If every session is like today, I can see why so many throw in the towel. Why so many re-injure themselves because they can’t finish the grueling program.
Maybe this is why the doctors were so quick to rule me out. Maybe they were right. Maybe I can’t hack it like I used to. At least that's what the therapist thinks. "Man, you're killing yourself for nothing. This is not the kind of injury you're gonna be able to come back from. Not at your age."
Instead of conceding to the asshole, I level him with a look. "I'm not paying you to tell me I can’t do it. I'm paying you to help me figure out how to fix this thing.” And the money is all coming out of my own pocket.
Because my coaches think I’m done. Team management is ready to move on without me. My doctors say my career is over.
But I’m Jude Kingston, pro-football’s biggest player, on and off the field.
As if I'd let some random, freak injury take me out of the game. I may be on the sidelines at the moment but this is just a temporary setback.
Of course there's this niggling fear that the medical professionals are right, that I won't be able to pull off this recovery, but I started playing football at the age of four. This is my goddamned dream we're talking about here.
My knee fucking hurts. My quad and calf are on fire. And my other leg burns from taking the brunt of my weight and overcompensating for my weaknesses. I’m angry, and I’m frustrated with being so fucking angry all the time. This isn’t me. I’m the jokester. The easy going guy.
This injury has turned my world on its side and morphed me into this bitter, whiny jackass. I hate it.
I even blew up at Iris this morning for nothing at all. So what if she doesn’t want to tell me her business? Hell, maybe the woman was watching porn on her computer. Who am I to judge? She should be entitled to her privacy.
Instead, I insulted her and stormed out of the kitchen like a little bitch. As soon as I marched out, I realized I was being ridiculous. That's why I went back in there and tried to behave like a gentleman, the kind of person my mother raised me to be. While I may be a bastard, the least I can do is be more polite because none of this is Iris's fault and despite the way she feels about me, she's been gracious enough to provide me with a roof. And her stale-ass cereal.
Point is, I need to stop being an assclown to her.
What I can’t figure out is why I caught Iris staring at me today. More than once. What the hell was that about? I may not know much about her, but I know women, and that woman was checking me out. Hard.
I shouldn’t even think twice about it. Females gawk at me all the time, just because of my profession. It doesn’t mean they like me. It’s just a physical reaction to a well-built man.
And even if she is interested, that doesn't matter. The woman is my best friend's ex-wife. She's so off-limits she's virtually radioactive. No way am I touching her. Hot as she is.
Still, whatever happened with her and Kirk? I'm curious. The question keeps bouncing around in my skull, and I don’t like where my mind is going. But I’m not getting involved. I learned my lesson the first time I stuck my nose into their relationship all those years ago.
My session draws to an end and the therapist gives me a skeptical look as he wraps up the elastic bands and starts putting the equipment away. "Look, I know you want to get back in the game. I know it might be hard for a guy like you to accept, but I've been in this field for a long time, and I really don't see you making a comeback."
I literally bare my teeth at him. "Well, maybe you haven't earned your reputation. Maybe you're not all that great at your job." I slam a balled up jump rope into the centre of his chest as I stagger by him. “And you obviously don’t know me.”
I’m a Kingston. ‘Mediocre’ is not in my DNA. Our dad took over our maternal grandfather’s failing real estate portfolio and transformed it into a multi-million dollar empire. Cannon built a tech dynasty right out