Steamroller

Carson took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“Well, to begin with, you did very well in surgery. I sincerely believe that with a significant amount of rehabilitation, that you will recover the use of your hand, wrist, and arm.”

Carson exhaled sharply and I could tell from how tight he clutched my hand that he was relieved.

“But when I say ‘use of’ I’m referring to the simplest of motion. Holding a fork, writing your name, lifting weights—all this will take months, even years, of physical therapy.”

“I understand,” he replied hoarsely.

“I hope you do, but I understand from Dr. Kline that your father does not,” he apprised him, stepping closer to the bed, staring down at Carson’s face. “I’m very sorry. I’ve followed your college career with the same interest and awe as so many others and it pains me to tell you that you will never play football again.”

“Thank you,” Carson croaked out after a moment.

“Of course you’re welcome to get a second, third, even hundredth opinion, but the end result will be the same,” he explained gently. “Professional football is not in your future. And while I know that medical miracles occur every day, this is different from a diagnosis of not walking again or something of that nature. This black and white.”

Carson and I remained silent, both of us staring at the concerned man with the kind eyes.

“Simply put, the motion of throwing a football, that kind of repetitive physical use of the muscles in your arm, is simply no longer sustainable. and frankly, at the moment, I have far greater concerns.”

“Like him just being able to use it,” I chimed in. “You want his focus to be on that, to strengthening his arm and not on pipe dreams.”

“Yes,” Dr. Behari affirmed, glancing at Carson and then back to me.

“Okay,” I said, exhaling, taking Carson’s hand in both of mine.

“My hope is that with daily long-term therapy he will be able to lift with it, pull, and that his range of motion will not be severely impacted. I’d like him to have his arm back, and I believe he will, just not to fling a football sixty miles an hour down a field.”

“Sixty-two miles an hour,” Carson corrected.

Dr. Behari turned to look down at him. “I know this news is not what you hoped for and that there will come a time, probably quite soon, when depression may overcome you. But, Carson, your life is so much more than simply football. And I know I probably sound quite naïve, knowing as I do the loss of money and fame, but––”

“It’s okay,” Carson soothed him, giving him a faint smile. “I promise, Doc, if I get depressed, it won’t be over football or not being able to play anymore.”

They stared at one another for several moments, and then Dr. Behari looked back up at me.

“I’m more pleased than I can tell you. A patient in a good frame of mind beginning rehabilitation has a far greater chance of success.”

That sounded good. “When does he get to go home?” I asked.

“By the end of the week.”

He had five more days there, and I had to go home and work. But the thought of leaving him was more painful than I would have thought.

“I will be back, Carson,” Dr. Behari informed him before he gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and left to talk to his family.

At the same time, I was treated to the power Carson Cress’s left arm still possessed when he yanked down hard on my wrist and I ended up almost sprawled on top of him. I stopped myself with my right hand flat on the bed.

“What are you—?”

“Gimme a kiss now.”

I cupped his cheek with my hand. “Your family will freak out.”

“They won’t, you heard my mother. She took care of everything already.”

“But your father—”

“Doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “Mom’s the one with the money, and her prenup was scary, from what my grandfather––her father––told me before he passed away last year.”

I only looked at him.

“Rich people.” He chuckled. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, just in case you missed it, your mother’s kind of terrific.”

“I know, right? I had no idea she didn’t give a crap that I was gay. It’s a nice surprise.”

“You’re not gay,” I told him.

He scoffed. “Oh no?”

“You’re bi,” I informed him.

“I don’t think so.” He grinned up at me. “I don’t look at girls and get a hard-on. It took a lot of visualizing on my part when I had sex with them, and I’m betting that’s not usual.”

“Could you please keep your—”

“But just smelling whatever shampoo you use gives me wood.”

“Lucky you’re under lots of blankets, then,” I teased.

“Yes, it is.” His smile was pure evil.

“So… construction management.” I arched an eyebrow at him.

“You thought I was what, a big dumb jock? I told you I was smart; you just didn’t listen.”