The thought hits a little softer than it did earlier.
Following the intern through the building, they lead us to a conference room, where someone I haven’t seen in a long time is waiting for me.
“Coach Brooks? What are you doing here?” I haven’t seen him since the Super Bowl. Since I left the game.
“They thought you might like a familiar face here.”
It confirms the bad news I’ll be getting.
“How’s retirement?”
“I get to spend my days with my grandkids. I can’t ask for much more than that.” A smile lights up his face. “How’s your leg feeling?”
“Good. Most days it’s good. A bit of soreness some days, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“You’ve been through hell, kid. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Logan. Glad you finally made it in.” The team doctor and trainer come into the room.
Even though I know what this conversation is going to entail, I’m still nervous. Gramps gives me a nod before everyone takes their seats around the table.
“We’re sorry, Logan. We really wish we had better news. We’ve talked with Scott and the team, and your leg is at max improvement. Taking all of that into account, the strength, speed, and agility aren’t there. The risk of permanent damage would be too high.”
“I understand.”
“Other teams might give you a workout, but I don’t foresee you getting another contract. One wrong hit and you could undo all the hard work that you’ve put into your recovery.”
I shake my head. “There won’t be any tryouts for other teams. Once you’ve played for the best, you don’t want to go anywhere else.”
The GM of the team stands, walking over to me.
“You’ve been a great player for us. I don’t think we’d have this if it weren’t for you.” He hands me a small box.
I know exactly what it is before I open it.
My Super Bowl ring.
This was the one thing I didn’t want while in rehab. I was in a dark place in those early days. The only thing I could focus on was surgery and not moving my leg to ensure I didn’t do anything to fuck it up.
The reminder of anything football related would’ve set me back.
While I still wish for another one, I know most guys don’t even get this one.
Snapping open the box, a gaudy, oversized ring sits on a velvet bed. The trophy sits in the middle with the Mountain Lions emblem behind it. The lights in the room sparkle off the diamonds. The score is on one side and my number on the other.
“Thank you.”
“Thanks for all you’ve done for Denver. You’re a Mountain Lion for life.”
His words make my eyes sting as he leaves the room. Team lawyers are now in here to go over the rest of the logistics.
Contracts.
Retirement papers.
It’s all straightforward. Lots of signatures to get everything filed—no sense in putting off the inevitable.
“You want to take some time here?” Gramps asks as the last papers are signed and everyone starts to file out of the room.
