one, and we were going for it. I had a short carry, just two yards, but it was enough for a first down. Minnesota’s defense dog piled me, and someone landed on my leg, at just the wrong angle, and the wrong time.
I still remember the white hot lightning that shot from my knee up my quad. But once I looked down and saw my kneecap twisted out of place, all deformed and grotesque…I think I blacked out for a few.
The trainer popped my dislocated kneecap back into place right there on the field, before they carted me off. Some dislocation injuries are pretty straightforward. Pop it back in, ice and therapy for a few weeks, and you’re golden.
But, I wasn't so lucky.
The dislocation managed to rip my ACL in the process. I had surgery right away, and I just came off crutches before my trip here. A younger guy might still be in the game after this. But once you’ve dislocated your knee, it’s prone to happen again. Between that and my lovely weakened ligaments, my doctors were pretty blunt. You’re lucky to be able to walk. Don’t expect to be back out on that field.
But fuck the doctors. They don't know my body. And they don't know how much I'm willing to sacrifice to stay in the game. And I will get back in the game. It's not a matter of 'if', but 'when'.
Until then, listening to Steven and Arty’s propaganda on SBN isn’t a great idea for me. I grab the remote and surf through channels again. I find an old Bourne movie playing and settle in with that until I'm ready to drag myself into the shower.
A door in the hall slams and I hear light footsteps slapping the floor, reminding me where I am. Don’t get too comfortable, the footsteps seem to whisper.
I can’t help but wonder what happened with Iris and Kirk’s relationship. The last time I talked to him was almost two years ago. He and Iris had only been married a couple years by then, and Kirk was already complaining. Bitching about freedom and variety. I wonder what it was that finally tore them apart.
I turn up the television volume to drown out my curious thoughts. She and I aren’t friends, I remind myself.
But my stilted interaction with her earlier keeps replaying in my head. She looked sad. Broken. Maybe I should go talk to her again, catch up, try to be the sociable guy people expect me to be.
Nah, Iris doesn't seem interested in my friendship. So, I'll park my ass right here, stay out of her way.
Bourne is kicking ass in Berlin, and I just want to get lost.
Iris’s life is none of my business. I have enough of my own shit to deal with. I’m meeting with my new physical therapist in the morning to start the gruelling exercise regime that will set me on the road to recovery.
Focusing on me—my dreams, my career, my healing—that's the plan.
5
Iris
I jolt awake at the bang. Another loud noise makes me jump. I take several hard blinks to orient myself.
I’m sitting at my kitchen table, with my laptop in front of me.
I must have fallen asleep while doing some late-night research for my next online business venture. Again.
But this morning, I’m not alone.
There’s a huge male body rummaging around in the cupboards.
Jude. In low-slung athletic pants and a thin, white T-shirt. Sifting through every drawer and cabinet in search of I-don’t-know-what. Why are men so flipping loud and awkward in the kitchen?
The ends of his sandy hair are wet, darker than yesterday. Water drips from his head onto his T-shirt, somehow pronouncing the corded muscles in his strong back. He effortlessly pulls a big bowl from the top shelf and pours himself some cereal. Some of my cereal.
Good to see he’s making himself at home.
Straightening in my seat, I try to loosen my stiff neck and back muscles. I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I should be annoyed by the rude awakening but instead, I find myself mesmerized, watching his large, athletic frame shuffling around the room with animalistic grace. There’s so much power in his movements.
I find the whole thing so intriguing that I completely forget to be irritated with his thieving ass.
Before I can catch myself, Jude spins around, cereal bowl clutched to his chest.
I’m busted. He knows I was staring. Crap. Crap. Crap.
I try to think of something to say, something to cover my ass, but I