Sacked (The Alpha Ballers#2) (10 page)

“So this will be a tough game?”

“The toughest game we’ve had so far, yes.”

“You’ll watch out for the pass rush?”

“Yes, Coach Calloway, I’ll watch out for the pass rush. Can I go now?”

She held her hands up, exasperated. “I’m not keeping you here, you know.”

I cocked my head to the side, dropping my voice down low. “You know you are, right?”

“Huh?”

“I stick around in here because of you.”

Charlotte brightened for a moment then frowned, and my face fell at that. “Lance, we can’t…”

“I know, I know.”

“This is all your fault, you know.” She sounded tired.

“I know. And I’m just making it worse.”

She looked around, and we both realized the others had left by now, and we were alone. Charlotte rushed up to me and before I knew what was happening, she kissed me full on the lips.

I wrapped my arms around her and we played together like that; it had been weeks since we had touched like this and I didn’t want to let her go.

But I had a game to get to, and I couldn’t be kissing my athletic trainer right now. After a minute I pushed her back. “I can’t, Charlotte. I gotta go.”

“I know. Be careful out there.”

“I will. Thanks, Coach.”

“Get out of here.” But she was laughing all the while.

“On my way. See you after the game.”

And then I left the room, though I really didn’t want to. And that was the toughest thing of all. For my entire life football had been the most important thing, but already, in the corners of my mind I could feel that was starting to change, to crack just a little bit.

I couldn’t have that, not so early in the season. Not when this season was so important. I tried to shake the thoughts of Charlotte from my head as I went to the field.

The next hour or so was a blur as the game got under way. It was a sunny and warm day in Foxboro, probably one of the last warm days of the season.
 

The game started, and we took an early lead. Drake was having another amazing game - defenses just couldn’t figure out how to handle his combination of perfect catching and speed. His routes were crisp, and it was like he and I had a mental connection. He knew where he needed to be, and I knew just where to place the ball so he could bring it down.

It was pretty awesome to watch, I was sure, especially when the tens of thousands of Patriots fans jumped to their feet and roared, shaking the ground, when Drake jumped up and caught each of two early touchdowns from me.

It was like poetry in motion. We had a good thing going, and I felt really good as I jogged off the field at halftime.

Coach Armstrong, though, would not let us just enjoy the game. During halftime adjustments he went up and down the line, berating people and pointing out just where their mistakes were. Everyone took it in stride - even the rookies were used to it by now. You’d think Drake and I would have escaped such scrutiny, given that we were already way ahead, but nope, we each got an earful, and each of us took the advice to heart.

The third quarter was a defensive slugfest - neither team could make any progress on offense, and by the time we got to the fourth as the sun went down, we were still holding on to a good 10 point lead. All in all things looked great for us.

The fourth quarter started with Hud making a huge play on defense, intercepting a pass by the Steelers’ QB and returning it for a quick score. Just like that, we were up 17 on one of the scariest teams in the league.

This season was getting off to a great start. We had this game in hand - the Steelers vaunted offense wasn’t going anywhere today against Hud and his defense.

But I was still in the game. Coach Armstrong was the kind of coach who left his starters in despite the game being nearly over. He just didn’t believe in taking people off the field while there was a chance for the other team to come back and steal the hard-earned victory.

So as the clock wound down, I was still in the game. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but the starting quarterback, meaning me, was generally considered to be the most important player on the team, if not all of professional sports.

So why risk injury to your most important asset when this game in particular was almost over and you were about to win? The thought ran through my mind for a few seconds before I shook my head and focused on watching Hud and his defensive friends force another 3-and-out by the Steelers.

I wasn’t going to question Coach Armstrong - whatever his reasons were, he had them, and that was good enough for me. As our next drive started, I jogged onto the field and got in the huddle.
 

