get pawed by another groupie. Not after getting gamed by MacKenna.
After a hot shower, I drive home, fix dinner, turn on the tube. Nothing on TV holds my interest. So I pop in Texas Roughriders game tapes and examine their defense, something I do before every game. I usually make notes of their tells, but with my arm in a sling and strict instructions not to use my right arm unless I absolutely have to, I resort to something else—my smartphone which has a recording app. I make notes of their tells—the weak side linebacker looks to the right before every blitz, the cornerback's right hip is bothering him. Even if I can't use it, Pedro sure can. I may resent like hell the fact that the kid is going in for me, but I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to beat the Roughriders.
Some time in the middle of the night, I wake up on the sofa, my face buried in a pillow that smells like lavender and rose. My dick's throbbing so hard I'm seeing stars. Goddamn it. Nothing she has I can't get from a thousand other women. So why is my John Thomas so hung up on her? Doesn't matter. Only one way out of this mess. I pull down my pants and jerk off, all the while picturing her soft thighs, her hot pussy, her luscious tits. It takes me barely a minute to come. Wrung out, I stumble to the bathroom and clean up, cursing the cocksucker who designed her witches' brew of a scent.
