Page 87 of False Start
“Well, you’re gonna be if you don’t get your ass out of the damn bed.” He begins to pace back and forth by my bed. “I can’t do this no more, Suga. I can’t watch Mr. Football Star tear you down like this. You know what you need? You need a shower, tequila, dick, and a job.”
“In that order?’ I ask.
He stops pacing. “Yes, girl, in that order. Now go get your narrow behind under the water and put some soap on your ass.”
“Fine!” I shout. These two aren’t leaving me along until I’m clean and talk to Otto.
I shower and when I emerge, Otto’s in my living room waiting for me.
He stands to hug and place a kiss on my cheek. “You’ve lost weight,” he observes.
“Have I?”
He frowns at me until Zina clears her throat. It seems to jolt his words loose. “You look great. Listen, we had a therapist turn in his notice this morning, and we have a game Sunday. He needs to fly out to train with a new job, and we need a PT on the sidelines. The position is yours if you want it.”
For the first time in a few months, I feel hopeful. “Work for the Voodoo?”
“Yeah. You’re a Hale, girl. The Voodoo loves Zane Hale, and they’re jumping at the chance to hire both of his daughters.”
“Both?” Zina asks.
Zina works as an athletic trainer at an elite club in New Orleans. She also has several athletes she trains as her personal clients, but her dream has always been to work as a trainer in the league.
“I can’t offer one of you a job and not the other,” Otto replies.
I launch myself off the couch and throw my arms around Otto’s neck. Soon, Zina follows suit, and we double team him. He chuckles at our affection, and eventually we allow him to breathe again.
“One thing,” he adds. “We’re playing the Spartans Sunday.”
My whole soul feels heavier the moment he mentions it. I nod my head. “Perhaps this isn’t the best position for me.”
“No, nuh-uh, nope. I’m not going to sit by and watch you ruin this because you might see Mr. Football Star. I hope you do see him, and make sure if you do, you show him how good you’re doing.”
He’s right. I can’t hide from Bryant forever. I need to start the process of moving on with my life. Fake it until you make it even. “Okay. I accept.”
— 30 —
Then
AS I ANXIOUSLY WAIT for Sunday to approach, I think of all the possible scenarios I can likely come into contact with Bryant through. I don’t know if I can hide from him, but Otto’s advised the staff to let me tend to injuries in the tent on the sidelines to keep me out of view. I appreciate it. I know I can’t hide from him forever, but we haven’t seen each other in 2 ½ months, and game day isn’t the most ideal place for us to reunite. It’s too public. The sports world and beyond are worried enough about my divorce.
I remain in the tent and out of view for most of the game. There are no injuries in the first half, and I wait for the players to leave the field and enter the locker room before I leave the tent at half time. Pulling my hat down, I sneak out through the crowd still milling around the sideline and head for the locker room to see if any of the players need to be taped.
After the break, I follow the team back out to the field with Zina beside me. “He looks terrible,” she says, and my heart seizes in my chest at his mention.
“I don’t care, Zina. I don’t fucking care.” I’m livid she still cares for his well being after what he’s done. Rationally, I know I still care too. I wish I didn’t. You can’t just stop loving someone at the drop of a dime, but I’m faking it until I make it.
I hide inside the tent for the third quarter and tend to a hamstring injury during the latter part of the quarter. The last quarter of the game brings in three injuries in a row. And with three minutes left in the game, someone yells, “All hands on deck.”
My direct supervisor, Brandon, pokes his head inside the injury tent and says, “I need you on the field, Hale.”
I don’t hesitate but for a second, and my hesitation could cost the player dearly. I feel guilty and horrible about it as I make my way to the field beside Brandon. A tailback is on the ground, unmoving, and images of my father lying on the field unmoving resurface. I shake the thoughts from my mind and focus on the player I kneel beside.
“He’s been out since he went down,” a paramedic reports.
There’s not a lot I can do with the man being unconscious, but I can monitor and assess to assist the process of removing him from the field. When he’s put on a board and his neck and spine are protected, we lift him to a gurney and wheel him off the field. It’s rare that a player leaves this way, and it’s every mom’s and wife’s nightmare, but it does happen.
“Zhanna?!!” I hear my name distantly, but I know who it is.
