Page 35 of Everything In Between

TWENTY-NINE

hayes

The doctor’s grim expression clues me into the severity of what’s going on and the set of Coach’s jaw really drives it home.

“Well?” I ask, leaning forward and ignoring the shot of pain the movement sends through my injured knee.

“You’re gonna need surgery,” my doctor confirms. “We’re looking at a grade three ACL tear, and we’re going to need to reattach it if you want to continue playing long term. Unfortunately, with an injury like this, you’ve got a long road of recovery ahead of you.”

I roll my lips into a tight line. “So, I’m out.”

“For the rest of this season, at least. We’ll get you into physical therapy and slowly work you back up into the swing of things with your training.

Full recovery can take anywhere from eight months to a year, but as long as you keep to your regimen with your trainers, you should be ready to go for preseason in August.”

Coach exhales deeply next to me and my stomach churns with annoyance. One bad play and I’m out for the season.

“Okay, so what’s next? Surgery? How quickly can we get in there and do that?”

“I’d say let’s schedule it right after New Year’s. Then that will still give you the full offseason to rehab and start building up strength.”

“We have to wait?” I ask him, my frustration growing. “Why can’t we get it over and done with?”

He gives me a steady stare. “That’s not how it works. We’ve gotta let some of the inflammation in that knee go down first. We’ll get you in some physical therapy starting tomorrow, but the surgery will have to wait a few weeks.”

I lean my head back and groan. This is not what I was hoping to hear today. “Okay, fine. Schedule it for January second. Then how long will I be out of commission?”

“You’ll have to take it easy for the first week, but then you can start putting weight on it and building up strength shortly thereafter.”

I look over to Coach, who’s already waiting for my reaction. “This is going to ruin the season,” I mutter.

He nods. “That it is, son. But there’s always next season.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Our focus now should be getting you better as soon as possible so we can come back with a vengeance next year.”

“So now it’s a waiting game?” I confirm with the doctor and my coach. They both give me pitying looks and nod somberly. Reaching for the crutches that are leaning up on my doctor’s desk, I rise from my chair. Extending my hand for a handshake, I thank the doctor and hobble out of the room.

Coach follows closely behind me, and together we walk down the hallway of the performance center and into the office wing of the performance center.

I limp in, letting him close the door behind me.

I collapse into the chair in front of his desk and bury my face in my hands—a position I’ve grown fond of in the last twenty-four hours.

To say I’m frustrated with this turn of events would be putting it lightly. I know no one is holding the injury against me except myself—it was an accident. It happened in a split second, with no maneuvering out of the situation.

How many times have I been tackled in my career? Far too many to count. I know the drill by this point, know how to position my body in a split second to protect myself as best I can when I have two-hundred-plus pounds landing on top of me.

We train and train for this, how to land, how to get back up, but even then, sometimes that’s not enough.

The guilt eats at me though from the inside out.

I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve had more foresight. I should’ve gotten out of the way.

The pressure that comes with leading a team at this level is unrelenting.

I couldn’t sleep last night, only able to picture the injury in slow motion, allowing me to see every millisecond that went wrong.

The only thing saving me from falling into complete insanity is Jersey. She held me close last night, and whispered that she was proud of me over and over, until I was able to get some rest.

I can’t express how grateful I am that she’s here to help me through the worst two days of my professional career.

Knowing that she’s there, in my corner, ready to support me through this gives me the strength that I need to push through.

I’ve been putting on a brave face since the injury yesterday, knowing there’s not much I can do about this situation. The cracks are starting to appear though, and it’s fraying me apart at the seams.

How could I have let this happen?

Will my team ever forgive me?

Will I even have a team to come back to?

Of course, I know that even with this injury, I’m still under contract. I know Coach won’t give up on me that easily.

It’s still so difficult to push down the feelings of failure and see the silver lining when we had such a promising season ahead of us.

The pressure of Coach’s hand on my shoulder forces me to bury my feelings down the rest of the way and put on that brave face I know everyone is expecting of me.

“Sorry,” I mutter, dejected.

He pats my shoulder and then takes the seat next to me. “We’ll work through this, Hayes. We’ve dealt with worse punches thrown our way.”

