CHAPTER 3 Maverick Jennings
Non-Displaced Fracture
It’s the Friday before our first game of the season.
My first game as the starting quarterback for the Vegas Aces.
I’m up before the sun as usual, but today it’s with an extra purpose. I have something to do before practice this morning.
I had one request of my agent when I was shipped off to a new town, and that was to find me a place like the one in Dallas. That’s why my agent called last night—to remind me about my commitment this morning. As if I could forget the one bright spot in my week.
I pull up to Sunny Acres Animal Shelter at five thirty. I find early morning the best time of day to volunteer here, mainly because it’s not full of other volunteers yet, so I can do my own thing.
Someone once told me that petting a dog can genuinely make you happier.
I looked into it. Studies show that petting a dog can lower stress and blood pressure. It can trigger the release of serotonin and reduce anxiety. Still, ever a disbeliever until I see it for myself, I walked into an animal shelter in Dallas one day to test the theory.
It worked.
They roped me into coming back the next week, and the next, and soon I was a regular volunteer.
Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about the animal for the few moments I’m with it rather than about my own history, or maybe there’s something in their fur.
Maybe it’s because I’m volunteering my time to help another living being.
Whatever the case, things don’t quite feel as heavy when I’m at the shelter.
My tasks are simple. Because I’m a big guy, I usually get the big dogs. I spend an hour of my time taking a few dogs on walks or playing with them in the yard. It’s a simple connection to another living thing for an hour a week when my schedule allows.
I’ve been volunteering here weekly since I moved to Vegas, and this week, a litter of Golden Retriever puppies showed up.
They’re fucking adorable. Fluffy and soft, with fur that leans more white than golden except for their ears, which are softer and darker.
I stand in a small room with three of them. Two are fighting over a toy while a third attempts to chew my shoelaces.
I’m tempted to take one home. Maybe not the one making a chew toy of my shoe. Or, hell, maybe I should just take all three.
I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to the dogs. I’m in and out too much. I travel a lot. And I like my solitude, anyway.
I pick up the one on shoe duty, and I hold it close to my face. “What are you doing to my shoe?”
The pup responds by licking my nose.
I set it down before I actually do end up taking it home, and when my hour is up, I leave with more reluctance than usual and head straight for the Complex, the nickname given to the Aces’ practice facility.
Friday practices are a bit lighter ahead of game day, and I’m rotating with the other quarterbacks on each play.
We wear red jerseys as a reminder that nobody’s supposed to hit us since we’re not padded, and I’m watching Dex Bradley as he attempts to make a go at Brandon Fletcher, our second backup after Miles Hudson, who’s been struggling with lingering complications from an ACL tear a couple years ago.
That makes me QB1.
I’m up for the challenge, but part of being a starter is having a bond with your teammates.
I need to know these men as well as I know myself—as a player, at any rate—so I can trust my instincts when it comes to launching the ball to them.
I’ve started to get to know them on the field, but as for off… we’re just not there yet.
I’ve declined the invitations, and there have been plenty.
I’m not sure why I’ve declined other than the fact that I still feel betrayed by this trade. The Aces took me because they think they can fix me, but some breaks are beyond repair.
I watch as Dex and Asher Nash, the tight end responsible for blocking Dex from getting to the quarterback, share some words, and Dex looks pissed. I’m sure I can find a way to use that to my advantage.
I rotate in after the play Brandon led, and I call the play. I spot my open receiver downfield, and I’m about to launch the ball to him when I catch the shadow of Dex out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t have enough time to react, though. I’m not supposed to be taking hits during practice, so I’m not properly braced or protected. I try to back out of the way, but Dex’s shoulder plows directly into my ribs.
I hear a snap.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Snaps are never good, especially not when the fresh, hot sting of pain follows.
Something’s broken, maybe. How long will this take me out?
A few weeks? Months? An entire season? I watch it all swirl down the drain because of one asshole who wasn’t following directions.
All this plows into my mind before I even hit the ground.
When I do, I let out a grunt as I hiss and gasp for air.
“Fuck!” I yell. I clutch at my ribs as I hear Asher start yelling at Dex, but it’s just loud voices to me as that old friend called pain shows up with a blindingly white-hot greeting.
