Quitting the Quarterback (The Nash Brothers #4)

CHAPTER 17 Tanner Banks

What a Way to Go Down

I get my hands on the ball, and I’m looking downfield to see if my receiver is open when I spot a defender who broke free of our offensive line. I dodge to avoid him, and I have a few more seconds for my receiver to get into place.

I plant my leg, and I see another defender coming at me, so I twist to get out of the way.

But when I twist, my planted leg doesn’t move the way it’s supposed to, and instead, my knee twists as a snapping sound echoes through my entire body, and my knee gives way to a crippling explosion of pain.

I toss the ball downfield as close to my receiver as I can as I go down, my eyes slamming shut as agony takes over. Tears pinch behind my eyes as panic starts to wash over me.

It’s a noncontact injury. Nobody hit me or slammed into my knee, and recovery from noncontact injuries can be brutal.

I writhe around on the ground, grabbing onto my knee as if that’ll make it any better, but I can already feel it swelling .

I’ve been around this game long enough to know what it is, but fuck that. This is literally the first play I’ve had with the San Diego Storm, and I’m not fucking going out.

Not like this.

My brother reaches me first. “What is it?”

“Knee,” I grit out through a clenched jaw as I try to maintain my composure. It hurts like fuck, and the world is watching.

What a way to go down.

“Fuck,” he yells, and one of the trainers, Nick, is running toward me with Coach Dell not far behind. Two more men are with them, names I can’t recall as the pain threatens to consume me.

The medical staff reaches me, and they bend down to examine me, pushing my brother out of the way. But he’s not to be deterred. He stands close by, shielding me from the cameras as best he can.

They start firing questions at me as they move my leg, and I’m trying to concentrate on answering them through the buzz of agony.

Nick takes one look at my knee and asks me, “Pain on a scale of one to ten?”

It’s a fucking eleven on that scale, but I’m not about to admit that. If I tell the truth, they’ll take me back to the locker room and force me to have an MRI. I’ll be out for the season.

It’s fine. I can brace up and play through this.

But my silence as I debate my answer is a dead giveaway.

This is bad. Really bad.

“Can you walk?” Coach asks.

I breathe through the pain.

“It’s already swelling,” Nick tells Coach.

“Don’t say ACL,” Coach says as if I’m not sitting right here.

“He needs an MRI. ”

“I’m fine. I can play.” I grit out the protest, but it’s weaker than it should be. If it were true, I wouldn’t have all these men kneeling over me with concern in their eyes. I wouldn’t hear the hush of an entire stadium whose hopes for the season are flushed down the drain on the very first play.

I wouldn’t feel my chest cracking open and my heart fucking breaking for all I’m about to lose.

“Let’s have Dr. Roberts determine that just to be on the safe side,” Coach says, and Nick helps me up. He braces me around my waist with one arm while my brother takes the other side.

“You’ll be back out here before halftime,” Miller assures me, and I wish I had that same level of confidence.

I can walk, but every step is excruciating. I’ve managed pain before, though. I can put this in the same box I stuck all my distractions into before the game today.

Because that worked out so well.

Fuck. Fuck! I can’t let this end my season. I was distracted, and I knew it would come back to haunt me.

I limp down the sideline toward the tunnel to take me back to the locker room still braced by Nick—but not my brother, who is returning to the field to play with Ford Turner instead of me. I hear voices on the sidelines.

Get your ass right back out here.

We’re here for you.

We’re playing for you.

The first emotion that hit was denial, but as I listen to their voices fading behind me as they get to play and I have to go get a fucking MRI in the locker room during the game, anger starts to step into its place.

“I’m fine,” I roar at Nick.

“I know,” he assures me even though we both know I’m lying. “We’re just going to have Dr. Roberts take a quick look, and you’ll be back on the field before halftime. Just like Miller said.”

My clenched jaw works overtime as I try to create pain somewhere else in my body to take the attention away from my knee, but it’s useless.