I glanced up at the clock. Just a few minutes left, no need to rush, since we were ahead. Football, more so than other team sports, was a game of timing. Playing and managing the clock correctly was almost as important as the play on the field, which a lot of people, including some head coaches, just couldn’t wrap their heads around, which resulted in boneheaded end-of-game plays that riled up fans and message boards for days, sometimes years.

I called out the play to the huddle and everyone acknowledged. We clapped and broke the huddle and I walked to the line. It was going to be a passing play, short yardage, something we’d done hundreds if not thousands of times before in practice and real games.

The center snapped the ball to me, and I dropped back, scanning the field for Drake or any of my other receivers to make the pass. Nothing there yet.

I dropped back another step, still looking around, nothing there. The running back behind me moved up to help block, since he knew the play was already taking longer than it should have. Even though it had been less than 3 seconds.

This was not going well. The running back moving up to my right must have caused a breakdown with one of the offensive linemen, because suddenly there was a giant man in a Steelers uniform coming at me from my right.

I tried to turn away and go to the ground before he hit me, but I couldn’t make it happen in time, and the guy barreled into me, knocking me straight into the ground and taking the wind out of me completely. I felt the crunch in my right leg as I went down.

Fuck.

That hurt.

CHAPTER 06 - CHARLOTTE

I watched Lance go down from the side of the field, where the athletic staff spent the game, occasionally checking on players and keeping them limber to go back and play.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I watched him go to the ground, knocked over by the giant Steelers’ linebacker. He got up immediately after the hit and started jumping up and down in celebration to the boos of the crowd.
 

It got bad enough that the refs finally called a penalty for excessive celebration. The Steelers’ bench didn’t care - they knew they were going to lose this game, so they might as well enjoy themselves hurting one of the opposing team while they were losing.

The refs then signaled an injury time out, because Lance still hadn’t gotten up yet. He was definitely awake, though. I could see his hand in the air from here, and he was waving over to the Patriots’ sideline.

Morris looked over at me and shouted “Come on, Calloway, let’s go.” He and I and a couple other trainers rushed out on to the field to tend to Lance. As we started onto the field, Lance dropped his hand back to his side haphazardly.

The first time I had been on the sidelines at a professional football game a couple weeks ago had been surreal, just seeing all the thousands of people there, hearing all the sounds they created. It was intense.

Being on the field was another level of intense. At least on the sidelines you could pretend that no one was watching you, but here on the field, everyone was looking directly at you.

And during an injury time out, they were focused entirely on the medical staff and the player. Which meant…Lance and me.

Ugh. The irony. Still, I had a job to do, and I was here to do it.

When we got to where Lance was still lying on the field, I immediately dropped to my knees and looked at his face. Lance’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing.

At least that was good. “Lance?” I asked tentatively. His hand had been up earlier, waving us on, but he had dropped it by now and I wasn’t even sure if he was conscious.

I sucked in a breath and held it, scared out of my mind, but then Lance opened one eye. “Charlotte? Heeeeeey, there,” he said, all suave and everything or as suave as you could be lying on a field in a football uniform.

I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, Lance, I’m here. You dummy, I thought you were unconscious.”
 

“Always trying to get your hands on me, aren’t you? Come here, Charlotte.” He motioned toward me. The crowd, seventy thousand strong and unable to see what was going on, grew quiet as the staff worked on Lance.

“Yeah?” I moved closer so he could tell me where he was hurt. The rest of the trainers were prodding at Lance’s legs and abdomen, searching for the problem.

“You’re looking mighty fine on this Sunday afternoon, Charlotte,” Lance whispered to me. “If all these people weren’t around, we could have a sexy picnic right here.”

I had to resist punching him so hard at that point, but at the same time I probably couldn’t wipe the smile off my face long enough to do it. “You jerk,” I whispered, “are you even hurt? Or was all this just a ploy to get me out here and embarrass me?”

“Oh, I’m hurt, alright,” Lance groaned. I moved back and he spoke louder to all the trainers. “It’s my right knee. It just buckled under the rush. That guy really got me good.”

“Can you stand up?”

