Page 77 of Everything's Better With You
Leslie rested his hands on his hips and sighed.
“It seems my brother took offense at the way you hit that kid. Do you know why?”
“I don’t, Coach. I’m sorry, whatever I did. I’ll fix it.”
Leslie patted him on his shoulder and squeezed. “Son, lowering your head like that before a hit can cause a catastrophic spinal cord injury. Didn’t your coaches teach you about that?”
A tear rolled down the kid’s cheek. “No, sir.”
“It’s all right, we’ll work on it. A hit like that also increases your chances of concussion, and that’s a big deal in our family. Do you know about my father?”
He nodded. “I know he had some problems…”
“That’s putting it mildly. But now we know how to avoid that, right? So we hit with our shoulder or chest, we don’t hit with our heads, is that understood?”
“Yes, Coach. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me, son. But let’s have this conversation with the whole group before my brother loses his shit, all right?”
“Yes, Coach.”
Leslie sighed and patted the kid on his back. He followed him out onto the field thinking yeah, his story might be important. No time like the present to start sharing it.
Twenty-One
Joe
Joe’s flight landed in Des Moines on Sunday night at 9:00 p.m. and he limped off the plane with his two carry-ons. He took small steps, practiced his breathing, and tried not to panic. The Bronco was right where he left it in the daily parking lot and he fumbled with his backpack to get his keys out, cursing under his breath the whole way. It took several tries to lift his roller suitcase and backpack into the backseat. When he lifted his right leg to set his ass on the front seat, he cried out. Luckily, he was the only one in that section of the lot. He ended up having to use a combination of the “oh shit handle,” his left leg, and a head duck to climb into the four-wheel drive beast. Fuck, he hadn’t thought about his hip flexor when he bought the damn car. What normal thirty-six-year-old man worries he might not be able to lift his leg off the ground to climb into his own car?
He managed to get seated, fasten his seatbelt, and start the car. And then he cried. Deep, bone-shaking sobs that made his voice hoarse andblurred his vision so that he couldn’t start driving yet. He sat for several long moments before he could pull himself together enough to catch his breath. Then he put the car in reverse and nearly screamed when he moved his right leg from the brakes to the gas.
“Pull your motherfucking self together, Judd. You’ve gotta get home.” He blew out a breath, backed out of his spot, and made his way out of the lot.
The weekend had gotten off to a rough start. After missing a connecting flight Friday, spending the night in the Denver airport, and then arriving in LA with only three hours until rehearsal, he’d only had time to go to the hotel, clean up, shave, and Uber to the venue. Everything went fine in rehearsals, but there was a complicated tangle of bodies kind of lift move toward the end and something in his hip snapped during the performance, the hip that had been bothering him for the past year. He’d managed to finish the routine, but had to improvise with a leap and cut out a tumbling run. He played it off, but he’d had to tell his stage manager, who got him to the production’s trainer.
They’d wanted to take him to the hospital, but Joe swore he’d ice it and take anti-inflammatories instead. The next morning, however, he could barely lift his leg. He’d gone to a private clinic where he’d been once before and had X-rays taken, which thankfully showed no stress fracture. The doctor had given him muscle relaxers, painkillers, all shit Joe likely wouldn’t take, but he’d also told him this could be a career-ending injury if he didn’t rest it. No activity, no dancing, period, for at least three to four weeks. Joe had gritted his teeth and lied through the appointment that of course he’d stay off it. The doctor had told him he should use crutches and he’d nodded—of course he’d get some when he got home. He’d called Arthur and let him know.
“Joe, I’ll do whatever you ask, you know that. But don’t ignore this, don’t ignore his advice. There will come a time when you can’t just act your way out of a situation like this. You won’t be able to just bounce back like you used to, and I know you don’t want to be done yet.”
Arthur knew about Joe’s toe still dangling in the dance career door, that Joe wasn’t ready to close that door.
“Fuck fuck FUCK!” Joe slammed his fist against the steering wheel and cried some more. Why couldn’t his stupid body cooperate?
The drive home from the airport was a white-knuckle experience, but focusing on driving took his mind off the pain for a bit. Leslie’s name kept appearing on the screen every few minutes, first texts and then calls. By the time Joe pulled into the Higdon lot, it was after ten and all was quiet. He texted Leslie: “I’m home. Talk tomorrow,” and then he hobbled into the dorm. Matty’s country music was blaring so Joe hoped he wouldn’t run into him.
“Hey, Coach Judd! You were so great last night!”
He turned to find a couple of the football players and Terrell coming down the stairs.
“Oh, thanks. You guys watched?” Why couldn’t he get the damn door unlocked? Oh right, his hands were shaking.
“Of course we did. They put it up on the big screen in the lounge upstairs. The whole dorm was watching. I think they had it playing in the student center too. Man, that was amazing how you—”
“Thanks, guys, really. I gotta get to bed—”
He dropped his keys and tried to bend over to grab them, but he had to stand up and let out a breath so he wouldn’t scream.
“Coach? You need some help?”
