The anger I feel flashes like a pop of hot oil on my neck. No one gives a shit about me in this organization. All they care about is their precious reputation and the bottom line.
“Are you saying I’m a liability to the Hawks, Bob?”
Bob’s face flushes red.
“No, Dak.”
“Because if I recall, you all liked the fact that my menacing reputation precedes me.” I press my pointer finger on the table for emphasis.
“Opponents spend a lot of time planning on how to neutralize me during a game, and now you’re saying it’s a problem?”
“Not at all, Dak. All I’m saying is that I can’t fast track you back on the field. The league wants to see contrition.”
“But it was an accident!”
I slam my palm against the tabletop, and Bob’s eyes widen. I take a deep breath and sit back in my chair. I’ve frightened him and I didn’t mean to, but this is so frustrating.
“I apologize for my outburst, Bob, but we’re talking about my life here.”
“I understand your passion about this, but you’re going to have to be cleared by this therapist and there’s no negotiating that away,” Bob replies. “That’s the front office’s decision, and it’s final.”
I’m not making any headway with Bob, so I need to change the direction of this conversation.
“Then why am I not seeing the usual therapists that the team uses?” I vividly remember the therapist talking on the phone with her supervisor about it. Bob looks surprised that I seem to know what’s going on. “It almost seems like I’m being set up to fail,” I say suspiciously.
“What are you insinuating? Some of McCall’s teammates are also in mandated therapy.”
“Why?”
Bob looks at me with almost pity in his eyes.
“Because this was a traumatic event, Dak. A nation of fans and players are shaken up by it and the league doesn’t want anyone on the field who isn’t ready to be there. It’s not to the NFL’s benefit, and it certainly isn’t to your benefit to rush the healing.”
“I understand that it was a terrible thing, and I pray that McCall recovers quickly, but I stand by the hit and I’m fine. It was an accident,” I say, regurgitating Cap’s words to me. “It was football. I don’t need to see a therapist. I’m ready to get back to work.”
Bob’s lips thin, and he narrows his focus on my eyes. “You have a contract negotiation coming up, don’t you?”
“That sounds like a threat,” I say, my voice rising again.
“This is not a threat. It’s just business. You have a contract negotiation coming up and if you don’t go to this mandated therapy, the Nighthawks don’t have to renegotiate your contract, and I guarantee you that no owner in the league is going to look favorably at the reason why.”
Meeting with Bob by myself was a mistake. I should have come to this lunch with my lawyer by my side, because right now I want to shove his white cloth napkin down his smug, corporate ass throat.
I stand and stare at him hard from across the other side of the table.
“So the tape says I made a clean hit, I tell you I’m fine, and McCall is alive–but if I don’t go see some head shrink for six fucking weeks, you’re going to have me blackballed from the league?”
“Dak, you’re putting words in my mouth. I never said that.”
Oh, yes, the fuck he did.
“And just out of curiosity, what happens if this therapist, whom you’re placing my entire fucking career in the hands of, says I’m not ready to play football after six sessions?”
“Then we’ll have another conversation.”
Wow!
Just fucking wow.
