I’m up before the sun as usual, but today it’s with an extra purpose. I have something to do before practice this morning.
I had one request of my agent when I was shipped off to a new town, and that was to find me a place like the one in Dallas. That’s why my agent called last night—to remind me about my commitment this morning. As if I could forget the one bright spot in my week.
I pull up to Sunny Acres Animal Shelter at five thirty. I find early morning the best time of day to volunteer here, mainly because it’s not full of other volunteers yet, so I can do my own thing.
Someone once told me that petting a dog can genuinely make you happier.
I looked into it. Studies show that petting a dog can lower stress and blood pressure. It can trigger the release of serotonin and reduce anxiety. Still, ever a disbeliever until I see it for myself, I walked into an animal shelter in Dallas one day to test the theory.
It worked.
They roped me into coming back the next week, and the next, and soon I was a regular volunteer.
Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about the animal for the few moments I’m with it rather than about my own history, or maybe there’s something in their fur. Maybe it’s because I’m volunteering my time to help another living being. Whatever the case, things don’t quite feel as heavy when I’m at the shelter.
My tasks are simple. Because I’m a big guy, I usually get the big dogs. I spend an hour of my time taking a few dogs on walks or playing with them in the yard. It’s a simple connection to another living thing for an hour a week when my schedule allows.
I’ve been volunteering here weekly since I moved to Vegas, and this week, a litter of Golden Retriever puppies showed up.
They’re fucking adorable. Fluffy and soft, with fur that leans more white than golden except for their ears, which are softer and darker.
I stand in a small room with three of them. Two are fighting over a toy while a third attempts to chew my shoelaces.
I’m tempted to take one home. Maybe not the one making a chew toy of my shoe. Or, hell, maybe I should just take all three.
I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to the dogs. I’m in and out too much. I travel a lot. And I like my solitude, anyway.
I pick up the one on shoe duty, and I hold it close to my face. “What are you doing to my shoe?”
The pup responds by licking my nose.
I set it down before I actually do end up taking it home, and when my hour is up, I leave with more reluctance than usual and head straight for the Complex, the nickname given to the Aces’ practice facility.
Friday practices are a bit lighter ahead of game day, and I’m rotating with the other quarterbacks on each play. We wear red jerseys as a reminder that nobody’s supposed to hit us since we’re not padded, and I’m watching Dex Bradley as he attempts to make a go at Brandon Fletcher, our second backup after Miles Hudson, who’s been struggling with lingering complications from an ACL tear a couple years ago.
That makes me QB1.
I’m up for the challenge, but part of being a starter is having a bond with your teammates. I need to know these men as well as I know myself—as a player, at any rate—so I can trust my instincts when it comes to launching the ball to them. I’ve started to get to know them on the field, but as for off…we’re just not there yet.
I’ve declined the invitations, and there have been plenty.
I’m not surewhyI’ve declined other than the fact that I still feel betrayed by this trade. The Aces took me because they think they can fix me, but some breaks are beyond repair.
I watch as Dex and Asher Nash, the tight end responsible for blocking Dex from getting to the quarterback, share some words, and Dex looks pissed. I’m sure I can find a way to use that to my advantage.
I rotate in after the play Brandon led, and I call the play. I spot my open receiver downfield, and I’m about to launch the ball to him when I catch the shadow of Dex out of the corner of my eye.
I don’t have enough time to react, though. I’m not supposed to be taking hits during practice, so I’m not properly braced or protected. I try to back out of the way, but Dex’s shoulder plows directly into my ribs.
I hear a snap.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Snaps are never good, especially not when the fresh, hot sting of pain follows.
Something’s broken, maybe. How long will this take me out? A few weeks? Months? An entire season? I watch it all swirl down the drain because of one asshole who wasn’t following directions. All this plows into my mind before I even hit the ground. When I do, I let out a grunt as I hiss and gasp for air.
