Hail Mary (25 page)

She hated second-guessing herself, but it was a compulsion she couldn’t ignore. Should she have never told Michael she loved him? Should she have tried to talk more last night and figure out why he was dead-set against marriage and kids? What would that have accomplished? Sure, Michael hadn’t had the best hand dealt when it came to the parental pool and it was not difficult to hypothesize that his antipathy towards marriage and family stemmed from his own fucked-up background. All that talking would have netted was the confirmation his parents were responsible for his feelings. But it was Michael, as an adult, who allowed them to color his view of love and commitment.

He’d never even said he loved her. He never said what he wanted from her, nor had he ever given any indication whether he thought they had any future, or if she was simply a convenient bed partner.

The Sunday morning dawned as dark and as grey as she felt, as though Mother Nature too was pissed off and cranky as she and Max continued about the neighborhood. Her emotions swirled around and around like a tornado in her head, unwilling or unable to land in any one particular spot.

~ * ~ * ~

The Tide’s offensive players were getting their asses handed to them. The Buccaneers had wasted no time in flattening Johansen three times already in the second quarter, preventing him from releasing any decent passes and they’d completely stuffed the run. Neither of the Tide’s running backs or even the lone fullback had been able to net more than two yards for any run.

“Fuck. Johansen doesn’t get his head back in the game, we’re fucked,” Murray remarked to Michael as they paced the sidelines watching their teammates while shot-gunning Gatorade to replenish their own depleted electrolytes. “Doesn’t matter how many times we hold ‘em. Won’t matter if we can’t score any fucking points.” Murray threw his cup in the trash and directed his attention to Santiago. “They can’t pull it out here, it’s up to us. Which means you and me gotta score some fucking points on defense.”

“What are you thinking?”

Murray explained his plan. It was ballsy, but they needed a shot in the arm, or in the defense as it were, to turn this game around. The hometown crowd was restless and dismayed at how embarrassingly bad the Tide was playing. The offense was a mess, demoralized and discombobulated and in all likelihood, wouldn’t be focused back on the field until after half time.

The defensive play was their version of a Hail Mary, a play only made when the game was on the line, no timeouts were left, and there was nothing left to lose. “You confident Johnson can do his part?” Murray questioned, his contempt obvious.

“He’ll do whatever I tell him to do,” Michael responded.

When the offense didn’t connect on third and five, out they went after special teams had fielded the punt. In the huddle, there was some slight discomfort among the players listening to Murray telling them what the call was even though he hadn’t looked at Coach to read the signal. He and Santiago were running this. Coach was destined to be pissed either way. If it was successful, he’d be upset they went rogue. If it was unsuccessful, well, they’d probably be down by yet another touchdown and he and Santiago would be benched at least for the rest of the game. But their choices had been taken away and this was their best shot for the entire team.

Tampa Bay’s quarterback called the play and the action commenced. As soon as the center snapped the ball, Murray, Santiago and Johnson all swept off to the right side of the line, swooping in towards him. Johnson’s job was to grab his hands, squeezing as hard as he could in an effort to release the ball as Murray tackled him, hoping to cause the fumble or the release. Michael’s job was to catch the ball, wherever it landed, and take off to the end zone and not turn back.

Johnson held on to the quarterback’s hands like it was nobody’s business, doing his job exactly how Murray and Santiago had instructed him, squeezing them like twigs. He did his best, but Murray and Johnson combined were too much for the quarterback and he dropped the ball to his left. Michael leaned down, picked it up, and started running as fast as he could remember ever running in his life, his legs pumping, his lungs contracting and expanding. He could feel the players behind his back, the crowd screaming all around him and was only five yards out from the end zone when he felt the impact. Then everything went black.

~ * ~ * ~

Mary told herself repeatedly that under no circumstances was she going to turn the channel to CBS in the afternoon. No way in hell was she going to watch the Tide. She could watch whatever game Fox was broadcasting. Maybe for once they’d have the Lions, but when she flipped the channel and realized it was the Patriots versus the Bills, she became irrationally angry. Why should she deprive herself of football watching pleasure simply because of Michael Santiago? It wasn’t like he would ever know she was watching. She was at home, cuddled up with Max on the floor and grateful that for once, the Tide’s defense, and specifically their right defensive end, was not dominating the game.

