Chapter Twelve
Cord
The legal pad was covered in my chicken scratch handwriting, coffee rings staining the margins. Three genuine opportunities spread before me like plays on a whiteboard, each with their own risk-reward calculations.
I clicked my pen a few times, a habit from team meetings that drove my offensive coordinator crazy, and started writing on a clean sheet.
“STANDARD SURGERY - LA”
Five percent complication rate, eighty percent recovery. Safe choice. I'd be able to play again, just not at the level I was before. Backup quarterback material, maybe a few more years holding clipboards and coming in when the starter got injured.
Below that: “EXPERIMENTAL SURGERY - ISTANBUL”
Dr. Arslan's technique. Stem cell integration, advanced microsurgery. Ninety to ninety-five percent recovery—potentially better than before the injury. But fifteen to twenty percent chance of permanent nerve damage that would end everything immediately.
One in five odds. Same as completing a pass into tight coverage against an elite corner. I'd made those throws a thousand times in my career, but this wasn't a game where you got another down if you failed.
My hand gripped the pen. The thought of surgery—either surgery—made my shoulder twinge.
Dusty's smile flashed through my mind, the way his hair fell across his face when he leaned over me.
I wondered what family business he was handling.
Missed him more than made sense for someone I'd known barely a week.
Focus, Morales.
Next column: “ALABAMA QB COACHING.” Guaranteed money, respected program, chance to develop young quarterbacks without my body taking more punishment. Safe choice, but still meaningful. Still connected to the game I loved.
I thought of my dad, coaching high school ball back in Santa Fe. How he'd come home exhausted but satisfied after molding raw teenage talent into something resembling actual football players. Could I find that same satisfaction?
Third option: “ESPN/brOADCASTING.” Former players were in demand for analysis work. Didn't need coaching credentials first; GameDay was full of guys who'd gone straight from playing to the booth. And I had Kendon to help get my foot in the door.
For the first time since the injury, having options felt energizing instead of overwhelming. I broke down the variables like I used to dissect zone coverage.
Under standard surgery, I wrote: “PRO - Low risk, guaranteed partial recovery, could play backup role.” Then: “CON - Only 80% recovery, not starter quality, Pittsburgh loses interest.”
Below that, experimental surgery: “PRO - Full recovery possible, 90-95% mobility, return to elite level, prove doubters wrong.” Then: “CON - 20% complication rate, could lose everything, not FDA approved, Istanbul.”
My hand moved instinctively toward where my pills would have been. The gesture was so automatic I didn't realize what I was doing until my fingers closed on empty air.
Shit. Old habits.
The coaching column filled up faster: “PRO - Guaranteed income, respected position, develop young talent, stay in football, safer long-term.” Cons were harder to identify: “Lower pay than playing, less glamorous, might feel like settling.”
Would I be able to stand on the sidelines watching kids do what I couldn't anymore? Or would it eat me alive, that constant reminder?
Broadcasting intrigued me most: “PRO - Flexible schedule, good money potential, could work anywhere, interesting work, longevity.” The main con was uncertainty: “Unproven in media, might not translate well to TV, competitive field.”
I stared at the broadcasting column. “Could potentially work from anywhere” meant I could be wherever Dusty needed to be. No cross-country relationship, no leaving him behind. I could wake up next to that sleepy smile instead of just FaceTiming from hotel rooms.
The thought made my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with my injury.
I sat back, studying my notes. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added a fourth column: “NON-FOOTBALL OPTIONS.”
I stared at the blank space beneath those words for a long moment. What else could I do? What other skills did I have beyond reading defenses and throwing spirals?
Hit me like a blindside sack. I'd been playing organized football since I was eight years old. Nineteen years of my life dedicated to one thing, one identity. Strip away the game, and what was left?
I tried to think of hobbies, interests, talents that existed separate from athletics. Drawing, maybe. I'd enjoyed that as a kid, before football consumed everything. But I hadn't touched a pencil that way in over a decade.
The blank column mocked me. At twenty-seven, I was facing the end of the only career I'd ever known or wanted, and I had no idea what else I might be good at.
