Page 3 of The Comeback

Conquering my injury shifted my focus from becoming a high school physical education teacher to my new goal of becoming a sports therapist. It’s wrong to hope he crashes and burns.

“Boys, grab some plates, or there will be no dessert.” My dad wipes his hands on his napkin, stands, and grabs the empty basket that was once heaping with rolls.

“Yes, sir,” they say in unison, and we clear the table together.

The more trips to the kitchen I make, the easier my gait becomes. Sitting for long periods still plays hell on my knee. And so does rain. Lord, I swear I feel it raining in the mountains, and the closest mountain range is over seven hundred miles away.

Once the dishes are done, my mom brings out a chocolate cake with powdered sugar sprinkled on top. When we cut into it, warm lava spills out.

Before I can swallow the first bite, I feel my leggings stretching. I’m going to look like a bloated whale in dance class tomorrow.

Chapter Two

Weston

As I run back to the endzone, Head Coach Slater glances at the stopwatch. It hangs down from a black strap around his neck. “You’ve picked up a step, but you’re still two steps behind where you were before the injury.”

“Yeah.” Every muscle in my neck and back is balled so tight, I’m surprised one of them doesn’t snap.

I inhale and slowly exhale. That’s what started this mess. Well, not quite, but close enough. Ruptured tendon. Torn muscle. What’s the difference? Either would result in me sitting on the bench.

Shit, dumbass, you can’t tear a muscle from excess tension.

Can you?

With my luck, I’ll prove the impossible to be possible. “I aim to get those two steps back before the season starts. I’ve been working with a new trainer.”

He nods. “Keep pushing.”

Coach Rowland, the running back coach, places his hands on his hips. “You’re fourteen months out of your surgery. You should be back to full speed. Unless you’re not being honest with the doctors?”

“No.” My heart skips a beat. “I’m telling them when it feels uncomfortable. I haven’t felt any twinges in months.” But I’m not back. And it’s starting to look like I never will be.

This is something I have to do. I can’t be out of the game already. “I’m committed to doing anything to get back to the top.”

“Good.” He smiles and turns to his left, where Coach Tillman is standing. “What’re you seeing?”

The wide receiver’s coach studies me until the energy around us snaps. I drag a hand through my hair. This is going to be the shortest trade in history. My mom doesn’t want me living on her sofa. She has enough to worry about with my sister.

“Do Lines.”

Lines. Fuck. This is going to suck. I glance at Coach Rowland to see if he’ll get me out of the torture, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Endzone to the thirty-yard line in under twenty seconds.” Yeah, that’s not exactly what’s going to happen. I must run to the five-yard line, touch the ground, and sprint back to the endzone–and repeat in five-yard increments until I’ve gone to the thirty-yard line.

I swallow. I haven’t done Lines in under twenty seconds since my injury. I lick my lips, nod, and jog to the endzone.

“When I say go, go,” Coach Tillman barks. As a former player, he’s been around the league for his twelve years on the field and another ten blowing a whistle. He was one of the top players throughout his career, and the thought of disappointing him has my stomach in knots.

“Yes, sir.” I lean forward with my injured foot planted on the ground.

“Go!”

I snap off the line, run to the five-yard line, lower down to the ground, and touch it. You can do it. You’ve done it millions of times. Your ankle will hold. I turn and repeat the steps, going another five yards down the field each time.

With each increasing distance, my heart thuds louder in my ears, and I breathe deeply into my gut.

After I complete the drill, I bend over at the waist, clutching my knees and gasping for air.

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