#Score (29 page)

I
t’s
our second preseason game, this time up against the D.C. Presidents. I can see the field, the players, the smattering of fans. It all slows down until I focus, listening to Maxwell call out the play, knowing in a split second exactly where to be when he makes his pass, the way my feet should be planted, where the cornerbacks for the D.C. Presidents will be trying to cover me, and most importantly, to take a deep breath.

It’s quiet in my head right before the snap. The only thing that matters right now is paying attention to Maxwell’s arm and where he’s throwing the football. We’re not as far downfield as he would like, so Coach T’s idea is to have him make a deep pass to me.

Jessup snaps the ball to Maxwell, and everything revs back up in my head. I avoid one of the President’s safeties as I pump my legs good and hard, running along the sideline. My eyes hardly leave Maxwell’s arm, and when I see him whip it back, I quickly scan my surroundings to make sure I’m in the right spot. The ball’s up, up, arcing perfectly over the players and coming right toward me.

Both cornerbacks are trying to rush me, but I’m too fast for them, and as I gain speed to gracefully catch the pass at the forty-yard line, I see them screwing up any kind of interference between me and the ball. It’s tightly in my arm, and I’m running at breakneck speed, hitting the twenty, the ten, and so close to the end zone . . . but the bigger cornerback is right on my tail, surprising me, given his size. This rookie grabs hold of my ankle right as I make the dive into the end zone, and the yank on my lower body makes it impossible to do the usual tuck and roll. I land all of my weight directly on my left shoulder and yell out as something inside it rips.

“Fuuuuck!” I yell, dropping the ball once I’ve landed and cradling my arm.

The crowd erupts, and immediately, Kevon is at my side, turning me to face him. “Yo, that was brutal. You all right?”

I lie back and look straight up. Well, this is not how I saw my preseason going.

--

C
oach T paces
around in his office again, looking between me and Dr. Bahra as if one of us is suddenly going to give him better news. “So that’s it, then? Elijah is going to need surgery to fix it? And then what? This isn’t my first go-around with a player who has a rotator cuff injury. There’s always more to it.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes. He makes it sound like I did this shit to myself on purpose.

But the doc just writes something across his little pad of paper, ripping the paper off and handing it to me.

My impatient father takes it out of my hand before I get a chance to even read what it says.

“Pain medication? That’s it? You can’t be serious, Doc. That’s not going to help him. He’s not going to be able to catch any throws.”

This time, I do roll my eyes. “Yeah, since I can’t catch anything, I guess I don’t deserve any pain relief, do I?”

And of course, my father ignores me as he waves around the prescription like a crazy person. “There’s got to be a way to fix this faster.”

-

I
don’t want
to feel like a petulant child, but I guess I probably look like one. I cross my arms and lean back into the seat of the car, not sure how I feel about getting shoulder surgery.

“Nobody wants to hear whining from a grown-ass man, Witter. So you quit your pouting while you’re ahead.” Coach T’s voice is rough, agitated. I know that he’s not mad at me, per se, but it sure does feel like it. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not benched the whole damn season.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem, coach,” my father chimes in from the back. “He’ll heal really fast. You’ll see.”

Ah, because apparently, I have magic healing powers now too. I shake my head at both of them, wondering what my outcome is going to be post-surgery. I can’t imagine going any length of time without actually playing football, so to think about being injured on top of that . . . it doesn’t exactly sit well with me.

My surgery is scheduled for two days from now, and once I get home and lay up in my bed, I put the TV on so I have some background noise while I think. Jesus, it just goes to figure that something would happen to me in preseason, of all times. It couldn’t happen during the middle of the actual season. No, no. That’s not how things work, apparently.

According to the doctor, after my surgery, I’ll be needing to rehabilitate my shoulder injury with a heavy dose of physical therapy at the nearby sports medicine facility. The team has its own set of doctors, but since I may be out for a while and they need to be there to tend to the players who are actively playing, I have to look elsewhere.

I’m looking over the list of suggestions from Dr. Bahra when I remember something, unsure how it hasn’t come to the forefront of my mind until just now. I already know someone who does physical therapy. And I know that person very intimately, you could say.

I reach over and grab my cellphone, quickly dialing up Coach T’s number. “Hey, Coach. Yeah, I’m looking right now, actually. I wanted to talk to you about that, when you get a second. Sure, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.”

