Page 7 of The Comeback

After we greet each other, Gunner crosses his arms over his chest. The hot June sun pounds down on our heads. “What’re you doing hanging out with the defense?”

“Knox was here the day I was announced. He invited me out that night.” The last thing I need is to get on the bad side of the ace quarterback.

“Don’t worry.” Gunner laughs. “We’re one big happy family.”

“Good.” Some of the tension eases out of my shoulders, but not much. Everything has me on edge these days.

Coach Rowland has worked me out every day, and I’m not any closer to getting those two steps back than I was back in New York. He hasn’t flat out said it, but the writing on the wall is getting clearer. If I don’t have it together by training camp, I’ll be lucky to have a spot on the practice squad.

Devin cocks his head to the side. “How’s practice going?”

“It’s okay.” Liar. “It’s going as good as can be expected. I’m working hard.”

“Are you working with a trainer?”

“Yes, I’ve been working with a trainer in New York since the end of the season.”

The defensive players that stay in town during the off-season run out on the field, and someone blows a whistle. Knox is one of the burly men wearing stretched, too-tight T-shirts who drop to the ground and press their body weight up and down in a steady stream of pushups.

I shift my attention to the two men in front of me. Should I tell them the truth?

Fuck it. It’s not like if I say it out loud that someone is suddenly going to notice. They already know I’m struggling. The whole fucking league does.

“After my surgery, I’ve worked my ass off, but I can’t break through the wall.” I shrug. “Or whatever it is. I’ve regained my strength, but I’m still slow, and my push-off isn’t as strong as it used to be.”

Gunner braces his hands on his hips. “What’re you willing to do about it?”

“What do you mean? What am I willing to do about it? I do physical therapy every day and work out three hours a day over what the coaches require.”

Devin bites his bottom lip to contain a grin. “Ballet.”

“Ballet?” My head jerks back as I stare at them in confusion. “What does watching ballet have to do with football or physical therapy?”

“Not watching ballet. Learning ballet. Devin took ballet last summer at a dance studio in town.”

“Why?” Shit. That was rude. It’s none of my business why he took a dance class. “Sorry.” I raise my hands in defense. “That sounded rude, but you threw me off by bringing up dance. I’ve heard of ballet helping people get better at sports, but I thought it was a bullshit publicity stunt. I’ve never met anyone who’s done it.”

“Nah, man.” Devin’s eyes dance with humor. “I get it. My daughter is in beginner dance, and one day the instructor and I talked. She brought up using dance to improve my balance and coordination.” He shrugs. “And I’ll try anything once.”

“And it helped.” Gunner punches Devin in the shoulder. “My dude here caught the winning Super Bowl touchdown last season on a slant pattern that only he could have caught. A ball he wouldn’t have had a chance of getting in a prior season.”

The play was superhuman. I’ve watched it a hundred times. But ballet? I don’t see it happening. “Thanks for the suggestion. I appreciate it, but I don’t think it’s for me.”

“No problem.” Devin bends down and re-ties his tennis shoes. “It’s not for everyone. But if you decide to give it a shot, I can get you an appointment with the studio owner. She’s good.” He glances at Gunner and raises his eyebrows.

“Let’s do some drills.” Gunner ignores his questioning look, and they jog off to the sideline.

Fuck. I don’t have time for dance. There’re only a few weeks until training camp. My mind drifts off to breakfast this morning with my mom and sister.

Piper looks like her old self, only thinner. But she couldn’t be any farther from the upbeat, happy-go-lucky teenage girl she was six months ago. She’s broody, quiet, and obsessed with anime. It would be a normal teenager thing, except for the no friends thing.

“We’re going to look at a house on Park Avenue this afternoon.” My mom stuck her fork into a section of her scrambled eggs.

“You’re going.” Piper crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair, almost daring our mother to disagree with her.

“Fine,” my mom sighed. “You can stay here, but you should have a say in where we live.”

Piper arched an eyebrow. “Should I?”

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