Nick takes me into an exam room, and Dr. Roberts is already waiting for us. Nick fills him in on his initial findings, and the doctor asks me to explain what happened.

“I twisted one way and my knee twisted the other,” I say, and my voice sounds dead to my own ears. There’s no emotion in it, and it scares me a little. “I’m fine. I just snapped it. It’ll bounce back. Brace it up and let me go back out there.”

Dr. Roberts shakes his head. “It’s already swelling. Going back out now might be worse than season-ending, Tanner. We need to get some imaging done to see what’s going on before it swells more. Excuse me.” He walks out of the room and leaves me with Nick, who glances over at me.

“Let’s get your jersey and pads off.”

There’s not much else to say.

He helps me out of my gear, and I glare down at my traitorous knee as I wish I could rewind the clock and do everything differently.

I take off my cleats and my pants, and Nick tosses me a gown to cover up with, not that I need one back here in a fucking locker room.

Dr. Roberts returns a moment later with a wheelchair. “Let’s get you to imaging. The radiologist is here.”

I blow out a frustrated breath. I don’t want to go to imaging, least of all in a wheelchair. I don’t want them to run an MRI to confirm what I already know. I’d rather live in the dark with a little bit of pain because that little bit of pain at least tells me I’m still alive.

Taking football away from me is taking that life away .

Maybe that’s dramatic, but it’s all I know. It’s all I’ve done every goddamn year from July through February since I was eleven years old.

I don’t even know what my life is if I can’t step onto the grass every Sunday.

Fuck.

I do as I’m told.

I lay as still as possible on the table and slide into the tube that takes the images of the ligaments inside my knee. All I can think about is the doctor’s words about how if I play through it, it could be worse than season-ending. What the fuck is worse than season-ending? What the fuck am I supposed to do if this is season-ending?

I can’t even think about what would be worse than that.

It’s a risk every time we step out onto that field. I’ve suffered broken fingers and cuts and scrapes, plenty of bruises, a couple of sprains. All shit I could play through. All shit that caused me to miss a game at most.

But this is different. The eerie quiet of this MRI machine feels different, and it leaves me feeling hollow.

Nobody will know what to say to me. Nobody will know how to react, how to make the quarterback feel better.

And the truth is that nobody will be able to. I’m a competitor. I’m a winner. I’m a hard worker. I’m an athlete.

That’s my entire identity. Who am I if I don’t have the game I love so goddamn much?

It shouldn’t come as a surprise once I’m back in the exam room and Dr. Roberts walks in with my results. “It’s a complete ACL tear, Tanner. I’m sorry. My recommendation is to wait a few days for the swelling and inflammation to go down and start some physical therapy. Reconstruction surgery in three to six weeks.”

My heart drops at his words, and my chest tightens .

I knew it was coming, but it doesn’t make the blow of the words feel any less harsh.

More words follow—words I can’t focus on as a cloud of grief falls over me.

I already know all these things, but Dr. Roberts and Nick say the words anyway. They sound like those droning voices from the old Charlie Brown cartoons, or like I’m underwater as they talk. I hear the words, but they don’t register.

“ACL tears are pretty much always season-ending. The surgery and recovery are tough, and the risk of reinjuring it is incredibly high if players return too soon.”

“Things feel bleak right now, but you have the drive to return. You’re mentally tough as hell, Tanner. You love this game. You can stand on the sidelines and call plays with the coaches. You can still study the game and our opponents. You can work your ass off to rehabilitate and get back to the game as soon as possible.”

I just wish I believed the pep talk. I wish I had the mental toughness they think I do. I wish all those negative thoughts and distractions weren’t slowly creeping out of the box I locked them in.

I wish I could get back onto the field, but I’m not medically cleared, and because of these stupid fucking images, I won’t be for at least the next eight or nine months.

It’s a noncontact injury. I don’t even have someone else to blame, so I’ll blame myself.

I’m out the next year because I was fucking distracted.

That’s the last goddamn time I let some woman distract me from anything ever again.