Page 1 of Necessary Roughness

Chapter One

TANNER COLE GRABBED the remote off the couch cushions and clicked through the two hundred or so channels on his satellite TV. Daytime TV sucked. Even worse: it sucked yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that too. But it wasn’t like he had a lot of choices for entertainment right now. His knee was slowly healing, but mostly, he wanted to be left alone while he tried to figure out how he was going to deal with the rest of his life.

He was a professional football player. Well, he used to be. He’d torn both his ACL and MCL and broken his tibia after planting his cleats on some shitty turf in Washington, DC, during the last two minutes of a fucking blowout he shouldn’t have been playing in in the first place. His coach had practically begged him to sit on the bench that afternoon and spend a few minutes powering down some Gatorade while his backup took the risk of injury instead. In the coach’s defense, “practically begging” meant he glanced over at Tanner and said, “Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll finish this one for you?” But Tanner had insisted that cold afternoon in Washington. He’d played anyway. And his career was ended because of a freak hit by a rookie who thought he was making his mark by permanently sidelining one of the best left tackles in the league.

Winners didn’t sit on the bench. Winners went out there and dominated, in football and in life. He remembered every buzzword and cliché-laden locker-room speech he’d heard in his career, typically when he was lying awake at three AM and wishing he had that thirty seconds or so before his injury back again. He’d wanted to make the decision when it was time to hang it up. That was taken away from him. He wasn’t happy about it.

People (specifically his ex-girlfriend) were not as willing to put up with his various personality flaws when he wasn’t headline news anymore. He could tick off those shortcomings on his fingers, and he’d done so more than once while alone in the predawn hours. According to his ex, Star, he was too overbearing, too competitive, too impatient, and too insensitive. She didn’t seem to care about his faults when he was ordering $150 bottles of champagne at the club or buying her a little somethin’ somethin’ at the jeweler’s or the latest designer shoes and bags. He’d wanted to believe their breakup was all her fault, but being alone for a few months brought some clarity. He was as much to blame for the end of their relationship. He’d have to man up at some point and make an apology.

Before he met with the surgeon who was putting his knee back together, Tanner had been told by the team’s doctor that he wasn’t going to play football again.

“With your age and these types of injuries, you’re not going to be able to pass any team’s physical, even after rehab. I know this isn’t the way you wanted things to end,” the doctor said.

“No, it isn’t,” Tanner said.

“Look at it this way: it’s a great chance to get on with the rest of your life.”

Tanner knew the guy was just doing his job, but he was already sick of people telling him to look on the bright side. He’d be damn lucky if he walked with a limp. Right now, he’d be happy if he could get off the couch and walk to the mailbox without a walker.

Some of his teammates cried when they came to see him post-op. Like their tears would help. He was their worst nightmare right now: his career was over, and nobody wanted a reminder of how they were going to end up. He hadn’t heard from any of those guys for six months now either.

The typical career choices of an athlete really didn’t work for him. He’d rather shoot himself than go into broadcasting. He didn’t want to own a restaurant franchise or a car dealership. He’d majored in physical education while he was in college; he had thought he’d enjoy coaching somewhere, but he wasn’t ready to walk back onto a football field in anything but a team uniform yet. He was thirty-two years old. And he was as forgotten as last season’s stats, as a result. His astonishing career would be a trivia question during fantasy-football analysis shows.

He’d moved to Seattle two weeks post-surgery so he could hang out with his BFF, Harrison. He wasn’t sure if guys had BFFs, but if they did, Harrison was his. They’d known each other since they were eighteen years old. Right now, Seattle matched his mood—overcast with a chance of rain.

“Fuck my life,” he muttered while moving forward a few inches to grab his vibrating phone off the coffee table. He hit the button to answer it. “What’s up?”

“I’m at your front gate. Buzz me in.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said while hitting the security code on his keypad. Seconds later, he heard the scraping sound of the gate opening. Someone needed to oil the damn thing. Maybe he should. He also hit the code to open his front door. It was one of those days he needed help getting off the couch, and he didn’t want his friend to know that.

“Honey, I’m home,” Harrison called out.

He and Harrison played on the same team through most of their pro careers too. Harrison had retired a year ago after he’d had a close encounter with a couple of linebackers who left him unconscious on the turf after a bad hit. He’d spent weeks afterward fighting double vision and headaches. Harrison always had a plan for life after football, which meant he was currently Tanner’s worst nightmare. Harrison had become a licensed real estate agent his first year in the league. He’d built a business client by client, and he’d taken the broker’s exam two years ago. He didn’t wake up in a cold sweat over the next fifty years or so.

Harrison had nagged Tanner repeatedly about planning for life after football over the past couple of years. Tanner didn’t want to face the fact his playing days would end at some point. Most of the guys in the league weren’t interested in making that plan, either, which is why so many ex-pro football players ended up broke and without options. Tanner wasn’t broke. His bank accounts looked great; at least he’d been smart with his money. He still had options. He wasn’t interested in pursuing them at the moment.

He wasn’t going to admit he was scared. He’d bullshit and tough it out. His family and his nonfootball buddies wouldn’t be on his jock so much if they were dealing with his injuries. They also would never get why he couldn’t seem to find the motivation to keep going right now. It was all he could do to force himself out of bed each morning. He’d gone from having every minute of his life scheduled to days in which the most pressing thing to do was making sure he got a shower. He realized he was probably depressed, which made him feel worse. There were people in the world with terrible problems who managed to keep going. His issues were a temporary setback. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but he needed to get over it.

“What’s new?”

“Not a lot. How are you doing?” Harrison said.

“Things are awesome,” Tanner said. He leaned on his foot a bit. He was rewarded by a spike of pain all the way up his leg. He was going to have to come up with some major-league BS to avoid standing up.

“Weren’t you supposed to go to your physical therapy appointment this morning?” Harrison said.

“My driver cancelled.” Tanner had fired his driver a couple of days ago, but he didn’t want to discuss it with Harrison. He could have called Lyft or a cab to get to the appointment.

“That’s interesting,” Harrison threw over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen. “It’s a good thing I can drive you this morning, then.” He reappeared in the living room a minute or so later with two ice-cold bottles of water.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Let’s go. How about a hand?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Harrison said. He moved to Tanner’s side, braced his shoulder under one arm, and pulled Tanner to his feet.

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