Page 7 of Faking the Pass
“Presley,” Mom fussed. “My goodness, I’ve never seen you so grumpy.”
“Sorry. Getting your throwing arm dissected and your season cut short will do that.”
Taking in a breath and letting it out, I tried to chill out.
“I promise I won’t overdo it, okay?”
Looking over at my younger brother Dylan, I silently pleaded with him to support my argument.
He shot me agood luck buddygrin and turned back to the NFL pre-game show on the big screen opposite the kitchen island.
This was our family tradition. Before every home game, we ate a big meal at our parents’ house here in Eastport Bay then headed to the stadium in Providence to start warming up.
Of course Dylan would be going alone today. I was out for the season.
Supposedly.
I planned to do everything in my power to defy the doctors’ and trainers’ dire predictions and get back to the team as quickly as possible.
Which was the main reason I needed to get back to my own house where I could work out in my home gym and have control over my own meals.
Perfect nutrition was paramount to recovery.
Not that my mom’s homemade doughnuts weren’t fantastic—there was just no room in my life for them right now. Not if I was going to get back on the field and lead my team to another Superbowl.
“But Dad and I arehappyto help you,” Mom protested as she dropped a spoonful of batter into the pan of hot oil on the stovetop. “And the surgeon said you might need help for a couple of weeks post-op. It hasn’t even been one.”
I knew what was going on here. My mother was enjoying having one of her “babies” under her roof again.
My three brothers and I had long since moved out, and one of us—Merc—was living all the way on the West Coast, playing wide receiver for San Francisco.
My injury during last week’s season opener had unexpectedly put her back into full-time mothering mode, and I suspected she was enjoying it a littletoomuch.
“What can I say? I’m an overachiever,” I teased and gave her a big smile as I reached for a protein-rich deviled egg with my good arm. “You raised four strong men.”
She laughed. “I raised four hungry bears. If Mercury and Wilder were here, we would have run out of food today. Next time I’ll have to cook an extra dozen eggs I think.”
She seemed to relish that prospect. I wasn’t sure how she’d survived our teenage years when it seemed like all my brothers and I ever did was eat, but she’d never complained.
All four of us were football players, though only three played in the NFL like our father had.
Our oldest brother Wilder had opted for a career in the military out of college instead of going through the draft. Then, badass that he was, he’d become a Navy SEAL.
As Dad liked to say, out of all of us, Wilder was therealhero. Now discharged from the military, he ran a highly successful security company based here in Eastport Bay.
“Protein is important for healing,” I said to Mom, tilting my head toward my bandaged shoulder. “I’ll buy the eggs next time.”
Now Dad spoke up. He was definitely not afraid to contradictme.
“Your mother and I can afford a few eggs. Save your money for retirement, son. Speaking of…”
I cut him off. “I’mnotready to talk about retirement. Not by a long shot.”
As if on cue, the game-day hosts on TV started discussing last week’s Nauticals game and the punishing hit that had resulted in a sack and a nasty fracture of my right collarbone, abruptly ending my season.
I’d be damned if I let it end my career.
I turned to look at the screen where film of the brutal hit played in slow-motion and the announcers speculated about my chances of ever returning to the field.