I hang up and wait until he shows up to my house. Hopefully, he’ll go for my idea.

--

T
he deep lines
of his frown tell me that maybe I got hopeful for no reason. Maybe I’m being stupid about the whole thing anyway.

“In North Carolina? You couldn’t have found someone closer, Son?”

I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I trust her. You know how I am about doctors in general. I’m no good with them. Besides . . .” I begin, trying to think on my feet. “Miss Sullivan is well known for her sports medicine techniques. I’ve read good stuff about her.” Honestly, I don’t even know if that’s true, and last I checked, Paige didn’t really do or even know much about sports injuries. The lame smile I give Coach probably doesn’t help the matter, either.

Coach rolls his eyes at me. “She’s not a doctor, Witter. She’s just a physical therapist. I’m not sure Maine’s going to be cool with your flying all the way out to North Carolina for your rehabilitation, you know what I’m saying? And let’s face it, your daddy ain’t going to like it, either.”

I’m grasping at straws, wishing I knew what else I could say to convince him. “My father can get the hell over it. It shouldn’t make a difference to him where I’m going. North Carolina is where I grew up, man. I haven’t been back since . . . since my mom died. That was fifteen years ago, and this just gives me the best opportunity to finally visit her grave.”

It’s shitty of me to pull the dead mom card on Coach, but I still do, filing the shame in the back my mind for now.

“Dammit, I guess you have a point. I’ll try and see what Johnny says, but I can’t make any guarantees. Don’t go holdin’ your breath.”

I quickly nod my head in agreement, and by the time Coach has finished talking on the phone with Johnny Maine, I’m smiling to myself. I guess Johnny has somewhat of a soul after all, because he agrees to let me go wherever I want for my physical therapy, regardless of where it’s located.

I wince as I move too quickly, trying to get up from my office desk so that Coach can take a seat. “Here,” I say to him, patting my chair. “I already have her office number right here on my desk.”

Coach gives me the eye but sits down anyway, flipping the card over in his hand before sighing and dialing it on my office phone.

“Hello, is this Miss Sullivan’s office? Yes, hello. My name is Coach Jeffrey Tomlin, and I wanted to inquire about your open appointments. Do you have any? I have a client that needs to begin physical therapy for his sports injury. You do cover that, right? Who’s my client? Does that actually matter—” He pauses when I quickly wave my hands in front of him, mouthing for him to wait.

“Just give her my name!” I whisper. I can tell by the voice on the phone that it’s not Paige who answered. Which makes this even better, since I don’t really know how Paige would react if she were the one answering the phone.

Coach rolls his eyes at me. “My client is Elijah Witter. Wide receiver for the San Antonio Longhorns. There will be an NDA involved if we do decide to use your services, just so you know. So you do know Mr. Witter then. Interesting. Okay then, what can we set up?”

If there were some tiny little part of me that was still a kid, it would be jumping up and down like a lunatic right about now. Maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just getting way too ahead of myself here, but dammit, I’m allowed to be slightly hopeful with my thoughts, aren’t I?

“Well, uh, thank you, ma’am. I’m actually his Coach, like I said. Ha! You’re too kind, because I’m damn sure too old for you, I bet. Oh no? Really? Hmm, that’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me. Oh no, I won’t be the one bringing him in, unfortunately. Yes, ma’am, you take care of yourself as well. Ha-ha, thank you again.” Coach looks completely self-gratified now, leaning back in my chair with one arm folded back behind him as he hangs up the phone. “Well that wasn’t Miss Sullivan, but her sister sure is a sweetheart. Looks like you actually know Miss Sullivan . . . personally. Funny how you didn’t mention that before.”

I scratch at the overgrown scruff on my face. “I didn’t? Yeah, that is funny. I could’ve sworn I did. Anyway, I know her. We went to school together growing up. That’s why trust her instincts, and I know she’ll help me heal up as fast as I possibly can.”

My eyes grow wide as I realize something. “You said it was her sister who answered? Shit.”

I quickly reach for the phone and hit redial, “Hello, Coastal Physical Therapy. How may I help you today?” I instantly recognize Stacey Sullivan’s voice and have to roll my eyes. Paige told me a little bit about Stacey recently, but I do happen to recall just how much of a brat she could be to her little sister back in the day. Some things aren’t that easy to forgive—at least, for me.

