Chapter 26 #2
“And Cam Newton was out an entire season on a Lisfranc fracture, so you better pray to the fucking gods above that whatever the hell this is doesn’t put you out perm—sit your ass back down or I will strap you to the goddamn bed!”
It’s enough to propel me into the room. The moment the medics ran out on the field while Blaise lay there with his eyes closed, unmoving, shooing Briggs off when he attempted to just communicate with him, the other WAGs shuffled me up to security, where I was let through and escorted to the exam room.
Since I can hear him talking, I figure it would be best for me to wait outside to see if I could learn anything and make sure I’m actually welcome in there, but at Dr. Keltner’s threat, I don’t have a choice but to go in.
He’s clearly not thinking clearly, and if I can help, I will.
He’s partially reclined on a hospital bed.
He’s got his helmet off, but he’s otherwise still in his uniform.
Jersey, pads, pants, gloves, even the arm thing Joss told me is a cheat sheet for plays that Gabe used to wear, but Blaise took over this responsibility this year.
There’s still a towel tucked into his waistband, and he still has his shoe and sock on his left foot.
His right foot is elevated, wrapped in tape, a gel-filled tube — I’m guessing a fancy ice pack — surrounding it.
And as I walk in, he’s clearly trying to drag it off the bed so he can stand.
“Stop!” I cry out.
His eyes widen like a deer in the headlights at the sight of me, but then he relaxes and gives me his ‘everything’s fine’ smile, but I know that everything is rarely as fine as he believes it to be.
He extends an arm to me and pulls me in, giving me a hug.
“Hey, it’s not bad, I swear. Keltner is overreacting, and he’s fucking up my hot streak. ”
“I am not overreacting,” Keltner counters. “You have a sprained ankle. I showed it to you on the MRI. You cannot play.”
The diagnosis gives me some room to breathe.
A sprain just needs to heal. It’s not something that usually causes long-term damage — I hope.
Everything’s different with athletes. Injuries that would take me out are nothing for them, but also injuries I’d be basically the same from after healing could end their careers.
But I feel better. I can take care of him. Things are going to be rough with the apartment, what with the stairs, but we’ll figure it out.
Except Blaise isn’t backing down. He’s sweating, even here in the chilly exam room, and I don’t know if it’s from pain or stress, but either way, it’s a bad decision for him to go anywhere.
Still, after that brief hug, he starts to pivot off the bed like he’s going to stand up.
“I gotta get back in the game. Just fucking wrap it better. I don’t have enough yards.
I—” His eyes shoot to mine, and there’s something wild in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. “Did I get that touchdown?”
I blink, not even sure what he’s asking for a second, because it’s such a trivial question.
I know how important his job is. I understand that it doesn’t matter that he’s just throwing and running around with a ball, he’s an industry.
The amount of money in the NFL is unfathomable.
But the Jugs were up by 7, it was second down, that touchdown would have been nice but was in no way critical or game-changing.
“I-I don’t know. But . . . but Morales is good, right? The game’s fine.”
“I need that touchdown. I need to make sure I got it. I gotta get back in the game.” He pushes me aside, gently enough, but I know he can’t go. I even attempt to catch his leg as he swings it off the ramp it’s elevated on.
It’s Keltner who actually stops it, though. “Morales got the touchdown on the next play, and then Allore intercepted while you were getting x-rayed and Lin got a field goal while you were fighting me about the MRI.”
“But I didn’t get that touchdown! I need a touchdown. I—fuck!” he yells at the ceiling above him with more passion than I’ve ever heard from him.
It hurts my heart. I don’t understand what’s gotten him so riled up, but it’s not the injury or any sort of bragging rights about yards or points. I may not know him like most women know their partners, but I know him.
I push my way back into his space, half climbing on the bed just so I can grab him by the shoulders, which I can’t even really do because of the pads there.
But it’s enough to get him to lie back and scrub his face, to close his eyes and then ball his hand into a fist and punch the mattress at his side.
“You don’t need to go back out there. They’ve got this.
And this happens. It’s just the life you chose, right?
You’re going to listen to the doctor, and you’re going to do every single thing he says so you can get back on the field as soon and as safely as possible, and the show will go on until then. You don’t need to finish today.”
He stares up at me, and there’s a split second where I can just appreciate how beautiful a man he is.
Those gray eyes captivate me. Dense, black eyelashes.
His thick, soft lips always warm me up so well, no matter how he uses them on me, and even now in the season, he has me do his hair for him.
Every week, even if it’s not needed. We’ve spent every single Monday together, no matter what.
But he’s hiding stuff from me.
I’m hiding stuff from him, too. I’m hiding myself. So it’s not fair for me to be insulted by it, but I am.
“I have to finish that game,” he says, but his voice breaks as he says it.
“Why?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“Hey, umm, hey medical people?” I say to not just Dr. Keltner but the entire crew. “I know this is your time to work, but could you possibly give us, like, five minutes? I promise he’ll behave himself when you come back.”
“This is not the time for sex,” one of the others — but I’m only on a first-name basis with Keltner — snips.
“We’re not having sex!” Blaise and I both snap back.