Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Nicholas! Don’t say that!” my mom shrieks. “This is because of your girlfriend, isn’t it? I know she hates you playing. We didn’t come this far for you to just give up now…” I tune her out as I think about how everything I’ve worked my entire life for is about to go down the drain, but for some reason, I’m not worried about what I’m about to lose, what my parents are about to lose, but rather what I might gain.
My girlfriend, Fiona, has made a few comments about wanting to get married and settle down. She doesn’t like how often players are away from their families and said she would feel like she’s a single parent. Maybe now would be the right time to settle down and start a family.
As my mom continues to nag me over my comment about getting released, I pray the nurse will come in soon to give me more pain meds. I was transported back home to North Carolina—from Baltimore—where the Super Bowl was held—immediately after I was taken off the field. Once the team doctors assessed and prepped me, they performed surgery on my arm. Then we had to wait for the swelling to go down enough for the doctors to see how it went. So here I am, stuck in this fucking hospital, living on pain meds and waiting for the doctor to make an appearance to read me my future.
The nurse, who was here earlier flirting with me, said she’ll be back with the doctor in a little while when he makes his rounds. It doesn’t matter what he says, though. Mandatory surgery due to a broken arm plus a dislocated shoulder can only mean two things: time off and physical therapy. And at almost thirty years old, even with three Super Bowl wins, there’s no way North Carolina is going to renew my contract.
I replay my mother’s words in my head. We didn’t come this far for you to just give up now. What a fucking joke. My parents have ridden my ass for as long as I can remember. From playing pee-wee football to high school ball. From playing College ball to me dropping out of college a year early to enter the draft. I’ve done everything their way, worked my ass off, made choices I didn’t want to make, and I’m fucking exhausted. We haven’t come anywhere. I’ve come this far. Not my mom. Not my dad. Me! I’m the one who practiced every damn day. I chose football over having a life. And what the hell for? My mom wants me to play for the status and fame. My dad wants me to play for the money. What I can’t seem to remember at the moment is why the hell I want to play.
“Are you listening to me?” I open my eyes and see my mother glaring at me, her resting bitch face even more prominent than usual. I can’t even recall the last time she smiled. She’s so concerned over the possibility of me choosing my girlfriend over football. She’s my mom. Shouldn’t she want her son to put his girlfriend first? Isn’t that what you do when you love someone? Ha! Love…I don’t think she’s capable of such an emotion. At least not by the definition most would go by. Does she love her home? Yes. Her car? Definitely. Does she love shopping? Without a doubt. Does she love my dad? Or me? I think once upon a time she did…but now the only thing she loves is what we can do for her.
Before I can answer, my father strolls through the door. “Victoria.” He gives her a chaste kiss on her cheek before approaching my bed. That’s the extent of their affection. “How’re you feeling?” he asks me.
“Shitty,” I answer honestly. The door opens again and in walks my girlfriend. She smiles sadly as she approaches my bed.
“Hey.” She leans in and gives me a kiss. Her lips are soft and sweet, and for a brief moment I feel like everything is right in the world. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Waiting for the doctor to come in and tell me my fate.”
“If you can’t play again…” Fiona swallows thickly. “It won’t be the end of the world.”
“You can’t be serious!” my mom hisses.
“Mom, stop,” I say, hoping to prevent an argument between my girlfriend and my mom. It won’t be the first one.
“No, Nicholas! She doesn’t want you to play, yet she has no problem spending the money you make from playing.”
“I don’t spend his money, Victoria,” Fiona shoots back.
“Your school? Apartment? All the bills?” my mom volleys.
“Enough, Victoria,” my dad snaps. “The doctor will be here soon. Please get control of yourself. Fiona, it’s probably best if you leave. Nick can call you with an update.”