“Hi, Stacey. It’s Elijah Witter. Simmons, I mean. Can you do me a big favor?”

She pauses for a moment before answering. “Depends on what it is.”

“You cannot tell Paige about this. I don’t want her to . . . well, just don’t tell her, okay? I’d really appreciate it. If you need anything like season tickets or whatever, let me know and I’ll take care of it. I just need this to be kind of a surprise for Paige.”

Stacey laughs into my ear. “Of course I’m not going to tell her, Elijah. She would have a freaking heart attack. I’ll keep your little secret, but my husband does happen to like y’all’s team pretty well. Any chance I could score tickets to the nearest game? Well, that would certainly sweeten the deal.”

“No problem. I’ll have my manager set it up for you. Thanks, Stacey.”

I get off the phone, and eventually, Coach leaves after having me fill out some more paperwork on behalf of both me and my father as my agent. He’s been awfully quiet, my father, that is, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe he feels like this is actually my fault. Well, it doesn’t matter, because I’m getting the fuck out of here for now, and that does
not
include him.

I
practically rush
inside the office, feeling ridiculous for being so late. After barely getting much sleep last night, tossing and turning as if my bed were suddenly sailing on the ocean, I realized I was almost late to work. And just as I imagined, my sister’s standing there on the other side of the reception desk with a smug-ass smile on her face. But of course.

I try to shrink past her without getting any of her
I told you so
talk, but these things are impossible.

“Well, well. And you thought I was gonna be the one who had tardiness issues. This isn’t even my office. What’s up with you? You need to go get like three cups of coffee in you before you start messing with people’s backs and stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just laugh it up, why don’t you? I was late. It happens to the best of us.”

I put away my bag and clip my name tag to my shirt, ready to get the day started. After my first cup of coffee, of course.

The weird thing is that even though my sister has every intention of gloating and holding this morning over me, she doesn’t. She just stares at me with some sort of weird, knowing look on her face, and I’m about to ask her if they finally got the deed done and she’s pregnant, but the phone rings and she picks it up to answer it, cutting me off from my question.

“Well then, I guess I’ll take a look at the schedule for today,” I mutter to myself as I scoot alongside her inside the reception desk area. I try not to think about the fact that the contractor who built the office suggested we set up a larger front desk area, which I declined. Because you know, I know all about architecture and whatnot.

I open the appointment book and trail my finger down the list to today’s date. The first appointment of the day is usually at 9:30, but for some reason, today is sticking out differently. There’s still a 9:30 appointment with one of my regulars, Mrs. Murphy, but at 9 o’clock, it looks like Stacey has made a little tiny star next to it without putting anything else. I raise my brow, wondering what the hell that’s supposed to mean. I certainly didn’t tell her to put it in there.

I check tomorrow’s schedule to see if one of my flakier clients has already canceled on me for the day at the 9:30 appointment, but instead, I’m shocked to see there’s another little star at the 9 o’clock slot. What the hell?

I flip through each page in the book, my eyes nearly bugging out of my head as I realize there’s a tiny little star on each 9 o’clock slot, Monday through Thursday, from now until . . . holy shit, mid-November? I know for sure I have not set up any of my long-term clients all the way out till mid-November, so either I’m imagining things or my sister has gone crazy. Both have been known to happen.

I turn to ask Stacey just what in the world she’s been drinking, but she’s already gone into the break room. I can hear her stirring around her cup of coffee, the spoon clinking around the cup because she’s noisy about every little thing she does. No, I’m not aggravated whatsoever.

“Um, do you mind telling me what’s supposed be happening at nine? Because it looks like something’s supposed be happening at nine. And since this is my business, I should probably know if I have a new client coming in. Don’t you think?”

Stacey continues to stir her sugar-filled coffee before looking back over her shoulder at me. “9 o’clock? But we don’t start seeing patients until 9:30, Paige. At least, according to you.”

Oh, so she’s going to be like this then, huh? “It would be great if, for one day, you forgot that I’m your baby sister and stop treating me like an idiot. What’s happening at nine, Stacey?”

With a shrug of her shoulder, she practically ignores me, and I feel as though actual fire is burning behind my eyes. I guess that’s what I get for hiring my older sister. Jesus, this does not bode well for my business.

