8. Austin
EIGHT
Austin
I t seems to me that the months I’ve spent sulking in what I thought was a cool closed-off solace has finally played its hand against me. Karma’s visit was expected, but I never thought I’d be treated to all of her fury with me at one time. She’s seeped in and I can’t escape. That’s right folks, she’s moved in next door and is slowly making her way into my life, reminding me that there’s a life out there I left behind.
And it was a good one.
As I push a slice of bread into the toaster this morning, I can admit that I could have been nicer last night. I’d just told my brother, my own flesh and blood, that I want to be more positive, and yet, the first chance I had to do it for Bex, I failed.
Throwing open the door to the fridge, I spy a container of lasagna left by Amy this morning as I reach for some butter and jelly. It’s getting to the point where I need to call her employer, but not now. I’m having enough trouble getting through my own days, I don’t want to add upset to someone else’s. And when I finally do it and she finds out I’m letting her go, she’s going to be unhappy.
An alarm on my watch sounds, reminding me that Emma will be here soon for our Wednesday session. As I change into my workout gear, thoughts come on that I can’t stop.
Did I spend last night in bed thinking about what a jerk I am? Perhaps mulling over the fact I should show up with a present of some kind to Bex’s today? Although, I don’t know what I could get for the most annoying neighbor ever—is there a tumbler for that?
The sound of something sizzling, followed by a loud pop and the smell of smoke pulls my attention to the toaster. My eyes land on it as a tiny plume of black smoke rises from its opening, the spot where my bread had just gone in, and I shake my head.
Great. I’m repelling small appliances now.
When I met Bex originally, which wasn’t even that long ago, I was happy. I was better then, not this shell of who I used to be. I was Austin Porter, one half of the amazing NFL Porter Brothers duo, a tight end for the Tampa Bay Thunderbolts, who was on his way to the Hall of Fame if he kept things up.
Now, I’m Austin Porter, the guy with a limp and no team whose toaster just broke.
There’s a hallway off the kitchen that I don’t walk down if I can help it; it’s lined with photos from my football days. From high school, to college, and then to the NFL. Mom, Levi, and Georgie had put them up after I moved in, an effort to surprise and motivate me. How were they to know it would only make my heart heavier?
“Hey, hey!” a familiar voice calls out as the back door slams closed. Emma is standing in my kitchen, grinning at me. And quite wickedly, too. “I just saw a man dressed as a dinosaur shove a bundle of what looked like envelopes in your mailbox. Is that odd?”
“No. That’s Jared—he’s a mailman by morning and one of those people who shows up for kids’ parties by afternoon.”
“Ah. And here I thought it wasn’t normal.” Emma sniffs the air. “Smells like something’s burning.”
I point to the toaster. “Breakfast.”
“Good thing I brought this.” She holds up a small bag, stamped with Red Bird Cafe on it. Treats from my favorite spot the next town over. These are treats usually reserved for bribery or asking for a favor.
Narrowing my eyes, I watch as she opens the bag and pulls out an apple fritter.
“Red Bird special of the day. Homemade, too.” She waves it in the air, taunting me. “It’s fall, y’all.”
I want to play coy, but really I can’t. “I never should have told you that cinnamon and sugar is my kryptonite.”
“We all have something.” She laughs, tossing the bag closer to me. “Plus, I wanted you to have something in your hand as I gave you the news.”
The bite I’d taken suddenly tastes like cardboard on my tongue. “News?”
She nods, pulling a chair out at the table, indicating I do the same. “We need to have a talk.”
I’ve not seen Emma since the other day, when the whole Porter family pile-up happened. As I park myself in a chair across from her, my stomach hitches. Could she be quitting because of how we acted? How I acted?
“Look, Emma, before you get started, can I say I am so sorry for the other day?” Better late than never, right?
“I’ve been around doing this for a few years now, Austin. I’ve seen athletes react in a lot of different ways, so don’t go thinking you’re special,” she says with a wink as she pops another bite of fritter in her mouth. “At least not for this.”
“Okay,” I say as I play with my fritter. Its sugary stickiness has attached itself to my fingertips and I’m a little obsessed. “What’s up?”
“Well, I was looking at your recovery timeline recently. After your injury, you had surgery and we got started almost right after that, as soon as you could handle it.”
Nodding, I allow myself the luxury of taking a bite of the apple fritter, and it is damn good. “Uh-huh,” I manage in between bites, praying I don’t start moaning with delight.
“Normally, it can take six to nine months for recovery, and longer depending on what sport an athlete like yourself wants to return to. Your doctors weren’t sure if returning to the NFL was a possibility for you. Do you remember that?”
“Do I?” I interrupt myself with a chortle. “Of course I do. I think I stopped breathing that day.”
“Sounds about right.” She chuckles. “Well, I haven’t said anything, but the last two weeks I’ve been putting you through extra tough drills, challenging you. Assessing you. I wanted to see for myself if you’d have any issues going back to football.”
My jaw locks as I freeze in my place. Time stands still; in fact, I don’t think I’m breathing.
“It’s been almost eighteen months since you were injured. Well over a year that you’ve been doing therapy with me.”
I slowly let out a breath of air, trying really hard to not let it go in a whoosh. I don’t want Emma to know I’m literally holding my breath as she speaks. I want to grip the table and scream, “AND?” but I stay calm.
“The last test you scored really well in. Neuromuscular control. You’ve also done a range of movement and weight-bearing tests, but I disguised them as your exercises.” She grins at me, pleased with herself. “The last thing you need to do is hop testing. I wanted to let you know that if you pass that this week—which I know you will—well, Austin Porter, get ready. Because I’ll be able to recommend that you get back on the field ASAP.”
