36. Player
PLAYER
Our return to campus is going very well. Every night, Dixie sneaks into my room and I make love to her. During the day, we share some classes together, but practices and OMU’s upcoming bowl game keeps us apart.
I still feel the rage boiling deep inside me, and I take it out on the field.
"Holy shit! You're killing it!" Emery exclaims as I just made a throw that made even J’Evon have to stretch out to catch it on a full sprint. "That month of suspension did you good!"
I clench my jaw around my mouthguard. Unfortunately, he has no idea what he's talking about. These past few weeks have been the most horrible of my life. And I don't say that lightly given what I've already been through.
I turn my attention back to our defense, which is prowling on the other side of the line.
We’re only preparing for our bowl game, but it’s a big bowl, the most prestigious that OMU’s been to in years.
As such, practice has gotten more intense, and guys are looking at taking each other’s heads off for this final shot to impress the scouts and maybe, just maybe, get themselves drafted, or at least invited to a pro camp .
Me? I feel like I've eaten a lion, like I could tear everything apart.
Coach Adams approaches me, tapping his clipboard. “You planning on trying to carve our D apart all week?”
“If I don’t, Southeastern’s going to,” I reply, and Chauncey, who’s watching along with the first team offense, claps me on the shoulder pads.
“I think someone wants to put to bed next year’s QB1 question even before we step on the field next week.”
He’s both right and wrong. Yes, I want to prove I’m the best on the field.
Next year? I don’t even want to think that far ahead.
Coach Adams smirks, and nods. “Fine then. Next play, I want you running 24 Eagle Slant Fire. Our d-backs have to learn to adjust to the flood on zone coverage, or you’re going to be playing because we’re going to be down by so goddamn much that I’ll be sending in second and third team just to prevent injuries. ”
We line up, and for a moment before I start calling my pre-snap cadence, I glance to the stands. Coach opened up practice to the student body, for school spirit he says, and while I can’t pick her out, I can feel her.
Dixie’s up there, watching and cheering for me.
Since our return from Alabama, she's paid a lot more attention to football than she did prior. And she’s been at every open practice, peppering me and Emery with questions afterwards to prove her attendance.
"Green, eighteen! Green, eighteen! " I call, checking our defense. They’re in Jaguar Three, their standard zone coverage, but I see the defensive line’s coming hard. Thankfully, my red ‘no contact’ jersey means I’ll have the chance to still get the throw off.
"Hut! "
The center gives me the snap and I quickly back up to position myself to pass. The three receivers to my left run their routes perfectly, a wheel, a fifteen yard cross, and a post, just like it’s drawn up in the book. In just a second, I’ll be able to get my read and… there.
Perfect.
Ty, the scout team running back who’s really a better pass catcher than runner, slips past the linebacker covering him, slipping open. I cock my arm and throw the ball.
I sense the pressure coming in on my right, but it’s okay, this is practice and the rule is don’t hit quarterbacks in prac-
The mountain of muscle that is Vernon Whitehead, our star defensive end, crashes down on me with all two hundred and sixty-four pounds of his weight. The impact drives me to the ground, quick and violent.
I hear a crack and the last thing I see are the stadium lights before a black veil darkens my vision.
"Mom? Mom, where are you?"
My voice trembles, tears roll down my cheeks. I clutch my teddy bear tightly as my feet tread on the icy tiles that cover the apartment floor.
"I forbid you to leave me!"
That voice... I recognize it, it's his. He's shouting loudly, and I hear the sound of something falling. I run quickly and enter my parents' bedroom.
"Mom..."
She's lying on the floor, red liquid running down her head as she tries to get up.
My father's attention shifts to me. His gaze is cruel when he yells, "Are you crying?"
He approaches with slow steps, and I remain frozen.
"Bolton! No! "
But my mother doesn't have the strength to stand between us. My teddy bear falls to the floor when his fist crashes into my face for the first time, sending me spinning to the floor.
Pain and terror overwhelm me, but I don't have the presence of mind to run and hide. I lay there looking at him. His eyes seem to be bulging out of their sockets, he's so furious. "Daddy…"
He points his index finger at my chest, pressing hard and screaming, "Men don't cry! Ever!"
The images fade, but I'm unable to open my eyes. All I can perceive are the voices near me.
"What happened?”
"Total accident. I watched the practice video, Vernon was getting blocked, and when he slipped past, he got pushed at the same time he started to slip."
"Doesn’t matter. He’ll be fine."
That tone gives me unpleasant chills. It's him . I try to remember where I am and what I'm doing here. Fragments of the play come back to me. Vernon… the hit.. the double thump of my head on the turf…
"Adams, I'm counting on you to give him what he needs."
Nausea twists my stomach.
"I pay you enough to ensure he gets on the field..."
