Declan
Storms make trees take deeper roots.
~ Dolly Parton
After ninety minutes of upper body and core, I feel almost human again. I lift myself into a shower chair and manage not to soak my cast. In the locker room, I dress while balanced on one foot.
My teammates move in and out of the room. All of us are on our own schedules for treatment and workouts until meetings at the end of the day.
I pull on my athletic shorts and tug my T-shirt over my head.
“O’Connell, looking strong!” Treyvon Harris, our slot receiver, says. “I saw you lifting. Good to have you back.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Wish you could be out there for the game against the Bears this weekend. We could use you.”
“Hendricks has got this,” I say.
Treyvon huffs out a short breath. “He's not you.”
“Thanks, man.” I nod at Harris. “I'll be back on the field as soon as I'm able.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “I know you will.”
I glance down at my cast. My jaw tics and I blow out a breath.
Then I send Winona a text.
The sound of lockers opening and slamming shut, men’s voices and laughter, and the water of the showers fills the room. I rest my elbows on my thighs, settling into the feel of the bench under me.
Declan: I’m grabbing lunch at the cafeteria. Want to join me?
Winona: Are you asking me on a date, football player?
Does she want me to? Does the winking emoji mean she’s joking or flirting?
Declan: This place isn’t exactly ideal for a first date. Way too much testosterone and sweat.
Winona: Yeah. Better to save the sweat for a third or fourth date. Where’s this cafeteria?
I chuckle out loud and a few heads turn my direction.
Declan: I’ll come get you.
Winona: Sounds good.
I stand and grab my crutches, propelling out of the locker room, past my teammates and into the concrete hallway.
I’m still riding the adrenaline of my workout. It feels good to finally be pushing my body again.
When I get to the office, I knock.
“Come in,” Winona says.
I push the door open and she’s still on the floor, raising her arms overhead and stretching.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Lead the way.” She hops up and we walk together to the cafeteria—a large room with long tables and a food line on one side.
Stations for various specialty items are set up throughout the space.
Chefs gather behind glass food guards, serving fresh-made pasta, sushi and stir fry.
Food service staff man the carving station.
The sounds of conversation, forks on plates and chairs scraping the floors echo off the concrete walls.
Winona’s eyes are wide as she scans the room. “These guys are giants.”
I look around. I’m over six foot four and two hundred forty-two pounds. I’m one of the larger guys on the team, though only a few of us are under six feet and the majority weigh in at two hundred or more.
She’s standing stock-still, staring at our defensive tackle, Aaron Hayward, as he loads the second plate on his tray with food. Last I knew, he weighed three hundred and four.
“What does a man do to get that big?” Winona asks.
I chuckle. “He eats a lot of lunch, for starters.”
My stomach growls as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Before last week, I hadn’t worked out in three weeks. My appetite is coming back with a vengeance now that I’m back in the gym.
“What sounds good?” I ask Winona.
“I can have anything?”
“Help yourself. You just grab a plate and load up on whatever looks good. We can sit over there.” I point the tip of my crutch toward a table where Keller, Linc and Hendricks are sitting.
“Let’s get you a tray first,” she suggests. “I’ll carry it for you. Then I can get mine.”
I relent and lead Winona to where the trays are stacked. We tour the cafeteria. I fill my plate with roast beef and fish, veggies, sweet potato, brown rice and a green drink.
Winona teases me that I’m eating for two. “Nah,” I tell her. “That guy you were watching, Hayward, he eats for two.”
“He’s a tank,” she says.
“He’s a defensive tackle,” I tell her.
“His whole job is tackling people?” Her face scrunches up.
“His whole job is getting the ball back to the Thunder by stopping progress on the opposing team.”
“By tackling.”
“By blocking and tackling. Yes.”
She laughs and deepens her voice. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Then she answers herself, changing her voice with each answer. “I’m going to be a teacher. I’m going to be a lawyer. I’m going to eat two lunches and tackle people.”
I crack up.
This should be the most depressing season of my career. I should be moping around, despondent, worried about my future.
I pivot and maneuver to the table.
She follows me, and all the guys glance up.
I’m not saying they check her out. But they basically check her out.
She sets my tray on the table and meets the eyes of every man, giving each one a pleasant smile.
Her hair is down, blonde waves falling over her shoulders.
Her cheeks have a natural flush to them, and her bright blue, expressive eyes move from one player to the next.
My heart is in my throat.
I swallow and say, “Guys, this is Winona. She’s my home health aide.”
