She spots the small speaker in the upper corner of her bedroom.
“Michael, play man in the mirror.”
A voice that sounds like Irish actor, Colin Farrell, responds and Bird’s’ face lights up like a Friday night in Times Square.
God, I love it when she looks like that.
PlayingMan In The Mirror, by Michael Jackson
My home becomes transformed as inspirational words (of my least favorite Michael Jackson song) practically bounce off the walls of every room in the house. Mia raises her arms high, snapping her fingers and swinging her hips as she sings along or rather on top of the vocals. As usual, she’s off-key, loud, vibrant, infectious and joy bounces off of her like gamma rays.
That’s when phase three of this arrangement hits me like a lightening bolt.
If I wantthisin my life, always.
If I don’t want this amazing woman to ever leave this house.
I’m going to have to make her fall in love with me.
Twenty-Three
MIA
It’shot as a frying pan today and the air conditioning in the green goblin is on the fritz, but none of that matters to me because all is right with the world. Work is not work at all, it’s fun; and the last few weeks at Rush’s house have been a much needed respite. I get to see one of my favorite people in the world every day at work and at home; I was able to send my mother the rest of the money she needed for the real estate taxes, and my appointment with the new ortho surgeon is next week.
I finally had to have a truthful conversation with Scott about the nature of my injury and he was more than willing to give me a day off for the consultation. In fact, he pretty much volunteered to be the therapist who builds a treatment plan for me after the surgery, which I can probably schedule at some point during the offseason. I thought it was really cool of him to offer.
Today I have Tiger, Darius and Rush in my therapy rotation. I’m working on some back exercises with Tiger, more hamstring exercises with Darius, and finally some preventative neck and shoulder stretching for Rush.
“The weirdest thing happened today in my therapy meeting,” I tell Rush in a hushed voice.
“What?”
“We were working on next week’s schedule and Scott mentioned we will no longer schedule Tiger and Proctor at the same time until further notice.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, I thought you’d know. I mean you all have to practice together, so why would we have to alter our therapy schedules around for them?”
“I don’t gossip about my teammates.”
“Dude, it’s not gossip. It’s a legitimate question.”
“A question that you should have asked your boss.”
“Just by your reaction, I know there’s some juicy gossip behind the decision.”
I’m standing behind Rush, who’s seated on a chair. I am slowly rotating his head three-hundred-and-sixty degrees to gently stretch his neck. He’s had a little neck pain in the past from sudden movements or collisions on the field, so it’s something that the strength and PT teams monitor.
“How’s that feel?” I ask.
“Good.”
I notice a tiny tattoo on his neck that I haven’t seen before because it’s surrounded by so many others. I glide my finger over the ink. It’s a small parakeet with wings so intricate only a master artist could have done it.
“When did you get this?”
“Last time I was in Los Angeles.”
