CHAPTER 30 BEN
Coach Thompson has informed me I’ll only play two snaps in today’s game, which is fine. There’s far less risk of injury that way to keep me healthy for the season versus overstaying my welcome in a game that doesn’t even matter and subjecting myself to the defense coming at me like freight trains.
On the first snap, Jack hands the ball to Jaxon while I block a linebacker to let Jaxon grab a few extra yards. On the second snap, the plan is for me to split out like a receiver, make a catch, and run like hell toward the end zone.
I split out exactly as planned, but Jordan Conway, the linebacker defending me, sees what I’m doing.
I’m faster than him, though, and I’m able to break away.
Jack throws the ball, a perfect arc through the air toward me, but my goddamn calf cramps up and I trip backwards a little in the wrong direction.
I overcorrect my mistake and lunge for the ball, which I’m able to grab somehow by the grace of God, but instead of running, I’m falling.
Straight to the ground.
Shoulder first.
Something snaps.
My entire arm immediately screams in real fucking pain, and I lie there a beat as I pray it’s not serious.
Please don’t be serious. Please don’t be serious. Please don’t be serious.
It felt like a rotator cuff. I’ve torn ligaments in there before, and as long as it’s only a partial tear, it’s not a terribly long recovery time.
The biggest fear of a football player is injury. If you’re not able to play in the game, you’re just a body taking up space on the roster. Hundreds—thousands—of men would give anything to take my spot, and part of my job on the field is to stay healthy so I can keep playing.
That snap I heard when I made impact with the turf tells me I’m not going to be able to keep playing today.
I lie on the ground an extra beat as the pain sears through me and all these thoughts pulse in my brain. Jack comes running over first. “Get up, man,” he begs, and I can plainly see the worry in his eyes.
I’m worried, too.
“I’m okay.” I’ve said those same words enough times over the last few weeks that the lie comes out of my mouth naturally. I roll to my back and hiss at the shot of pain. “Fuck.”
Adrian, the team trainer, runs over next.
He asks me the standard questions, and I’m able to get up with his help and walk off the field.
The crowd claps for me to show support, and it’s about the lowest moment for me as I realize this means I’m sitting out for the rest of this game at the very least, if not longer.
I was only playing two snaps today anyway, but it’s the thought of being out longer than just the rest of today’s game that pierces my emotions.
I fight it off. It’s what I’ve always done—not just in the game, but in life. Bury those emotions deep. That way people won’t know how affected I really am.
Kaylee might be the only person I’ve ever really shared any of that shit with.
I need her. I need her here with me, holding my hand while a doctor assesses the damage and tells me how long I have to sit out from this stupid game I love so goddamn much.
But she isn’t here. I don’t even know if she’s watching.
Adrian takes me back to the locker room and we head toward the training room, where the team doctor is waiting for me in a private exam room.
“Jersey and pads off,” he says, and Adrian helps me out of my gear, prompting a wince when he pulls my jersey over my right shoulder. “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got.” He has me move my shoulder to assess my range of motion, and we all hear it crackle as I hiss at the sharp stabbing sensation.
“My best guess is a partially torn rotator cuff ligament, but let’s get you in for an MRI just to double check. It’s not serious enough to go tonight, so you can use one of our slots at the hospital tomorrow morning.”
“How long will I be out?” I ask.
“Depends on the MRI results,” Dr. Baker says.
“If it’s just a strain, you might be back in time for the first regular season game and just miss the rest of exhibition.
If it’s level two, which is a partial tear and what I suspect you’ve got going on here, probably two to four weeks, and level three, a full tear, could take up to six months if we need a surgical fix. ”
I nod. It hurts, but I don’t think it’s a full tear.
The last time I tore a ligament in my shoulder, I was out two weeks.
Tearing it again could take a little longer, particularly if I tore the same ligament for the second time, but I can deal with that.
So I miss the rest of pre-season, which sucks, but I’m not playing more than a few snaps anyway.
“Wear a sling and keep it as stable as possible until your MRI.” He taps around on a tablet before glancing back up at me. “Can you make eight AM tomorrow?”
I nod, and he books me into the slot.
I throw on an Aces t-shirt and a ball cap before I head back to the sidelines to watch the end of the game. Jack saunters over as soon as he spots me. “You okay?”
“Doc thinks it’s a partial rotator cuff tear. Two to four weeks pending tomorrow’s MRI.”
“Fuck, man,” he says. “I’m sorry. What happened out there?”
“My calf cramped a little and I overcorrected and then I just went down when I caught it.”
“At least you caught it,” he ribs, but I don’t feel much like laughing right now.
“I was distracted,” I say flatly.
He nods as he looks out over the field. “Well, looks like you’ve got a couple weeks to get your shit together.”
Be careful what you wish for…right?
I wanted time built into my schedule to see Kaylee, and here I am, probably out of the game for two to four weeks. I guess there’s my time.