“No, not really.”
“Which really means that he’s probably not doing well at all.”
“Try not to stress about this, Dak.”
“All I can do is stress about it.”
“That didn’t come out right. What I’m trying to say is that I bet everyone’s tight lipped because his family wants the media out of their private family business. He had a heart attack on the football field. He’s got some work to do before he’s ready for press conferences and public appearances. You have to at least try not to stress about things that you have no control over. It was an accident. It was football. Remember that.”
I’ve been trained my entire life to go for the “kill” on the football field. My job is to annihilate the players on the opposite team. I have to stop them from doing their job of protecting the quarterback. I have to stop the quarterback from throwing the ball. And I have to do all of this within the rules of the NFL but with a deadly instinct.
We’re not playing checkers out there.
What I don’t tell Cap, what I have told no one, is that all of that has me questioning myself and my motives over and over.
Was it an accident?
Or was I really trying to hurt McCall?
Because if that was the goal, I achieved it, and nothing about it feels victorious at all.
dak
My body convulsesas I release myself violently inside of my boxer briefs.
What in the ever loving fuck.
I wake up startled after a vivid dream of Katrina Banks, on her knees, in her office, sucking me off like the best who ever did it.
Dick hard.
Sweating.
The only thing I could do was jerk myself off to relief and then lay in bed for a moment, wondering what the hell I was going to do to about it.
After a long shower, I head to my meeting with the team’s general manager over lunch in the offices within our home stadium. The two of us have always had a great working relationship and I feel confident that I can convince him to clear me to play without this six-week therapy mandate.
“So this is the thing, Dak. Everyone in the Nighthawks organization knows that what happened was a freak accident, but your reputation as a player who often skirts around the rules has made things a bit more complicated for us.”
“I was the defensive player of the year.”
“An accolade that you very much deserved, but oddly enough, it didn’t do much to change your reputation with the public.”
Hearing that people think I’m a dirty player is nothing new, but I’ve worked hard the last two seasons to turn things around. When will people ever give me a second chance? Why does this narrative of me as this dangerous player in the league continue to stick?
“There has to be tape exonerating me of doing anything illegal, Bob. I assure you that anyone can see it was a clean hit if they rewatch the tape.”
“You’re right. We’ve watched the tape dozens of times and so has the world. It clearly shows that it wasn’t your fault, but for some people it doesn’t matter what they see with their own eyes, they only care about the person who was hurt and person who did it.”
In other words, Bob is saying that the NFL’s new golden boy was hurt and the bad boy of the league is the one who did it.
“I’ve never pretended that it hasn’t been easy to unlearn everything I was ever taught to do to be effective on the football field, but I’m doing it. I haven’t had a bad call this season at all. Do I get any credit for that?”
Bob takes a sip of his unsweetened iced tea and seems to be searching for the right words to say.
“But you had two infractions last season and now this.”
“This?” I echo back.