I try to get up, but I hiss at the pain as it takes over.
Coach Lincoln Nash shows up a second later. “Ribs?” he asks.
I nod and wheeze as I try to take a breath, but I can’t take a deep enough one. It’s too goddamn painful.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Trainers surround me as I curse Dex and his entire family. Fuck that dude.
“Can you breathe?” someone asks, and I nod.
It hurts, but I can do it.
They pull my jersey up, which hurts like all fuck, and they assess the damage. Someone brings an ice pack over, and they take my vitals.
They help me to my feet, and I’m hunched over as I try to walk toward the medical exam room. They offer me a wheelchair, and I decline.
I don’t know a single one of their names.
It hurts to walk. It hurts to breathe, so I take shallow breaths as I grit my teeth together. But where there’s pain, there’s life.
They take me back to the exam room, where they run X-rays.
Fifteen minutes later, the team doctor walks into the room with Coach Nash.
“Non-displaced fracture, left side,” the doctor says. “I want you to do a CT scan just to rule out any other possible damage, but we’re looking at no contact for four to six weeks before I can clear you. I can get you started on pain management right away.”
“Four to six weeks?” I wheeze, the most words I’ve put together since it happened.
I can play through the pain.
“We’ll start you on Toradol,” he says. “If you need something stronger, let me know.”
“I’ll be fine,” I hiss.
“Do you have someone who can stay with you?” Coach asks.
My mother is the only person in the world who comes to mind, but that’s not an option. I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are,” he fires back. “Adrian will be traveling with us to New York,” he says, naming our team trainer as if to say he’s out since he won’t be around.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I grit out.
I move to get off this goddamn table, but I realize…I can’t move without an exorbitant amount of pain.
Maybe I do need a babysitter.
I’d just never fucking ask for one.
I never ask anyone for anything.
So I lie back, staring at the ceiling as I try to come to terms with my fate.
“Look, Mav,” Coach says. “You’re our number one. This is a minor setback. You’ll be back in a few weeks—”
“Four to six,” the doctor interrupts.
“Right,” Coach says, glaring at the doctor, and I get the feeling he’d let me come back sooner if I’m ready for it.
I fucking will be. “Four to six weeks,” he continues.
“So in the meantime, I need you to take the best possible care of yourself that you can, and if that means a babysitter, that means a fucking babysitter.”
“I can help,” one of the trainers who’s still in the room pipes in.
“Robbie, thank you,” Coach says. He glances at me. “Do you have a spare room or a couch Robbie can crash on while he makes sure you’re not doing anything stupid?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes and wheeze instead. “Yeah.”
So I guess that settles that.
The first three days are the worst, and I’m actually glad I have Robbie around. I spend most of my time trying to simply get comfortable, which feels like an impossible task. The other part of my day, I’m icing my injury.
I watch the games all day Sunday, so at least there’s that. I wish I could do it with a beer or a nice glass of scotch, but that’s out for now.
By the end of the next week, I feel a marked improvement. Good enough to get around on my own, which means Robbie can now leave me the fuck alone.
Deep breathing is still pretty painful, but at least I can take a breath. And by the end of the second week, I feel more improvement. Coughing hurts, as does twisting, and I assume laughing would if that’s something I ever really did.
I feel good enough for a night out. I’m getting cabin fever being stuck in this condo.
It’s got a great view of the Strip, sure, but I’m used to movement.
I’m used to traveling—every other week in season, and wherever the fuck I want to go in the offseason.
Instead, I’ve been stuck in my own home waiting to feel good enough to be able to move around on my own.
I head to one of the casinos that carries my scotch on a Friday night, and I’ve barely taken my first sip when someone slides onto the empty seat beside me.
“Maverick Jennings,” a male voice says, and when I look up, I see Ben Olson, a former tight end who retired a few years ago.
We never played on the same team, but we did attend a few charity events together back in my younger years, and he was always the life of the party.
Everyone’s seen the viral videos of him smashing beer cans on his head at this point, right?
“Ben,” I say with a nod of my head.
“How are the ribs?”
“Could use more barbecue sauce,” I quip dryly, and he laughs like it’s the funniest goddamn thing he’s ever heard.
“You still hopped up on meds?” he asks, nodding toward my glass, and I shake my head.