All that changed with three minutes left in the second quarter. The Tide’s defense took the field, Santiago lined up on the right side. The ball was snapped and the players sprung into action. Michael was in the middle of it, picking up a fumble the announcers said was caused by the rookie, Tamar Johnson. Michael flew down the field, protecting the ball, completely focused on the end zone, no one even close to him except for a wide out who was pursuing him and who tagged him right as he crossed the end zone line.

As the fans and the team cheered, Michael remained down. The announcers were discussing the replay and how the play had occurred, and still, Michael remained down. Mary’s alarm escalated when two of the Tide’s trainers came out and the replay demonstrated it looked like Michael’s neck caught the brunt of the tackle at the five yard line, causing him to land and strain his neck at an unnatural angle.

Her alarm peaked into full panic mode when the hospital bed was wheeled out onto the field after the trainers put Michael’s neck into a restraint and hoisted him up on the transfer bed and into the back of a waiting ambulance.

Chapter 19

The low murmurs of voices all around him contained various pitches and cadences, Michael thought. Some female voices indicated this was probably not the Tide’s locker room. As he opened his eyes, his disorientation abruptly gave way to increasing panic. People in white coats, Coach DiPalma, a couple of nurses, and tubes running from his body to a variety of medical machines. Fuck. He was in a hospital, lying on a hospital bed. He must have been taken there before the game concluded.

“Did we win?” he croaked out, as heads around the small room immediately swiveled to focus on him with a whole lot of concern etched on each unfamiliar face.

“Michael, my name is Dr. Harrington. Do you know what date it is?” This came from an older black man, complete with the white coat, Ben Franklin spectacles, and kind brown eyes that didn’t entirely mask his worry.

“It’s Sunday, November 16. At least, it was when I was last awake. Is it still Sunday?”

“That’s right, Michael. What’s your full name?”

“Michael Thomas Santiago.”

“Good. You’re doing well. Do you know your date of birth?”

“September 29, 1982.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

A wide smile crossed the doctor’s broad, smart face. “Excellent. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Michael coughed as the rest of the room’s occupants, including Coach, watched him intently. Their anxiety was palpable. How bad was he?

“I was heading towards our end zone with a ball and about to score when the ground came up and met my teeth. That’s all I can remember.”

DiPalma emitted a nervous chuckle while Dr. Harrington continued to calmly watch Michael. “Anything else?”

Michael shook his head and scratched his right ear. Evidently his arms worked just fine. “No. I don’t even know if I scored or not.” Turning to DiPalma, he asked, “Did we win?”

DiPalma placed his wide, sun-bronzed hand on Michael’s shoulder, his eyes grave, his mouth happily quirking. “Yes, Santiago, we won. After you were tackled, you were unable to get up and you failed to respond to any kind of prompting.”

Dr. Harrington continued where DiPalma left off. “For awhile, we were concerned there might be a problem with the top two vertebrae of your spinal column that produced momentary paralysis. However, your CAT scan is clear as are your x-rays of your back and neck. Now, that’s the good news. It means you don’t have a neck or spinal cord injury. The bad news is you have two compound fractures in your right lower leg which is why it’s currently elevated.

“We immobilized your leg with a fiberglass cast you see right now. This holds the bones in position and immobilizes the joints above and below the fracture. Once the swelling goes down, we’ll place your leg in a removable brace, probably sometime tomorrow and send you on your way. Do you have any questions?”

Questions were all he had. His eyes found DiPalma’s and now he knew exactly the reason for DiPalma’s solemnity.

“How long am I going to be casted?” Michael snarled, the panic threatening to choke him.

