A recliner is supposed to be every man’s go-to chair, but this one whirs beneath me. Too mechanical. Almost like it wants to remind me of why I’m here.
I hate that about it.
A nurse tightens the cuff around my arm—efficient, kind, already bored with my discomfort. I look away when the needle slides in—thick, unforgiving, no room for denial. Blood leaves my body in a slow, steady line, disappearing into tubing that promises to clean it and give it back better than before.
Funny how much faith we put in machines.
“You doing okay?” she asks, adjusting the monitor.
“Been hit harder on third down,” I mutter. “Weird that getting hit seems like the glory days.”
She smiles like she’s heard every version of that joke. “Try not to move too much.”
As if I could.
“Former football player? Are you still playing?” she asks.
“No, I’m a coach for the Armadillos.”
She hums a tune that I remember Noelle singing, and it hits me that they’re probably the same age. I can’t get that woman out of my head, and last night didn’t help.
My body’s here, but my head? My head is still with her.
“Relax,” I’d told Noelle last night, my hands steady even though everything inside me wasn’t. “Let me show you. You don’t have to rush it.”
She’d laughed—soft, breathless, trusting.“You’re bossy.”
“Only when it matters.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, replaying her soft body in my arms. Her lips swollen from kissing.
I shouldn’t have touched her like that. Shouldn’t have taken my time, shouldn’t have taught her anything that I don’t want her doing with another man. And yet, I memorized every sound she made like it was something sacred. Like I wasn’t already crossing lines I swore I’d never step over.
No self-control. Not with her.
The machine beeps, reminding me where I am. Who I am. A guy with a failing kidney, blood cycling through plastic tubes, pretending this is temporary when it might not be.
I stare at the ceiling and think about my life—football fields, locker rooms, rules, discipline. Decades of control. Of choosing to take the hits. Yet it’s not football that is taking my life—it’s damn sugar and my body’s inability to process it correctly.
I left Logan and the Louisville Heavyweights to take the QB coach position with the Austin Armadillos so I could be treated by the best kidney transplant doctor in America.
This has been my plight for a long time, and I nevercared, even after the first kidney transplant. Sure, I eat right. Work out. But I never let a woman get too close. At least not recently, when I knew my health was declining.
Until Noelle.
Is it because she’s forbidden? My best friend’s sister. Too young. Too good. Or is it because she looks at me like I’m not broken? Like I’m not a risk assessment waiting to happen? I should have told her last night that I was starting dialysis today. But I wanted one more night with her, feeling like I was the strong one.
The nurse checks my vitals, scribbles something down. “The first session’s always the hardest.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
She nods. “Your body adjusts. The mind just takes longer.”
My grin is weak, but it’s there. It’s all I can muster right now because I don’t know if I’ll ever adjust to dialysis.
Last night, with no sugarcoating, I told Noelle,“You need to take a pregnancy test.”
She’d rolled her eyes, brushing it off like she always does when she’s scared.“I’m fine. I feel better today.”