Maybe that's how Dusty felt sometimes. All that talent and creativity, but doubting himself. Except he'd taken the leap, was planning his gallery despite the uncertainty.
A month ago, that realization would have sent me spiraling.
Now, after three days of breathing exercises and honest self-reflection, it felt more like opportunity.
Maybe not knowing what else I could do meant I got to discover it, instead of being trapped by assumptions about who I was supposed to be.
The Ranch's communication device on my kitchen wall chimed. Kendon Michaels: Free for lunch? Would love to continue our conversation about the future.
Perfect timing. I grabbed a light jacket, especially with the breeze picking up from the north, and headed downstairs.
The main lobby buzzed with afternoon activity. Near the concierge desk, a companion in a leather harness and nothing else led an oil executive toward the private elevator, the man's hand already gripping the younger guy's ass. Business as usual at The Ranch.
I passed two tech entrepreneurs I recognized from business magazines heading toward the spa, already in robes that did nothing to hide obvious evidence of their afternoon plans.
Walking across the courtyard toward the restaurant, I passed the yoga studio where I'd first met Dusty.
The windows were dark now, probably between sessions.
Hard to believe that was only a week ago.
The man stumbling around that studio, barely able to breathe without panic—he was someone else entirely.
My shoulder twinged. Doctor's voice echoed in my head: Full recovery isn't guaranteed, even with perfect compliance.
Breathe. Four in, hold for four, out for six.
The restaurant occupied a converted hacienda-style building, all exposed beams and warm stone. The host, a stunning young man in leather shorts, recognized me immediately.
“Mr. Morales, your guest is already seated. Right this way.”
Kendon looked relaxed at a corner table, the kind of casual confidence that came from having made the transition out of playing.
“You look different,” he said after I settled in. “More settled.”
“Feel different. My time here away from the rest of the world has helped me figure some shit out.”
“About football?”
“About what I actually want versus what I think I should want.”
“Big difference.” He raised an eyebrow. “So what'd you figure out?”
“That I don't have to make one perfect choice.” I unfolded my napkin, the linen crisp and expensive against my fingers. “I can pick the option that gives me the best foundation for everything else I want to build.”
“Smart.” Kendon studied me for a moment. “You're thinking bigger picture now. That's good. It means you're healing, not just physically.”
The server arrived—another attractive young man in minimal clothing—and took our orders. After he left, Kendon leaned forward.
“Tell me about these options you're weighing.”
I walked him through it. The two surgery paths with their competing risk profiles. The Alabama coaching position offering stability and mentorship. The broadcasting possibility that would keep me close to the game without destroying my body.
“Broadcasting's interesting,” Kendon said. “You've got the name recognition, the playing credentials. And honestly? You're articulate. You think about the game strategically, not just as a player. That translates well to analysis work.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely. Most former players struggle to explain what they instinctively know. You can break it down, make it accessible.” He leaned back.
“Plus, broadcasting gives you control. You're not waiting for some team to trade you or some injury to end your season. You build your own brand, your own career path.”
The server brought our food—some kind of gourmet burger for me, grilled fish for Kendon. I took a bite, thinking about what he'd said.
“The flexibility appeals to me,” I admitted. “Being able to work from different locations, set my own schedule. I've spent my entire adult life at the mercy of team management and training camp schedules.”
“Freedom's underrated until you don't have it.” Kendon studied me for a moment. “You're thinking about someone, aren't you? The way you keep circling back to flexibility and location independence.”
My face must have given me away because he smiled.
“Look, I get it. Finding someone who matters changes the equation. Suddenly career decisions aren't just about money and prestige. They're about building a life that has room for the things that actually make you happy.”
“Is that what happened with you?”
“My partner and I met right after I retired.
He's a graphic designer, works freelance. Broadcasting let me be flexible enough to support his career while building my own.” He gestured with his fork.
“Best decision I ever made, even if it meant walking away from coaching offers that would've paid more.”
The food was good, but I barely tasted it. My brain was spinning through new calculations, new possibilities.
“So if I'm serious about broadcasting,” I said, “what's the realistic timeline?”