My consciousness decides to pull the curtain, and when I hear again what's happening around me, it's still his voice that reaches me. I’m in the trainer’s room, not the hospital, but still he’s there, this time speaking right in my ear:
"You're going to wake up, and you're going to be out on that field for the bowl game. . I've bet a pile of money on you, so you're going to obey me. And if you don't, you'll have big problems, I can guarantee that."
I want to tell him to go fuck himself, that whatever sort of fucked up gambling issue he’s got isn’t my problem, but all I'm capable of producing is a gurgle. My eyelids open slowly, and the light assaults me.
"I knew you could hear me," Bolton snarls. "Let me be very clear, either you do what I tell you, or your life will turn into hell. And if that's not enough, I won't hesitate to go after the people you care about."
Now that my vision is clear, I can read the hatred and rage distorting his features.
"First, I'll make sure your friend Emery can't play anywhere anymore, then it'll be your bitch of a girlfriend's turn."
Dixie!
"Leave her alone!"
But my voice is too weak, and my response doesn't have the intended effect. A nasty sneer twists Bolton's lips.
"Do what I tell you, and everything will be fine."
With those words, he turns on his heel and leaves the room. I don't hear anything else, and I couldn't say how much time passes before a team doctor finally comes to check on me.
As if I need a doctor to tell me I’ve got a concussion.
I wake up in the hospital feeling like I've been hit by a train.
The doc finally put his foot down and said I had to be observed overnight, for which I am reluctantly grateful.
I turn my head and see that someone delivered flowers after the staff finally let me sleep. Seems someone cares about me after all.
"Player!"
Dixie's voice reaches me before she materializes in front of me. Worry and relief battle across her beautiful face.
She smiles at me, and I do my best to smile back. "Hey, you. "
She squeezes my hand, and I try to squeeze, but my hand feels weak. The fuck?
Dixie notices, and bites her lip. I can sense there’s something going on. “What is it?”
"They didn’t say, I’m not family, but I overheard…" she starts, and I can see the look in her eyes.
"Is it serious?" I ask, cutting through the proverbial Gordian knot.
"The doctors say you'll recover," she informs me. "But they need to run more tests."
She looks at me, tears welling in her eyes.
"I was so worried about you when I saw you go down…"
I squeeze her fingers as hard as I can. It’s not much, but it’s something.
"I need to tell the doctor you're awake," she announces reluctantly.
She walks away and I hear the door close behind her.
I think I fell asleep again, because when I reopen my eyes, I see the face of a man wearing a white coat.
"Hello, Mr. Boardman. I'm Dr. Donnell. I've been taking care of you since your admission to our facility. You're suffering from a severe concussion."
He pauses, as if hesitating to give me the rest of his diagnosis.
"Sort of already knew that, Doc. Am I paralyzed? What the fuck’s up with my hand?"
"Oh no! Not at all, and short term weakness is a symptom that should subside soon enough. But..."
He falls silent, frowning. I can see he's struggling with a dilemma.
"What is it?" I croak.
The doctor looks over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone .
"Doc?" I insist. "Whatever it is, I want to know."
He turns his attention back to me, then nods.
"Your blood tests revealed traces of performance-enhancing substances."
"You're kidding?"
He shakes his head, looking grave.
"That's impossible..."
Suddenly, I think back to the ‘supplements’ and ‘vitamin shakes’ that the trainer my father hired gave me. I’d taken them without question, since he’d been having me do the same thing going all the way back to my freshman year of high school.
"He told me it was vitamins!"
The doctor grimaces, not knowing who ‘he’ is. "Those weren’t vitamins."
Silence fills the room while I try to put my thoughts in order.
"For how long?" I finally ask.
"Hard to say… anabolics aren’t the sort of thing that you can track like, say, tobacco usage. But based off of a few markers I noticed, perhaps for years. You’re lucky that the NCAA didn’t test you recently, honestly. You say you weren’t aware?”
“No!” I grunt. “I… this is insane!"
The implications of his announcement are enormous. Was I ever actually good at football, or were my performances solely due payoffs from my father, combined with substances that were injected without my knowledge?
Everything I thought I knew about myself is crumbling. And I know who's responsible.
"As I was saying," the doctor continues, "your concussion is severe. I don't recommend returning to sports for at least a good two months, to see if there will be any lasting effects. I’m sorry, but you’re missing the bowl against Southeastern."
He pauses. His voice is lower when he adds, "I can tell your coaches that your recovery is just a matter of time, or..."
I frown, sensing his hesitancy. He must know something’s hinky with this situation. "Or?"
"Well, I can tell them that the damage is permanent and that you won't play again."
"Ever again?"
He nods, and his expression is even more serious than if he'd just announced a death.
Never playing football again. The idea struggles to make its way into my head. Giving up football would be like abandoning a part of myself.
The part my father shaped.
"Whatever your decision, you'll need to give it to me before your discharge," he concludes.