“Right,” Coach says, glaring at the doctor, and I get the feeling he’d let me come back sooner if I’m ready for it. I fucking will be. “Four to six weeks,” he continues. “So in the meantime, I need you to take the best possible care of yourself that you can, and if that means a babysitter, that means a fucking babysitter.”
“I can help,” one of the trainers who’s still in the room pipes in.
“Robbie, thank you,” Coach says. He glances at me. “Do you have a spare room or a couch Robbie can crash on while he makes sure you’re not doing anything stupid?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes and wheeze instead. “Yeah.”
So I guess that settles that.
The first three days are the worst, and I’m actually glad I have Robbie around. I spend most of my time trying to simply get comfortable, which feels like an impossible task. The other part of my day, I’m icing my injury.
I watch the games all day Sunday, so at least there’s that. I wish I could do it with a beer or a nice glass of scotch, but that’s out for now.
By the end of the next week, I feel a marked improvement. Good enough to get around on my own, which means Robbie can now leave me the fuck alone.
Deep breathing is still pretty painful, but at least I can take a breath. And by the end of the second week, I feel more improvement. Coughing hurts, as does twisting, and I assume laughing would if that’s something I ever really did.
I feel good enough for a night out. I’m getting cabin fever being stuck in this condo. It’s got a great view of the Strip, sure, but I’m used to movement. I’m used to traveling—everyother week in season, and wherever the fuck I want to go in the offseason. Instead, I’ve been stuck in my own home waiting to feel good enough to be able to move around on my own.
I head to one of the casinos that carries my scotch on a Friday night, and I’ve barely taken my first sip when someone slides onto the empty seat beside me.
“Maverick Jennings,” a male voice says, and when I look up, I see Ben Olson, a former tight end who retired a few years ago. We never played on the same team, but we did attend a few charity events together back in my younger years, and he was always the life of the party. Everyone’s seen the viral videos of him smashing beer cans on his head at this point, right?
“Ben,” I say with a nod of my head.
“How are the ribs?”
“Could use more barbecue sauce,” I quip dryly, and he laughs like it’s the funniest goddamn thing he’s ever heard.
“You still hopped up on meds?” he asks, nodding toward my glass, and I shake my head.
“Just needed to get the fuck out of my place for a bit. And to answer your question, I still feel it, but I’m improving every day.”
“Get this man another drink!” he yells to the waitress who walks by at that moment.
He gets himself a drink, too, and a couple hours later, I’ve lost track of how much money I’ve spent at this table, and both Ben and I are drunk.
For the record, I’m still not laughing. But this feels strangely…good. Like I needed this. I don’t have any friends here in Vegas, though it feels like maybe I can count Ben among them now. He’s been around here and there for practice, though we haven’t interacted much. He’s good friends with the team owner, and he consults with the coachessince he’s still local and was a huge asset to the team when he played.
It feels like I have someone to call to get drunk with while I’m losing too much money playing cards.
“There’s a new VIP lounge down the road, and they have your scotch,” he says. “It’s the same scotch I’ve been drinking lately. Want to check it out?”
“Wait. When did you switch from beer cans to scotch?” I ask.
“Fatherhood really fucks with the balance of pretty much everything,” he says with a laugh. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Come on, let’s go.”
We’re walking toward the doors when a group of women start screaming after one of them yells, “Oh my God! Maverick Jennings and Ben Olson!”
We’re recognized. It’s not unusual to be recognized, but I have a baseball cap pulled low over my eyes and sleeves covering my rather distinctive tattoos. Usually that’s enough to do the trick—or to at least have someone look at me andwonderif it’s really Maverick Jennings rather than immediatelyknowit’s Maverick Jennings.
But since I’m out with Ben, a celebrity in this town, these ladies must’ve put two and two together.
“You single?” Ben asks me, and I nod before I realize what I’m really answering. “Ladies, I’m so sorry, but I’m very much in love with my wife. My man Mav here, though, he’s single.”
I wince, and it’s partly from one of the women who rushes toward me and partly from his words.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “Sorry, I’m recovering from a rib injury.”
