Page 89 of Most Likely to Score
This is my biggest fear—a career-ending injury—and as the very real prospect of never playing football again hangs in the balance, a new terror races through me—the horror that I’ve royally fucked up.
I’m on the cusp of losing it all, watching everything I’ve worked for splinter to pieces, but I’ve forgotten one important thing—to tell the woman I love that I love her before the game started.
I’m a great and terrible idiot.
“You doing okay, big guy?” Miles’s arm is under me. Hell, his whole upper frame is under me, since he’s probably all of five foot, nine inches.
“I’m okay. I didn’t need a cart to go off the field,” Isay, since I can walk still. But everything hurts with every step. My muscles are sore. My bones ache. I ran into a truck, and it knocked me to the ground. I tread gingerly, carefully moving one foot in front of the other.
“You can do it. You’re going to be fine. We can figure this out,” he says, offering encouraging words, since that’s his job.
I have no idea what we’ll figure out. I have no idea if this is how Garrett felt when he was hit so hard his career ended, but I know one thing—the biggest mistake I made today wasn’t running all-out to the end zone.
It was half-assing things with the woman I love.
I was a dick. Cletus was right, and I hope to hell Jillian can forgive me like the little guy did.
“Slow down,” Miles says gently as we near the locker room.
“Was I walking faster?”
“You were. You need to take it easy. Don’t exacerbate anything. Okay?”
“Okay.” Then I add, “I’m okay.” This time it feels a little truer as we turn into the locker room.
One of the PTs is waiting with the doctor, and he offers to lift me onto the exam table, but I wave him off, hopping up there on my own power.
The bespectacled doctor gets to work quickly, cutting my football pants along the knee.
“Does this hurt?” The doctor wiggles my kneecap.
Oddly enough, it doesn’t hurt as much. I let my mind wander as he does his job, and maybe this is whatit means to have an out-of-body experience, since I’m not feeling much pain any longer.
My mind circles again to Garrett, the picture of his little girl, the mention of his wife, the smile on his face.
A razor-sharp awareness zings through me, piercing my heart.
I was wrong.
Garrett might miss football, but his life is far from over.
His happiness is not dependent on the game. His heart is with his family. Friday morning, I only saw what I feared. I saw what was lost, not what he’d found.
But I see clearly now—he’s a man who has what matters most.
The doctor asks a question. I blink and make eye contact. “What did you say?”
“Does this hurt at all? Does anything hurt? You didn’t answer me.”
I look at the doctor. “I love her.”
He quirks up an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Louder, in case he didn’t hear, I announce, “I love Jillian Moore. I want you to know, Dr. Miller.”
He laughs, his gray eyes twinkling through his glasses. “Did you hit your head, too, Jones?”
I shake my head.