If this were a Disney film, there would be birds in the air chirping, flying in a circle around my head. They would layer me with wreaths made of roses and lure me into the meadow to dance with them as the fireflies did their own choreographed show around us, like a thousand tiny fireworks displays going off at once in faerie land.
But it ain’t Disney. This is Sweetkiss. So I do what I can do best: I stand up, throw my arms in the air, and scream as loud as I can.
“I DID IT!!!!!!”
Emma laughs, clapping her hands together. “Congrats, Austin. But also, play it cool, we have one more test.”
I can hear the words, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
Finally.
Once our session was done, I spent the rest of my day working on homework and exercises Emma requested of me. She’d explained how the hop test would look and gave me some performance indicators I could work on on my own in preparation. She also asked me to add visualization to my daily routine, something I used to do for mindset work but had dropped to the wayside in my depression around my injury. I’d promised her I would. I want to pass this test as much as I’m sure she wants me to so she can move onto the next victim…I mean patient.
After winding down with an hour of yoga and fifteen minutes of meditation and visualization, I walk into the living room and settle in on the couch, fingering my phone. I could call my mom and tell her, or Levi. But I want to see their faces when I tell them. Part of me wants to call Bex and tell her I’m sorry for how I acted, but the part of me that has received good news knows better. I’ve managed to make her feel unwelcome, yell at her, accidentally splash mud all over her, and now I can add slamming her foot in my door to that list.
Oof. If I were an emoji, I’d be the guy slapping his forehead. What a horrible idiot I’ve been. But this is one idiot who is going to make things right. As these thoughts dance around in my mind, I realize she’d said she was going to check in with me today and hadn’t, and she’s the kind of woman who I feel is true to her word.
Looking around the room, I realize this may be a fortuitous opening so I can talk to her. In no time at all, I’m throwing a sweatshirt on and heading out the door. I have the whole walk across the field to think about my actions. At least I can try to start things from ground zero and not be such a jerk now, right?
Movement across the field to my right catches my eye. When I look, I spot a familiar four-legged creature, charging across the length of the field to make it back home.
“Is she really going to try to tell me that dog isn’t hers?” I mutter, only to scold myself. That was the old Austin. The one who was reeling from his injury. This one, the one I want to be, isn’t bitter. At least, that’s how I was B.A.: Before Achilles.
When I knock on her door, I shouldn’t be surprised that her dog is suddenly at my feet. Hanging out with me like we’re old mates. I want to be right, to point to the animal and go “The dog’s here, so the dog’s yours!” but sometimes being right is really useless. I can’t put my finger on it, but I get the distinct feeling that this is one of those times.
Something moves on the other side of the door. The back porch light comes on, blinding me. Bex opens the door, her line of sight falling to the dog beside me, licking his front right paw.
“I told you, he’s not mine,” she says with a sigh. “If Grumpy Dwarf is angry with the sweet, stray dog, then he needs to talk about it with him. Not me.”
With a roll of her eyes, she goes to close the door. But I’m fast and stick my foot in its path, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
She glares at my foot. “I’d be careful if I were you. I seem to owe you a door slam on your metatarsals.”
Smirking, I point to my feet. “Steel-toe boots,” I say as I let a huge grin take over my face. I feel like a Ringling Brothers clown.
She brings that glare up about six feet, slamming her eyes into mine. “As someone once said to me, what’s going on that’s so important you can’t text?”
Sucks when your own words come back to bite you in the backside, doesn’t it? “I deserve that.”
Bex’s eyes light up and she leans against the door frame, throwing the back of her hand against her forehead and feigning as if she’s going to pass out. “I can’t believe it. Your mouth to my ears.”
I feel heat hitting my cheeks, embarrassment beginning to take over. Even though I want to hide, I came over here because I need to stop being a jerk and take responsibility for my actions. And I want to start with Bex.
“Look,” I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to stuff away my own vulnerability. “I came over to apologize.”
“For which part?” she asks, lips twisted in an evil smile. “The poop, the mud, the slamming of my foot in the door, making my life in my new house harder than it needs to be…”
“Okay.” I hold up my hands as if I’m going to surrender. “I get it. I have a lot to say I’m sorry for, but I’m here. Saying I’m sorry.”
“Are you just a boy standing in front of a girl asking her to love you?”
“Love? Who brought that up?” I didn’t say a word about feelings. It’s like we skipped a line at the amusement park. “You got the wrong impression—”
She throws her head back and laughs, the evil sliding off her features as the German shepherd pushes its way past us and makes its way into her house. For a dog that’s not hers, it looks really comfy moving around here.
“I was quoting a movie, goofball. Notting Hill .” She stares at me, then steps back waving her hand with a flourish. “I’m boiling water for some hot tea. Why don’t you come in and have a cup with me.”
I’ve got options here. I could say no, take the time to apologize for all of my sins, then head home to…do what? Sit on my couch? Maybe make some dinner, maybe order takeout? I could call my mom and tell her what Emma said…
The other option is to follow this beautiful, feisty woman inside her home and have that cup of tea. Do what a part of me has wanted to do since I found out she was moving here: get to know her more.
The other option doesn’t open me up to further disappointment, though. It’s safe. It’s how I like to play things and should play them so I can get back on the field as soon as possible. I mean, I can go back home now and make a list of all the things I need to do, like call my coach and see if he’s still as keen on having me around as Levi said he was, then I can see how soon I can get back into practice.
But this option is more interesting. I’d like to think it has potential, at least it did when we first met, you know, “B.A.”
I could go.
Or I could stay.
“So,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Tea?”