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)
Fiona’s eyes widen.
“Dad,” I hiss.
“Nick, we have a lot of shit to figure out. I don’t have time for your mom and girlfriend to be going at it like children. I have a business to run. So, it’s either your mother or your girlfriend.”
My dad doesn’t say another word—already back on his phone, furiously typing away.
“Fiona,” I say with a sigh, and she shakes her head. “I want you here.” I take her hand in my good one. “I just don’t want to argue with them.”
“You never do, Nick.” She walks out of the door, and I wish I could chase after her, but I can’t.
“Knock, knock,” the doctor says before the door is even finished closing. His lips are upturned in a sympathetic smile as he walks into the room, the nurse from earlier following behind him. “How are you feeling, Mr. Shaw?”
“I’m in a bit of pain,” I answer truthfully, hoping they can give me something to knock me out so everyone will leave me the hell alone.
“Nurse Karson can take care of that for you.” He nods toward the nurse who then scurries over to my bedside and switches something on to release more meds into my IV.
My father gets straight to the point. “What’s the prognosis, doc?” It’s always about business with him, and since right now, I’m the highest paid quarterback in the NFL, if I can’t play, my dad will be losing a shit ton of money. Because at the end of the day, twenty percent of zero is zero. With my contract being up this year, I don’t see them keeping me on. There’s a lot the team can do with the millions of dollars they pay me.
I glance toward my dad, who has a worried look marring his features, and feel a twinge of sadness. In my father’s eyes, all I am is a football player. If it weren’t for me playing, we wouldn’t even have a relationship. And if I can’t play, where will that leave us? I won’t be bringing anything to the table, and as a result, he’ll no longer have any use for me.
“The surgery went smoothly. My recommendation is time off for ten months to a year, minimum. He’s going to need extensive physical therapy...” He continues on with his doctor talk, but I’m no longer listening. I’m looking at the disappointment on my father’s face. The sadness in my mother’s eyes. Other than football, I can’t remember a single thing I’ve ever done to make them proud. It didn’t matter that I was a straight A student, or that I volunteered after school for the literacy program to help kids who couldn’t read. They never went to any of my Math Elite matches or attended any of my engineering competitions.
But every Friday night, they would be in the stands to watch me play. My mom would cheer for me throughout the entire game, and my dad would spend the entire next day strategizing for the next game. And it was during those moments, I felt like they actually saw me—that they actually cared. I thought her cheering me on and him strategizing with me was us being a family. But now I’m starting to wonder if it was love or greed. My guess is toward the latter.
As I stare at the both of them, I consider telling them to go fuck themselves. That they can take my money and status and shove it up their asses. But I can’t do that. Because at the end of the day, they’re my parents, and like any child, I want them to love me and be proud of me. I let out a heavy sigh, my heart cracking as I come to the realization it might not even matter. Without my job or income, neither of them will need or want me.
“Nick.” I snap back to the present to see the team owner, Edwin Smith, and my coach, Reggie Frazier, standing in front of me. The doctor has apparently left, and everyone is staring at me. “You okay?” Coach asks, and I lift my chin up and down robotically.
“We need to talk,” Mr. Smith says, and I nod again. “The doctor filled us in…” Of course he did, because he’s the team doctor. They probably knew my prognosis before I did. “It’s not personal…” Like fuck it’s not. I give them eight fucking years and three super bowl rings, and the minute I’m no good to them, they drop me like a bad habit. “We just feel at this time it’s best to part ways. After careful consideration, we’ve made the decision to take the team in a different direction.”
Fuck, have I always worn rose-colored glasses? How did I not notice all of the greed and selfishness around me? Probably because up until this moment, it’s been smooth sailing. My numbers have only increased. My income and bank account only growing. I allowed everyone around me to use me while I basked in the artificial feeling of being wanted and needed while believing I was making everyone happy.