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 wecan 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 mildcome-to-Jesusstatement. 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 awhoosh. “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?’”
