Chapter 35 Griffin
Griffin
Before Aria stopped by his condo unannounced, Griffin was already having one of the worst days of his life.
To some, it might sound overly dramatic, but earlier that morning, the doctor confirmed that Griffin’s knee would require surgery.
Despite having the same suspicions himself, it was still a blow to hear the confirmation come from the professional’s lips.
“We’ll have to see how much we can do when we go in. There’s already scar tissue from last time,” the doctor told him.
Griffin picked at the edge of the exam bench, knowing that this meant his worst fears were in the cards.
“There’s a chance I never play again,” Griffin said.
The doctor paused. “I’m not ready to tell you to hang up your cleats yet, but there’s always the chance. If you were five years younger or this was the first time this knee had gotten blown out, we’d already be talking back-to-practice game plan.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” Griffin said.
Soon after Griffin arrived home, Aria’s call came through, but he muted the ringer.
He’d catch her up eventually—once he had himself pulled together—but for that moment all Griffin wanted was to be alone.
He sat on his sofa, looking out the expansive windows at the overcast sky, and stewed in his thoughts.
Any professional player with an ounce of intelligence—or anyone decent on their team—was thinking about the end of their football career as soon as it started.
Being a career athlete is typically a short-burst deal, even for the best. It has never been corporate America where you put in the years or climb the ladder.
Athletes have to be explosive and intense for short periods, and everyone knows they need a plan for when it ends.
Some players invest and live in comfort off their earnings, playing video games and taking vacations for the remainder of their lives.
Others pivot into coaching roles or become staff.
Some invest in businesses, an entrepreneurial second act.
Regrettably, some fail to plan and find themselves at the end of their careers with empty bank accounts and beat-up bodies.
Sitting there on his couch, Griffin wasn’t worried about finances, his fastidiousness extending to personal finances.
Instead, it was the internal panic at the thought of that hit being his last appearance on a professional league field.
The idea that football could be stripped away from him too soon when he was supposed to have so many good years ahead of him.
Mike’s voice echoed in his head. “Not that we welcome it, but injuries happen. And to the best of them.”
Griffin always agreed with Mike—well, he thought he agreed.
He voiced his mirroring opinion, but only now does Griffin realize that up until this point he hadn’t truly considered the reality that it could happen to him.
That even if he saw the dots of logic connected, he didn’t truly assign that fate as a possibility for himself.
A knock came at the door, and Griffin ignored it.
The team always sent a gift basket when a player got injured—their favorite snacks, numbing patches, supplements, extra pajamas with the team logo—as a well-wish.
Whoever shops for them does a great job, and that’s probably who’s at his door.
He’d hobble over there once he mustered up the energy.
That is the other thing about being injured—it takes a mental toll, and before a player knows it, his attitude, persistence, and optimism are as beat up as his body.
When the knock came again, Griffin took it as his sign from the universe not to let himself slide into complacency, and he got up.
He didn’t rush, careful to avoid hurting his good leg.
Before he opened the door, Griffin caught a whiff of a floral perfume, and momentarily it sent a warm relaxation over him.
The same one Aria uses.
If his mind wasn’t hobbling along today, he would’ve guessed it was her at the door, but he stood surprised.
At once he was flooded by embarrassment and shame.
He probably looked like the polar opposite of the strong, supportive guy she’s gotten to know.
Griffin has been reduced to a shadow without football, and Aria is the last person he wants that on display for.
Still, as she stood there on his doorstep, he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.
Despite feeling on display in many ways he’d prefer not to be—his physical brokenness, his place not prepped for guests—Griffin couldn’t deny the way she lit up the place.
He didn’t realize how much he needed her in that moment, his friend who was all too ready to remind him that this wasn’t the end of the road.
Later when he wakes up on his sofa, it’s dark outside the windows. Aria is curled up at the opposite end of the sofa asleep, serene as breath fills, then escapes her in deep waves. She looks like an angel.
Griffin checks the time, then texts Enzo’s about dinner. The reply comes in almost at once.
Enzo: Anything for our man down. We’ll have the driver walk it up.
Griffin: Thanks, man.
Aria said she would stay awhile, so the least he can do is arrange for them to have dinner. It’s a simple task, but it leaves Griffin with a sense of purpose. He might not be able to walk, let alone play professional football right now, but one thing he can do is take care of his friend.
A friend he fights the urge to curl up beside.
Instead, he pulls himself to his feet, grabs a blanket tucked at the edge of the couch, and gently lays it over her.
She stirs as he tucks her in, rolling into the softness of the cover, and Griffin forces himself to look away.
He can’t be admiring her beauty. It’s a friends-only deal.