“The fractures are severe. We’ll monitor your progress every two weeks, but you’ll be in your cast for at least four to six weeks, probably closer to six. After that, we might schedule you for some physical therapy depending on whether there’s any atrophy. For most patients, that would be necessary, but given your occupation and the shape you’re in, any potential therapy will likely be fairly minimal. Mainly exercises designed to strengthen and condition your legs. But that’s a bridge we’ll cross when I take your cast off. I’m on for a few more hours, so if you need anything, feel free to page the nurse who will find me. Otherwise, I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

Michael could not bear the kindness in Harrington’s brown eyes as though telling him what he needed to hear was as painful as Michael hearing it. His own eyes jumped to DiPalma’s face.

“Is he for real?” Michael’s tone was incredulous.

“Yes, he is,” DiPalma calmly answered, as Dr. Harrington and the nurses left. “You’re lucky, Santiago. Harrington’s one of the best and I saw your fall. Your injury could be far worse and life-threatening. Six weeks in a cast is very doable, even for you. You’ll be back in training before you know it.”

“Bullshit.” Michael was shaking his head and looking everywhere but at DiPalma. He couldn’t face him. If he did, he’d be forced to acknowledge everything that he had to deny for his own peace of mind. Un-fucking-believable. Five weeks out from the fucking playoffs and he was destined to miss the final games and post-season action? Why couldn’t this have happened on the final play of the Super Bowl? How the hell was he supposed to contribute to the team, sitting on the fucking sidelines? And what the fuck were they going to do with both him and Campbell out?

“Santiago, I know how hard this is.”

Michael rolled his eyes and clenched his hands, finally looking back at DiPalma. “Really? Because where I’m laying, your leg isn’t in a fucking cast and your coach hasn’t benched you for the remaining season.”

DiPalma sighed. “Santiago, you’re only five years into your professional career. I’ve coached a lot of players and you and I both know that you’re destined for a lengthy career, barring a career-ending injury. I know you’re disappointed. I know how hard you work and how dedicated your commitment is, on field and off. If I could have every player follow your example, I would have the best, most intense team in the league.”

“Enough with blowing sunshine up my ass. This fucking sucks.”

“I know it does and I know how unfair this must seem. But I need you, Santiago. The team needs you. Now, we’re planning to move Johnson over to the right side and bringing Turner over to fill in for Campbell. We need to make these adjustments in order to get us through the season.”

Well, if that wasn’t the fucking nail in the proverbial coffin. Johnson had now officially moved into his position in time for fucking playoffs. November was shaping up to be a spectacularly shitty month. Beyond shitty in every measurement that mattered. Professional life, shot to hell. Personal life in the gutter. Girlfriend, now gone.

“You’re kidding me, right? ‘Cause what you just said sounds like a fucking joke. Unless the joke’s on me.”

DiPalma’s sigh was deep and long. “You are the best defensive end in the entire league. Period. You shouldn’t have any concerns about your position with the Tide. You’re safe. No way will Johnson be the Tide’s right defensive end as long as you play for me.”

DiPalma’s statement did little to placate Michael.

“Except for the rest of this season.”

“You’re injured. It happens. You won’t be the first and you won’t be the last. You need to start thinking about how you can still contribute while you’re injured. If you care as much about this team as I believe you do, then you’ll do as I ask and help me and Higgins work with Johnson to learn the right side of the line as well as you taught him the left side.”

“He already knows the right side. He played it all through college,” Michael reminded him, mentally calculating how many weeks until training camp where he’d be able to demonstrate his superiority over the little rookie motherfucker. July couldn’t come soon enough. No way in hell was Johnson even going to qualify as a starter so long as he had something to do about it.

“He’s never played the position with us. Our formations are different than what he’s used to, particularly on the right side. I need you, Santiago. I need you to help me get him ready. It’s a key position and Johnson has to excel in order for us to advance. Trust me, I wish a lot of things were different, but this is where we’re at, now.”

Michael looked out the window, noting the inky darkness of the Sunday night as the silence deepened. Alone on a hospital bed, receiving news from his coach he could barely process.

“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” DiPalma stated.

“Well, Anderson Cooper, I’m just about all talked out, but I guess we can fit one more topic into this therapy session.” He knew he was being a jackass, and a childish one at that, but he couldn’t, and wouldn’t take the words back.