I force a dry laugh, appreciative of the lie. Sure, the team has dealt with a number of scandals over the years—substance abuse and sexual assault charges—things that Coach and the rest of the administration have a strict no tolerance policy on.

But a bum quarterback?

That’s a first for us.

At least since I’ve been a part of this franchise.

We spend so many hours in the gym, practicing, doing agility work, getting physical training all in the hopes of avoiding an event like this.

Inevitably, it still happens. All season reports are broadcasted about severe injuries to quarterbacks. I mean, that’s why we have backup players who run the exact same plays and drills that the primary QBs run.

It’s all a failsafe to make sure the team is not completely screwed if something happens to its playmaker.

All this preparation for worst-case scenarios.

Yet I never imagined it would happen to me.

“It will all work out in the end, Hayes,” Coach says, eyeing me. “We’ll run through the rest of the season, see how far we can take it, and then regroup next year once you’re back to one hundred.”

Something boils in my chest, frustration, irritation—not at Coach, but at myself. For letting this happen.

“I should probably get to work on this physical therapy,” I say. “No better time than the present to keep this knee as strong as possible.” My face falls and I’m filled with dread. “Before they cut it open.”

It’s a scary thought, going under the knife when my entire career rests on my physical ability to perform. What if something goes haywire? What if they sever a nerve and I’m never able to walk right on my leg again?

Of course, I have utmost faith in our medical team here with the organization, but even still, the negative outcomes attack me at an overwhelming speed before I can stop them.

“You’re not the first QB to tear an ACL,” Coach says, his voice even. “And you won’t be the last.”

He pats me on the shoulder again and stands up. I’m grateful for the mild come-to-Jesus statement. He’s right.

I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself and get my head back in the game. Sure, I’m out for the season, but I’ve got a lot more seasons left in me.

“Thanks, Coach,” I tell him. Dropping my eyes and nodding, taking his words to heart.

I hear him take a deep sigh in and let it out in a whoosh. “Why don’t you head on home? Get some rest tonight and I’ll check in with you tomorrow. I’m sure the performance team will have their PT schedule worked out for you by then and I’ll have them email it over.”

It’s weird being dismissed from his office knowing I have no purpose to serve the team other than moral support for the rest of the season.

Standing up, I offer my hand to Coach and he gives me a firm shake, dipping his chin at me. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Hayes. It’s out of your hands now.”

I exhale sharply. “I know. That might be the part that sucks the most.”

Coach presses his lips into a thin line and nods. “Yeah, I can understand that. We’ll chat more tomorrow, okay? Go get some rest. Oh, and Hayes, don’t read the headlines.”

With one last handshake, I leave his office and make my way down to where I’ll wait for my driver. During the short drive from the performance center to my house, I do pull up the headlines.

“Pure panic in the Majestics locker room: ‘Where do we go from here?’”

“Season-ending injury for Vogt and the Majestics”

“Pop sensation responsible for football star’s poor concentration resulting in injury”

My driver pulls up at the front stoop, and I angrily shove my phone into my pocket. Hopefully Jersey hasn’t seen these. It’s horseshit! Lying fuckers! “Thanks, man. See you soon,” I tell my driver as calmly as I can. He doesn’t deserve my wrath.

I take a deep breath and make my way inside the house. As I walk into the living room, I hear Jersey in an animated conversation.

“No, I’m telling you, I won’t be there . . . I don’t know, Cal, but figure it out.” She groans. “Hayes’s injury is severe. It’s not just a sprained ankle. I’m staying here with him, and that’s final.”

My heart thuds as I peek into the living room to see her with her headphones in, phone in hand, glowering down at her planner in front of her. And all my concerns with the media are forgotten. I can deal with that as it comes.

“I’ll be back in the New Year, and we can figure out rescheduling then, or you can email Bethany and she’ll take care of it for me.

She has my tentative schedule, and she’s aware of the situation.

” She sucks in a breath and turns around, sensing my presence.

She holds up one finger, giving me a tight smile.

“Cal, for once, please don’t be such an ass. We’ll talk later.”