Page 189 of Chosen By a Baller 3: Playin’ For Keeps

“I feel fine now.”

“I know you do.”

“So why the fuck I need restrictions?”

“Because feeling fine and being ready to take contact from a professional football player are two different things.”

I sucked my teeth.

“Y’all love telling a nigga what he can’t do.”

“And that’s probably why you’re sitting here healthy enough for me to clear you.”

I looked at him for a second.

“Aight. You got that.”

He smiled. “Thought so.”

I hopped down from the table and grabbed my shit while he went over a few more things I needed to know. I listened for the most part, but my mind was already elsewhere.

Practice.

I was finally going back to fucking practice.

By the time I made it outside and got into my truck, I couldn't stop smiling.

I sat there for a minute without starting the engine, the paperwork resting in my hand.

Cleared to return to practice.

My thumb ran across the edge of the paper.

Damn.

Getting shot had fucked up more than my body. There had been days when I was pissed at everybody and everything around me. Days when rehab kicked my ass so bad I wondered how the fuck I was supposed to get back on a field and let three-hundred-pound niggas hit me when lifting my damn arm had been a struggle.

I never said that shit out loud, though.

Especially not to Sianni. She had enough on her mind without me adding my shit to it.

But I'd thought about it. What if I couldn't come back? What if I did all this rehab, and my body still wasn't the same?

What if the last game I played really had been my last one, and I hadn't even known it?

I looked back down at the paper.

Not anymore.

I folded that shit and tossed it onto the passenger seat before starting my truck.

There was only one person I wanted to tell. And I wasn't telling her ass over the phone.

✦ ✦

By the time I made it home, Sianni was sitting on the couch with her legs curled underneath her, looking down at her phone.

She glanced up when I walked into the living room.