I’m about to open my mouth to give her a real piece of my mind when the front doorbell rings, letting us both know that someone has just come inside the building. I immediately whip my head toward Stacey. She knows as well as I do that the front door is supposed be locked right now. I’m pretty sure I locked it when I came in, but I guess it was possible for her to go unlock it for some reason while I was looking through the appointment book. Why would she do that? And why is she being so stubbornly weird?

I glance up at the clock on the wall by the refrigerator, raising my brow when I realize it’s actually 9 o’clock right now.

Stacey stands up and finishes her coffee, smiling at me in a way that makes me want to strangle her. Oh, something is
definitely
going on. When she walks out of the break room, I follow behind her, half-curious, half-nervous to find the answer to the 9 o’clock mystery.

The first thing I see in the small lobby area to my office is a huge—and I mean huge—man standing there with his arms folded across his chest, his muscles bulging out every which way, a pair of sunglasses on even though it’s kind of weird to be wearing sunglasses first thing in the morning. But even with this huge, muscle-covered dude standing there looking completely menacing, I pay absolutely no attention to him.

Because standing beside him is Elijah. And not just Elijah, but an obviously very injured Elijah with his left arm in a complicated looking sling, and his shoulder is completely bandaged up, underneath a striped muscle tank. And of course, there’s a half-smile on his face. It’s been days since he’s shaved, probably over a week. There’s full-grown scruff covering up his handsome face, and his hair obviously needs to be cut again.

But it’s the sling that gets me running toward him, forgetting about the way I left everything between us and pretty much anything that happened beforehand. All I care about is finding out why the hell Elijah,
my Elijah
, is hurt.

“Oh my God, what the hell happened to you? Are you okay?”

I look into those warm, seductive eyes staring back at me that seem to reflect the warm and caring man that I reunited with several weeks ago. The man that I walked out on without even a proper goodbye. I feel my cheeks heat with guilt. The very core of my body starts to stir and flutter with excitement as I recall in vivid color our one night together. The first time we made love, the first time I actually felt love. Dammit, he’s got me all mind-twisted already!

“You want the short story? Or the long one?”

I throw my head to the side and fold my arms. “What do you think? But also . . . why are you even here?” Because it finally hits me that yes, Elijah is in North Carolina, and in my office, of all places. Something is going on behind the scenes that I have no idea about.

That’s when Stacey steps in and shakes hands with Big Tall Guy, winking at him. “You must be Coach, right?”

But the guy is silent, not saying a word. Elijah shakes his head at her. “No, this is Dubs. He’s my entourage.”

She giggles, looking a little confused. “That’s funny, because I thought you said that you needed an entourage. Aren’t you some big-shot football player now? And you need a huge backup guy to help take care of you?”

“Ouch.” I shove into Stacey’s arm and she winces, rubbing the spot. “That space? All those stars on your schedule now? Let me introduce you to your new 9 o’clock appointment. Elijah Witter.”

Call me a little slow, but I’m starting to piece it all together. Obviously, Elijah sustained an injury, most likely on the field, and if he’s here in my office, then he needs physical therapy. Although why he is here and not in Texas . . . that’s what I don’t get.

“Rotator cuff tear. Just had surgery a week ago, and now I need to begin physical therapy. We set up the sessions two weeks ago.” Elijah’s voice is rough, making me wonder if he’s on any kind of crazy medication. Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be with that kind of injury?

I take a good look at him and scope out his arm, leaning in closer. “Shoulder injury and football. Who would’ve thought? So I’m guessing this is your consult visit then?” I ask between him and Stacey.

She nods at me. “Of course. You’ve got to sit down with your patient and set up some sort of regimen, right?”

It feels silly to be asking my sister for advice when I’m the one who knows what the hell to do, but to say that I’ve been thrown off the tracks is a slight understatement here. “Right. Well . . . I guess the next thing to do is just get you in here and take a look at everything. Um, follow me.”

If I could both kiss and kill my sister at the same time, I would. I know she was the one behind this, and I know she thinks she’s doing me a favor because even though Stacey does really ridiculous stuff, she has a big heart and good intentions . . . for the most part. But I don’t know how to handle this. And what does this say about Elijah? Obviously, he had a hand in this too.

I guess I’m about to find out.