“Glad to hear it.” And I mean it. Rodgers stepped into my position with ease, as much as I hate to admit it. But if the team is winning, I’m happy.
Mountain Lions for life.
“We’re going to start with some scans and then get you out on the field to see how you do. How does that sound?”
“Sounds great.”
Everything hinges on today going well.
Because if it doesn’t? I can kiss my future with the Mountain Lions goodbye, which is something I’m not yet ready to face.
“If you want to go ahead and lie down, we’ll get started.”
I hop up onto the MRI table. Thank fuck I’m not claustrophobic because I’ve had to do my fair share of these over the last two years.
The whirring of the machine is soothing at this point. It’s almost calming the nerves I have, because after this, it’s time to go on the field. To put everything I’ve done over the last year to the test.
My leg feels good. Strong.
I’m ready for this.
“Alright, Logan,” the doctor’s voice rings out over the intercom. “I’m done with you, so I’m going to send you out to the practice fields.”
I’m moved out and hop off the table. A buzzing sensation is pulsing inside of me. I need a release for this energy.
And no better way than to prove to the team that I’m ready.
“You’re ours now, Winchester.” One of the trainers is gleeful as he meets me on the sidelines.
One field goal post stands on the opposite side of the smaller field. The Mountain Lions emblem on the wall between the uprights stares me down.
A few pieces of equipment are on the field, giving me an idea of what I’ll be doing today.
“I forgot what sadists you were, working us to the bone out here.”
“Made you a better player,” he points out.
“Can’t argue with that.”
They detail everything I’ll be doing today. Nothing that I haven’t done before.
“Let’s start with the forty-yard dash.”
“I’m ready.”
I line up, stretching my legs. I’ve got this.
The horn sounds and I take off down the field, pumping my arms to increase my speed. My leg feels good as I push myself faster. Harder.
I worked with Scott on this so often, he was ready to ship me off to Denver before I was emotionally ready.
Tilting forward, I cross the finish line. Unlike at the combine, there’s no time clock to tell me how I did.
My stomach drops when I look over at the trainers. Their attention is on their stopwatches. They wear matching expressions—furrowed brows and lips pulled down.
Shit.
Both of their eyes look up to meet mine and I know from that one look.
