Chapter 25 – QUINN #2
Hours later, we’re on the field and well into the second quarter just before halftime.
It’s unseasonably hot and insufferably humid today with a cloudless sky providing no shade from the blinding sun.
Misting fans are going up and down the sidelines, and the players are loading up on electrolytes, but they’re sweating it out as fast as they can take it in.
I’m standing with the medical staff, discussing IVs and leg and body cramps that some players will inevitably get.
“Halftime will help,” Marcus comments. “The air conditioning and break from play. But with dehydration, their muscles are fatiguing faster.”
“More than just cramping,” I agree, “they’re at risk for muscle strains or worse with decreased coordination.”
“We’ve got ice towels and hand coolers standing by, and if anyone really needs it, cold tubs,” Jane, a trainer, tells us.
Movement out of the corner of my eyes stirs me away, and Russel is there with his helmet in his hand and a grimace to his brow. “Hey, I came down funny on my left leg with that last play. Would you mind taking a look during halftime?”
I glance down at his leg, but I don’t see anything obvious, which isn’t abnormal. “Yeah. I’m sure the trainers can check you out?”
“Absolutely,” Jane agrees.
“I was hoping you could take a look, Dr. Reyes.”
I’ve avoided him all day because I don’t want to start drama before their game and certainly not halfway through it.
I suppose this is why people keep their personal lives off the field and out of the locker room.
As a former professional athlete, I get it.
Stuff like that gets in your head and affects your performance.
It’s what happened to me when Kierra started spreading lies about me. I was so aware of what I was doing, all the people looking at and talking about me.
Regardless, I’m not going to make a big thing out of it now. Especially when I’m doing my job. “Sure. I can do that.”
He nods and walks off, a barely perceptible limp to his step. Halftime is called, and before I can retreat to the locker room, someone intercepts me. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met you. I’m Tamira Braumer, field reporter for NFL Sports Beat.”
She’s right. We haven’t met yet, but she obviously knows who I am since she’s mentioned me more than once. I hate reporters. I hate how they feel entitled to your personal life, reactions, and thoughts. I hate how they love it when you’re actively falling apart.
She’s practically right in my face, her eager beaver, sharp story-seeking eyes all over me. She’s immaculate despite the intense heat. Not a blonde hair out of place, and her makeup is flawless.
“I saw Russel Jones speaking with you and the other medical staff right before halftime. Was that a lovers’ chat or is he injured? I noticed a small limp. Can you discuss his potential diagnosis?”
“No,” I state flatly. “He’s a player, and I’m a team doctor. There are HIPAA guidelines all medical staff abide by. And besides, I didn’t examine him. Excuse me.” I go to move around her when she shifts back in front of me.
“Can you confirm your relationship with him?”
“I just did. He’s a player, and I’m a team doctor.”
I get a knowing smirk and an up and down that women do when they’re being judgmental bitches. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Dr. Reyes? Do you feel that’s an inappropriate line to cross since, as you just said, he’s a player and you’re a team doctor?”
Do you feel like being a raging cunt makes you appear smarter?
If I’ve learned one thing from what Kierra did to me, you never answer the question because they’ll always flip it how they want it to go.
I don’t bother engaging, and thankfully, she loses interest when she spots Rhett heading for the locker room.
She practically body checks me out of the way, shouting, “Coach Jones!”
What a hack. And a hag.
The locker room is intensely cold with more misting fans going. Russel is by my side before I get very far. He has an ice towel around his neck and a fresh cup of electrolytes.
“Can you check me now? It’s tight for sure.”
“Have a seat.”
I don’t bother bringing him to the back. They don’t have a lot of time during the break, and I’ve done more than one exam with a player on a bench or chair in the open locker room space. Plus, I don’t want to be alone with him.
I examine him briefly, testing strength and mobility as well as joint integrity.
“It’s a muscle spasm. Maybe a minor strain, but nothing more serious.
I’ll have one of the trainers tape you up and make sure you finish those electrolytes.
I think you’re good to play the second half if you feel up to it. ”
“Cool. Thanks.” I stand, but before I can get far, he grabs my hand, stopping me. “Sit with me on the plane home?”
Before I can respond, Rhett comes in barking about all the things the team did wrong in the first half. They’re down by three, so nothing catastrophic, but it’s not the time for any discussion with his son.
Rhett catches my eye before his gaze flickers over to Russel. I can see the tension there. Even some regret.
Crew thinks I need to find a balance. That I can have it all.
But the guy I’d be willing to bend my perfectly ordered life a bit for can’t be part of my long-term strategy or game plan. He’d be yet another heartbreak and disappointment. The truth is, we’re forever offsides with each other.
And I don’t see how that’s changing anytime soon.