Page 18 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Good.”

We pull into the building and the team helps me off the cart and onto a treatment table. The doctor is there to assess me. They cut my pants away and I watch, my eyes void of emotion, my face taut. Our portable X-ray machine is wheeled into the room and I’m left alone as images are gathered to determine my fate.

The doctor returns. Our medical and therapy staff enter with him, along with my position coach. “I’ve got good news, Declan.” The doctor stands across the room with his arms crossed, his face all business. “The displacement is minimal. And only one bone is involved.”

“Can you spell that out to me in layman’s terms?” I ask hm.

“You broke a bone near your ankle. One bone. It’s slightly misaligned, but nothing we can’t handle through surgery and casting.”

“That’s the good news?” I restrain my frustration, but it still seeps into my words.

The doctor nods. “No one’s ever happy to be in your position, Declan.” His lips thin, his eyes convey a resolved professionalism. “This is a setback. But you’re going to bounce back. You might even catch the tail end of this season. I can’t make any promises. A lot of that will depend on you—how quickly your body heals, how well you listen to what therapists tell you.”

“I’ll do what I’m told,” I reiterate the same promise I told Lynn.

“I’m sure you will. And,” he pauses, smiling with more compassion than I can stomach. “I’m sorry.”

“At least I got the touchdown,” I say.

“You did. And it was one heck of a play,” he says, his smile growing wider.

The doctor pats me on the shoulder and turns to confer with other medical team staff. I hear them mention Emory University Hospital, and then my position coach comes over to me.

He confirms that I’m going to be taken to the hospital shortly. Then he says, “Lynn will be staying around with you through the surgery and your flight back to Tennessee. I’ve got to fly back with the team for film review and training tomorrow. But I’ll be checking in.”

The television in the corner of the treatment room has been muted. I watch as Lincoln Walker, a guy we all affectionately call Linc, takes the ball over the goal line for another touchdown. I smile past the pain in my leg and mutter, “Go get ’em, Thunder,” under my breath.

A week later, I’m back in my childhood home, our family’s estate in Waterford. I got here last night after spending six days in Atlanta for surgery to put in a plate and screws. I’m wearing a splint. My leg is swollen and I’m on pain meds.

My teammates and coaches called and texted the whole time I was away.

Delaney and Pierce come by. Someone my parents hired answers the door, announcing their arrival.

They walk into the front living room with their hands tucked in their pockets and an awkwardness between us that hurts almost as much as my injury.

No one wants to see a man down.

Our conversation starts out stilted. Pierce asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Not feeling much right now,” I say. “They’ve got me on meds.”

“Yeah,” Delaney says, looking at me and then glancing around the room at the two-story high windows, the artwork, the marble floor.

They’re used to opulence. This house says old money, and maybe just old people. After all, this was my parents’ home. The artwork is all stuff they picked out.

Pierce looks me in the eyes and says, “You’ll be back in no time.”

Delaney says, “We need you back. Yesterday in practice, Hendricks ran your crossing route so wide the linebacker had time to grab a snack.”

I chuckle. He’s just trying to make me feel better.

Delaney feeds off my reaction. “He’s giving it all he’s got. Bless his heart.”

I appreciate his effort to make me feel indispensable.

“Hendricks isn’t shabby,” I say.

Am I a stronger player? Usually, yes. But he earned his spot on the Thunder.