“Not on my own power, no. Help me up.” I looked over at Morris, and he nodded, and gingerly the staff helped Lance to his feet. The crowd of lusty Patriots fans roared their approval, and Lance managed a weak wave to them all around as we slowly walked toward the sidelines.
 

Morris looked at Coach Armstrong and shook his head, and Armstrong nodded to Oliver Lee, standing next to him. Lee put his helmet on and jogged out on the field. The crowd roared with approval, but they definitely sounded angrier than before.

As we lay Lance down on the training table we kept on the sideline, Hudson Asher came up to him carrying his helmet, clear fury in his eyes. “You get better right this second, you hear me?!” He practically shouted in Lance’s face.

Lance grimaced, and nodded, but didn’t say anything, resting his hand on Asher’s shoulder. You could see Asher turn all number of shades of red and storm off, right over to Coach Armstrong, 30 feet away.

I couldn’t make out any of the words Asher was saying, but he was clearly cursing up such a blue streak at the coach that Coach Armstrong just turned to him and pointed at the locker room. Asher stormed off and Armstrong focused back on the field.
 

Morris turned to me. “It’s his knee, Charlotte, get in there and see what you can find.”

I moved over to Lance’s right knee and put my hands on it, very lightly, trying to feel around under the skin for what could be wrong. It didn’t feel quite right.

Morris looked at me. “Season or career?”

The question left me cold. That was the kind of question no one wanted to answer. Morris was asking me point blank whether Lance would play again next year, or never again.

“I can’t tell just from this initial look, sir,” I started, “but it could be either one.” I tried to speak softly so Lance couldn’t hear me, but from the way I heard his head hit the table in anger, I knew he had.

I wished I could get closer to him, take his head in my hands and tell him everything would be alright, but I couldn’t do that out in public, in the middle of the game.

I looked back at Morris. “Why was he in the game, sir? We had the victory well in hand, there was no need to have our starting quarterback on the field right now. This didn’t need to happen.”

Morris just shook his head. “Charlotte, we do strength, conditioning, and recovery. Football decisions are Armstrong’s decision. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”
 

“Good. Now let’s get him back into the facility so we can run some tests and figure out what to do with that knee of his.”

By now a couple other trainers had brought the stretcher, and were prepared to move Lance to it, but I could see the anger on his face and that this wasn’t going to work. I waved them away, and Morris and I helped him to his feet.

We got about 3 steps away from the table when Lance’s right knee buckled again, and he almost went down hard. “Nope,” Morris said, shaking his head, “we’re going with the stretcher.” Lance shot him a look, but Morris stared him down. “Don’t fight me on this, Parker, I could take you out at the knee.” Even Lance smiled a bit at that one.

We helped him onto the stretcher and wheeled him deep into the medical wing of the Patriots facility. By now, the game had ended and the rest of the team was coming off the field.

As we wheeled on through the tunnel, Drake Rollins shouted at us. We stopped for a second, and he came running up, tears in his eyes.
 

He took Lance’s hand in his. “Get better, brother, we need you out there.”

Lance looked him dead in the eyes. “I’ll do that. You make sure you keep winning while I’m gone. Keep catching those TDs, we’ll need them for the playoffs.”

“You said it, I’ll be ready and waiting. No one throws a sweeter pass than you, Lance Parker.”

It was heartwarming, and I could have watched them bromance it up all day, but we had work to do. Drake stayed back as we kept on moving. I saw Lily Pearson come up to him and he wrapped his arms around her. They watched as we disappeared into the building.

The first thing we did was head in for X-Rays and other tests - we had to see the damage as clearly as possible before deciding if surgery was necessary. Plus, that would also give us preliminary information on how long Lance would need for recovery.

A pro football team in contention can survive for a short time without its starting quarterback, but not more than a few weeks. You’d think it would be possible to find more than 32 men in the world who were good enough to play pro QB, but the fact that backups were such a step down in quality made it clear that wasn’t true.