Yada, yada. Whatever. He had until July. Summer camp. He had hope. Sunlight broke through the picture window that looked out on the small patio next to the therapy room. Sam fastened the knee brace, gathered his gear, and headed to the door, keeping his limp in check.
A cold wind scattered gold, red, and brown leaves and an empty french fry envelope across his path. Fries. His favorites were from the Fry Hut back home. They’d sure hit the spot on a blustery day like today. After his appointment with Dr. Morgan, he might as well stop by his old high school haunt—where he had spent every Friday night after home games—and indulge. He could smell the fries now. Hot oil, crisp potato, salt. Maybe meet Jake? Nah. He’d call Cole and they could catch up.
And he’d better call Janice or hear about it from Dr. Morgan. Would she really kick him out of her program for not calling his stepmom? Yeah, better not risk it. The chill in the February day felt good as Sam walked toward his Range Rover, pulling out his phone. He so rarely called either his father or stepmother, it took him a minute to swipe through his recent calls to find her number.
“Janice, it’s Sam. Sorry I’ve missed your calls.”
He’d just hung up with his stepmom, promising to possibly attend Frank’s birthday party, when someone shouted his name across the parking lot.
“Hardy!”
Sam unlocked the passenger door and tossed his bag onto the seat, then turned to see built-like-a-monster-truck Marco Martelli stalking across the parking lot. He was young, twenty-three, and a second-year starter on the Titans brick-wall offensive line.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you a complete jerk?” Marco stopped in front of Sam.
Good grief, he had a short fuse. “Not in the mood, Martelli.” Sam limped to the driver’s side door.
“Hardy, I said, what’s the matter with you?”
Sam bit back a sigh and faced Martelli. Might as well get it over with. “Besides my knee? Not a thing. Why?”
“Carla.”
“Carla who?”
“The girl you left Rankin’s party with Friday night.”
Her name was Carla? She had been so drunk he hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d felt like he was rescuing a near-drowned cat. “The weepy blonde with too many margaritas on board? She was a mess. I gave her a ride home.”
“She came to the party with me, Hardy. She’s mine.” Marco’s eyes narrowed. “Stay away.”
“She never said a word about you.” Sam held up his hands, took a step back, and eyed his Range Rover’s door. If Martelli took a swing, Sam could dive for it but that would be a killer for his knee. “First off, I didn’t know. I have a hard and fast rule about other players’ girls. You know that.” Everyone on the team knew Sam’s code. At least what had been his code for the last few years. “She said she came alone. I drove her home and left her at the door.”
“Not according to her Twitter feed.” Marco brandished his phone like a badge giving him authority to arrest Sam for some perceived failure.
I maybe had a few too many tequila shooters at a team party last night, but so worth it to wake up with @SamHardyQB15’s arms around me this morning. #sorrynotsorry
@CurvyCarla on Twitter
Sam groaned. Would his past reputation ever die? Sure, there was a time when he had looked for women like Carla at parties—groupies, jersey chasers. Everyone knew how to play that game. But when he’d made the mistake of “sleeping over” and found his face, and a bit more, splashed all over the internet, he’d answered the wakeup call. Who was this man he’d become? Was this who he really wanted to be? It had been over three years since he’d been the kind of guy who partied too hard with the women that made it their life mission to hang around NFL players, offering “favors” in exchange for money, jewels, cars, and a good time.
“I don’t care what she put on Twitter, TikTok, or wherever. I dropped her at her house. Didn’t even unbuckle my seat belt to help her get out.”
Marco gave him a long look, then skimmed Carla’s social feed. He tucked his phone in his pocket, shoulders drooping, and stepped back toward the training facility.
“Marco.” Sam stuck out his hand as the man turned around and waited agonizingly long seconds for Marco to take it. “Bro, stop going for these jersey chasers. They’re trouble in more ways than one. Carla and girls like her are not the kind of girl you make a life with, trust me. Not the kind who will help you celebrate your career achievements or hang with you when in the valleys. If you want a relationship, go to church or join a club, maybe go back to your hometown and get reacquainted with an old friend. You’re an NFL stud. Be a man, not a baby daddy. You’re worth a good woman. Stop looking for the cheerleader and go for the scientist.”
Marco laughed and wagged his finger at Sam. “Old man, you sound like my mama.”
“Then listen to her if you won’t listen to me.”
Marco headed away and Sam climbed behind the wheel. As the engine roared to life, his phone rang. The screen showed his friend and business partner, Rick Moses, on the line. “Talk to me, dude.”
“Hardy, how’s the knee?” Rick’s deep resonance untied some of the knots in Sam’s shoulders over the whole IR business.
“I’ve got an appointment with the best sports medicine doctor in the business. I’ll be on the field by July.” God willing and the creek don’t rise.
Meeting and partnering with Rick was one of the best things he’d done in his life besides making it to the league—which included some bit of luck. Rick taught him about finances, investing, preparing for life off the field. Even though a lot of the things he said were things Frank had been telling him his whole life.
