Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

I haven’t even told Talon about my leg issues although I think he suspects something’s up. He knows how to read me like no one else can, so the last few video chats have been a mission to pretend like I’m not at least a tiny bit worried.

But as I arrive for my doctor appointment for the latest MRI results, I have a spring in my limpy step, because I’ve convinced myself I’m being hard on myself, and that’s why I’m not as far along in recovery as I want to be.

All the happiness, the positivity, and all-round great mood I’ve been in since the whole thing with Talon comes crashing down when I take a seat at Dr. Rogers’s desk.

Her eyes are sympathetic, her lips pulled into a tight line as I take the seat in her consulting office. I can already tell her sunny disposition is missing today.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The new scans suggest sciatic nerve injury. We need to discuss another surgery to fix it.”

“More surgery?” I slump back into my seat. “What does this mean in terms of recovery?” I can’t take more time. I can’t.

“We won’t know for sure until we remove the scar tissue that’s causing it. It may grow back. There are risks. I’m so sorry.”

“My career?” I choke on the lump in my throat.

“I know you want answers and a definitive plan, but for the time being, to stop doing any more damage, we need to take a step back. Two weeks’ rest and then light exercises.”

“How long will this set me back?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

“It’s hard to say. Your leg is weaker now. To make a full recovery, we might be talking months. Maybe a year.”

“So, I could be out next season too.” My last contracted year for the Warriors.

I went from being stupidly happy this morning to watching my future go down the drain.

It’s amazing how a few words can change your entire outlook on life.

I make my way home, catching the ferry during peak hour and watching the bustle of New York life.

This could very well be my future. Regular nine to five job, fighting for a spot on public transportation to get to my box of a tiny office …

Fuck, that’s the most depressing thing about this.

A regular job.

There’s a game tomorrow night, which means Talon’s going to call any minute for our pregame jerk off, and I can’t do it. I can’t hide something this big from him.

I contemplate staying out so I have an excuse to miss it, but I can’t be bothered to deal with other people. I’m exhausted, my leg is aching, and all I want to do is go home to bed and wallow over the death of my career.

The idea of never hitting that field again has me resenting Talon. Just a little.

It’s not his fault I’m broken, and it’s not his fault he gets to play while I sit on my ass in my childhood home not even being able to exercise because it could do more damage, but jealousy is an ugly thing.

I need another surgery, a full recovery is now uncertain, and the last thing I want to do is face the man who still thinks we can live out some sort of stupid pact we made as teenagers where we’d both make it to the Super Bowl.

When my phone rings with the FaceTime call, I can’t bring myself to answer it even if it’s the first round of the playoffs tomorrow and we can’t afford to lose. One loss and we’re out.

Answer it, my conscience says.

I don’t.

My heart is breaking for many different reasons, and the love I have for my sport dims. It’s like my internal football light is flickering and could blow out completely any minute.

I tell myself not to think about it, but that only makes me do it more.

And the following night when I watch my team take to the field on TV, I want to yell, and cry, and tell them to fuck off all at the same time. At one point, I wish them to lose the game even if it means I lose my last chance at the ring. I’m in a depressed state of if I can’t have it, they can’t have it either, which makes no sense, but my head’s all fucked up.

Every play. Every hit they take. Every pass Talon throws on screen … I hate it all, but even worse than that, I already fucking miss it, and not just the way I’ve been missing it all season. I miss it like I missed my grandparents right after they passed. I miss it as if the sport has died inside me, and I’m yet to let it go.

I stare at McLaren, the kid who took my place, and hate that he’s kicking ass. They don’t need me. They don’t miss me.