“But you ain’t at home,” Hendricks says. Then he turns on the charm and greets Winona. “If he gives you trouble, you call us, okay?”
“Declan?” she says. “He never causes trouble.”
“Oh, you’ve got her fooled, I see,” Hendricks teases.
“What position do you play?” Winona asks him.
“I’m a tight end.”
She smiles. “Like Declan.”
“O’Connell and I and McBride all play tight end. Do you like football?”
“It’s growing on me,” Winona says honestly.
The whole table cracks up. They’re so used to women fawning over them. The only women who usually give as good as they take are the trainers and massage therapists. They are wholly unimpressed by us. Winona’s like a breath of fresh air. It’s on every one of their expressions.
She smiles at them and then excuses herself to go get her food.
The guys all study me as she walks away. I tuck into my food, ignoring their stares. We’ve all had injuries at various times. No one brings their home health aide to lunch with the guys.
Winona returns with a sandwich and some fruit.
“That’s all you’re eating?” Hendricks asks her.
“I don’t tackle people for a living,” she replies without missing a beat.
He laughs again. “I like you, Winona. You’re alright.”
After lunch, my leg starts to ache a little.
Probably from exerting myself in the gym.
I walk Winona back to the office and then I head to the therapy room for elevated electrical stimulation.
After that, I’m in meetings with the offensive coordinator and position coach.
It’s five o’clock by the time I’m knocking on the office door to pick her up so we can leave.
“Did you address envelopes the whole time?” I ask her.
“Yes. I’m going to be seeing addresses and foil stamps in my sleep. But I finished.”
She rolls her neck slightly and shifts the box on her hip.
“I wish I could carry that for you,” I say.
She smiles over at me. “It’s not too heavy.”
“You do a lot for me.”
“It’s my job,” she says, glancing over at me.
“This isn’t,” I point out the obvious. “Today is technically your day off.”
“And I got my other job done in the comfort of that posh office.”
“On the floor,” I say with a soft chuckle.
She laughs too.
“My point is …” I pause, stopping in my tracks. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, Declan.” Her words are cordial, but when our eyes meet, I think I might see something more. She moves along, I pick up my pace, but the throbbing in my ankle increases, so I slow.
She turns in time to catch me recalibrating.
“Are you okay?”
“Just sore after today’s workout.”
“Sore in your upper body? Or … ?”
I might as well be honest. “My ankle’s achy and throbbing a little.”
“A pain spike?” she asks. “Did they stabilize it during your workout?”
“Yeah. They’re careful. It still moves around and the muscles around it get worked a little.”
I close my eyes when the throbbing intensifies. When I open my eyes and blow out a slow breath, Winona’s staring at me, her eyes narrowed.
“I’m exhausted,” I tell her.
Normally I’d suck it up, but she has a way of opening the floodgates.
“Therapy exhaustion,” she says. “Let’s get you home.”
I nod, moving the last few feet toward the car and handing my crutches over to Winona after she places the box in the back seat. Instead of jogging over to the driver’s side, she watches me lower myself into the car, standing by in case I need her.
Needing someone is new territory for me. She looks me over before leaving my side of the car to get in and drive.
“Don’t try to be the tough guy,” she says.
“I am the tough guy,” I remind her. “I’m a professional football player.”
“Oh, really,” she says with a smirk. “Tell your baby toe.”
I laugh despite the pain feeling worse.
“What do you want for dinner?” she asks.
“Dinner? I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“We’ll just see what Claudette whipped up for you.”
“Are you staying?” My words sound as desperate as I feel.
“Is that even a question? You’re in pain. I’m staying until I can leave and not worry about you.”
We’re quiet the rest of the drive. Winona doesn’t turn on the radio.
She drives over the speed limit, leaning forward in her seat as if her posture will add extra propulsion to her car.
I watch her and then I stare out at the fields, some tilled with dark red-brown earth exposed, others full of papery tan stalks of ready-to-harvest corn. Cotton blooms white on another field.
I’m focused on my breathing and taking in the Tennessee landscape while my ankle throbs with an increasingly inescapable ache.
We pull into my neighborhood and Winona huffs out a small laugh. “Why do you need three gates? In Waterford?”
“Beats me,” I say. “I think it makes people feel important.”
“You are important,” she says.
The softness to her voice tells me her words have nothing to do with football.
We drive through the third gate and then we’re at my house. Winona kills the engine and looks over at me.
“What’s your pain on a scale of one to ten?”