Jett (The Nighthawk Series #4) - Lisa Lang Blakeney Page 0,2
Mansfield, the bane of my existence. The two of us are from neighboring towns in Texas and products of the same NFL rookie class. He was the highest ranked tight-end in the draft, and we’ve played against each other many times during our college careers. He is abnormally big, athletic, and fast. No one can bring him down. I mean, it takes like three or four men to accomplish it. If we were on the same team, he’d be my new best friend, but he’s not. He never is. Even though we play unique positions, we’ve been pitted against each other since we were young enough to care about football and nothing has changed now.
Wally stretches his freakishly long arms into the air and intercepts the ball as if I threw it specifically to him, and starts running toward the end zone like an Olympic track star. This dude is a beast. Known around the league for his enormous size and speed, he effortlessly whizzes by my linemen and is headed straight for the red zone to make a touchdown. I see pitchforks in my future.
I feel it before I ever see a thing.
A defensive lineman on the opposing team tackles me from behind and I awkwardly tumble to the turf on one side of my body, face first.
Then I hear a crack.
And then a searing pain wracks every fiber of my being.
“Fuck!!!”
I can hear faint boos from the crowd as the other team runs into the end zone and performs a highly orchestrated touchdown dance. They don’t realize yet that it won’t count. The asshat who tackled me late is going to be fouled for roughing the passer. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long for the spectators to become eerily silent as they see yellow penalty flags thrown on the field and me writhing in pain on the ground.
I see several sets of cleats running towards me.
“Hold on, Jett,” one trainer bends down to say. “We’re getting the cart.”
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “Help me up.”
“We don’t want to make the injury worse. We’re getting the cart.”
“No!” I demand again. “Help me up.”
Getting carted off the field is not the highlight I want plastered on every sports channel in the nation. It will be a better look if I make my own way off to the locker room with some help.
“You sure, man?” One of my teammates asks. His eyes full of sympathy.
I nod my head yes preferring not to talk anymore in fear that I’ll fucking cry.
The crowd lightly claps as two of the trainers gingerly help me up and off the field. I can walk fine because it’s my shoulder that’s messed up. I pray that it’s not what I think it is. A broken collarbone is the kiss of death for a quarterback because the recovery time is so long.
While team physicians numb me with painkillers and proceed with x-rays, the team’s quarterback coach, Trent Bantom, sits with me. He’s an ex-NFL quarterback and one of the few people in this organization who I believe has never judged me. I respect him a lot.
“This doesn’t look good, does it?” I ask him.
His eyes drop. “It’s probably your collarbone.”
“Is Rivera out there?”
“Yeah, they’re on the field now.”
“This is absolutely the worst thing that could have happened.” I lower my head.
“There are worse things, man. Your shoulder will heal. Been there, done that.”
“It hurts like hell.”
“It will hurt for a while, but that’s not the hard part. The hard part is when it stops hurting and you still can’t play because your bones haven’t healed. That’s when it gets really hard.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better because I’m not really feeling this pep talk, Coach.”
He chuckles. “Let’s just wait to see what Doc has to say.”
About fifteen minutes later, the Nighthawks team doctor comes in the room with a solemn face.
“Painkillers kick in yet?”
“No, I think all you gave me were a couple of Flintstones Vitamins.”
The doctor smiles reservedly. “I’ll give you some stronger stuff for later because you need to be home to take it.”
“So what’s the damage?” I ask him. “Just tell it to me straight.”
“The bad news is that it’s a pretty serious clavicle fracture. The good news is that it’s not your throwing arm, so you could come back at the end of the season. It really depends on how you heal.”
Dammit.
“I’m going to put you in a sling for now, but you’re going to need to see a specialist