Page 83 of The Backup Plan

The clock runs down while I move the ball, read the field, and make the plays needed. No heroics. No forcing it. Just clean, efficient, controlled mechanics and football.

How I’m known for playing it.

And when the final whistle blows, my lungs burn and sweat slicks my skin, but I’m smiling. I can’t help it.

Because this wasn’t a glimpse of the player I used to be. It is a confirmation that I can still be him.

I jog off the field knowing one thing with absolute clarity: I’m not done.

Not with this game.

Not with this season.

And definitely not with whatever tonight just unlocked in me.

Emery

It takes me longer than expected to be ready to head home.

My ride home on the personnel bus from the stadium to the team headquarters took a turn for chaos when it got a flat tire. The wait for a repair was so long that the team bus was able to drop the players off at the complex and then come back to get us.

I signaled ahead for another trainer to take care of any player needs since I was stuck on the bus.

When we finally got to the offices, I made the decision to finish all my notes there, distraction-free, while they were still fresh in my head. I added comments to my player files of what I saw and didn’t see from those patients of mine who did see reps on the field. I noted who was hesitant, who pulled back, and those who looked like they weren’t suffering from an injury at all when I damn well know they are.

When I finish player notes, I’m shocked to see that it’s 10:30 p.m.

“Whoa,” I mutter and press my fingers to my eyes. “Thirty more minutes.”

That’s the time frame I give myself to document my observations of the Rebels’ medical team mechanism as a whole.

Today was the first day I could see the program in action during a game. Each cog turned for their different function, but there was some obvious discombobulation there. It might just be a new season snafu or inherent issues that need to be addressed, improved, or streamlined. I make notes to watch for them next preseason game and research options to elevate the program that I can add to my proposal when I present it at the conclusion of my probationary period.

And as I gather my things to head out, it’s rather ridiculous that I keep reliving each and every play Lucas was part of. The side arm toss. The Hail Mary down the field. The play action pass to the tight end through a break in the line. And while there might have been shoulder discomfort, he showed no signs of it.

I know it’s not because of anything I’ve done with him in the few short weeks he’s been my patient, but a strong showing is a strong showing nonetheless, and I’ll take the small victory. I’ll help him build on it. We’ll shift toward prevention now over rehabilitation.

By the time I swipe my pass on the way out of the complex, the halls are quiet and the place is vacant save for the security guard sitting at his desk.

“Last one out again, Doc?” he asks.

“Story of my life,” I say with a tired smile.

“This city has a lot to offer you. You need to get out more,” he says, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I know. I’m still getting my feet under me. That usually takes a couple months . . . and then I will.”

“Ah, a Type A perfectionist,” he says.

“Something like that,” I say as he pushes open the front doors for me.

“Mm-hmm. May I suggest you quicken the pace or else life is going to pass you by.”

My feet falter as I stop and look at him, give him a subtle nod in acknowledgment. “I know. I’m working on doing just that one day at a time.”

“Good. Life’s too short.” He waves me off. “Have a good night, Doc.”

The doors shut behind me with a heavy click. The parking lot is dim despite the lights buzzing overhead making the shadows stretch longer than they should. I scan the lot for my car and groan.