Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Miller,” Coach Caldwell says.
The air in the room stifles everyone, not just me. Rookies look at me in horror, as if they can’t comprehend me getting cut over them, and the veterans stare at me in sympathy.
My heart pounds wildly as I make my feet move, and it feels like I’m walking my very own death march.
Melodramatic maybe, but this is my life on the line. Maybe not my physical life but the one I’ve lived for since I was twelve years old and put on my first set of football pads.
I can’t bring myself to look at Talon, who’s slowing the treadmill as fast as he can to come over to me, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Jackson stop him, and I’ve never been more thankful.
I hold my head high as I walk through the halls of the university where training camp is held and into the offices the coaches have commandeered while here.
Coach Caldwell takes the seat behind the small desk, and I sit in front of it.
“I’m done?” I ask. I need him to jump to the end, because I can’t handle the explanation first.
“You’re slower than your usual self.”
“I’ve had two leg surgeries in the last ten months, so …” Fucking duh is so not the appropriate thing to say so I bite my tongue.
“We know. And we’re not cutting you.”
I should feel relief, but there’s a reason he called me in here, and it can’t be just to have a chat.
“But we’ve got powerful rookies this year.” He’s talking about the guy who stepped into my spot last season when I was injured, and I’ve noticed a new kid who was just drafted. “They’re going to take starting positions.”
“I’m being demoted to backup.” Meaning, this is most likely going to be my last year in the NFL. My contract is up, and no one’s going to recruit me after sitting on my ass for a year.
“We’ll see how the season goes and get you in with the team trainer to keep rehabbing that leg of yours to get you back to where you were. You’re talented, and we don’t want to let that go to waste. You’ll probably still play some games.”
I try to hold in my scoff, because chances are small. I’m not as versatile as the others. I can step in for right tackle if needed, but I’m better on the left—it’s where my skill lies.
I’m fucked.
“You’re not cut,” Coach says again. “I wanted to let you know so you’re not taken off guard when the rosters come out.”
Yay for small mercies. “Can I go now?”
I don’t want to throw a hissy fit, but this is what I’ve feared more than anything else I almost ran away from.
All the work Talon and I did over the break, all that psychological bullshit and positive reinforcement … I actually believed we’d done enough, which makes this crushing disappointment so much worse.
My career has an expiration date, and I have no idea what to be when I grow up. Add this to all the public bullshit, and I’m so ready to give up. Just throw in the towel and say fuck it.
Then I remember Talon. Our dream.
We’re not even going to get that before I’m forced into retirement.
I’ve still got this season. I’ve still got this season. Nope. No matter how many times I say it, the dreaded feeling of the end won’t go away.
I leave in a daze and wander around aimlessly before directing my feet toward the team’s hotel.
Meanwhile, I keep chanting in my head, It’s not over, it’s not over, it’s not over.
Only, it is. I won’t even be dressing for games. I’m benched. Indefinitely. Unless some miracle occurs. Perhaps I can hope for an injury of another player, but after what I’ve just been through this past year? Not only is it vindictive but karma would kick my ass so hard.
It doesn’t occur to me that it’s the first time in weeks that I haven’t been followed, but as soon as I arrive at the hotel, I realize why I’ve been left alone. Talon must’ve come straight here when I got called into Caldwell’s office thinking this would be my first stop afterward.
I wade my way through the photographers and ignore their stupid questions—one asks if I’ve been cut from the team.
My footsteps are heavy, and when I step through Talon’s and my hotel room, I find my boyfriend, my partner, the love of my life, pacing the small space for me.
He stops wearing tracks into the carpet when he hears me come in. “Are you leaving me?”
“What?”
“Well, if you’re cut, you’re going to try for another team, right? Which means you could be across the country, and I know it’s only for half the year, and then we’ll be together, but I don’t want you to leave. We’ve done this whole thing practically long-distance, and I’ve only had a short time of having you in person, and I don’t want to do that again.”