“Get out! Now!” she yelled, shooing away the photographer that had somehow found his way to Tyler’s room. “The press conference is downstairs, just like all the signs say!”
Unfazed, the photographer raised the camera again. “Adam Smarte with Weekly Sport magazine. Our readers want to see what Tyler looks like after all this.”
“He looks like a man that just got out of surgery!” Margie yelled. “And if you or your readers ever want another word out of Tyler, you’ll get out of here this instant!”
The threat froze him just long enough for Margie to burst forward and mash her oversized chest into his shoulder. Like a bulldozer pushing forward, she shoved him out into the hallway, punctuating the move with a two-handed shove that sent him stumbling backwards.
Margie stood in the hall for several long moments to make sure the man slunk away, then turned her gaze to two orderlies standing slack-jawed in the corner. “If anybody else gets near this door, I’m holding you responsible. Got it?”
Both nodded as Margie turned on a heel, stomped back inside and closed the door behind her. She pressed her back against it for several long moments, allowing the mother lion vitriol to recede, before returning to the bedside.
“How do you feel, Sweetie?”
A faint smile crossed Tyler’s lips. “Like a man that just got out of surgery.”
Margie’s eyes were glassy but she remained free of tears.
“Have I ever mentioned I’m glad I’ve never had to look across the line and see you at linebacker?”
The comment forced a laugh from Margie, the sound somewhere between a gasp and a chuckle. She reached out and stroked the top of his head, her eyes avoiding his leg suspended above the bed.
Tyler sighed and raised a hand to grip his mother’s. “So, how did it go?”
“Dr. Pinkering stopped by a little bit ago on his way to get ready for the press conference. Said everything went well.”
“That’s all he said?”
“Pretty much,” Margie said and picked the remote up from the bedside table. She turned on the television and flipped through the channels until she found the local news station. Front and center was Dr. Pinkering, Sarconi and a black man they’d never seen behind him.
Margie snorted. “Apparently if we want to hear any more we need to need find out like everybody else.”
“Try playing college football,” Tyler replied, his voice still thick with grog. “First two years I was here the only time I ever saw Coach Valentine was on Sportscenter.”
On the screen, the press conference got under way.
“This is a great day for Ohio Tech University athletics,” Dr. Pinkering said into a bank of microphones. “Earlier today, a massive first step was taken in returning its star back to where he belongs.
“It’s also a great day for Ohio Tech University medicine. Today we were able to, in a revolutionary new procedure, pair with the creative expertise of SynTronic to introduce a new product that will revamp sports injuries as we know them.”
He paused for a moment and leaned back from the microphones, allowing his words to sink in.
“It is with great pride that I report the operation to repair Tyler Bentley’s knee was a complete success. Performed by Dr. Manningham, orthopedic staff surgeon here at OTU, the surgery took just over seven hours and was done without any unforeseen difficulties.
“The remains of Tyler’s knee were cleared away and in its place the new KnightRunner artificial joint was implanted.”
“Glad they finally got around to mentioning me during their little sales pitch,” Tyler mumbled.
“Who the hell is Dr. Manningham?” Margie asked. “I thought Pinkering was doing the operating?”
Tyler moved his hand to cover his eyes, his movements stiff and stilted. “I don’t know. The last few days have all been a blur.”
On the screen, Dr. Pinkering finished his speech and opened the floor for questions. A sea of arms sprang up in response, reporters all lobbing questions without waiting to be called.
Rising above the fray was a blonde woman in the front row, her voice an octave higher than those around her. “An artificial joint? Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
Dr. Pinkering pointed to her and shook his head as the rest of the crowd quieted down. “For those of you watching the game the other night, you saw the hit Tyler Bentley took. What you didn’t see was the devastation it caused his knee.
“After x-rays and evaluation, we found that the damage was so extensive that the joint was beyond repair. This wasn’t just the best option, it was the only option. Next question.”
The arms reappeared in front of the screen and a bald man asked, “Why go with an untested product like this? What did you call it again, the KnightRider?”
Dr. Pinkering nodded to the man and said, “That’s KnightRunner. We in conjunction with SynTronic have been testing this product for the better part of a year now. There are no less than a dozen people already walking around with KnightRunner knee and hip replacements, all with phenomenal results.”
The arms appeared again and an older gentleman asked, “So what does this do for the projected health and return to the field for Bentley?”
Dr. Pinkering shook his head in a non-committal manner, a smug smirk belying the gesture. “At this point I don’t think it would be out of the question to say he’d be one hundred percent ready when camp opens this fall.”
The moment the words left his lips, the hands again sprang up with renewed zest. Snippets of questions could be heard through the television, each of them wondering about Tyler’s return on such a truncated time table.
Margie aimed the remote at the television and lowered the volume several decibels.
As she did, Tyler held out a hand to her. “Just turn it off.”
“Heard enough huh?”
“He’s not there to talk about the surgery; he’s there to hawk his new toy.”
Margie turned the television off and sat for a moment in the newfound quiet of the room. Beside her, Tyler slid his hand and forearm across his face, the crook of his arm shielding him from the world.
“You should try to get some rest, Mama. I bet you haven’t slept in days.”
Margie raised her red-rimmed eyes to her son and lifted one corner of her mouth in a smile. “Yeah? And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going back to sleep. My leg hurts.”
Chapter Nine
Four days later, the point arrived when Margie couldn’t afford to be off work any longer and was forced to return home to Worland. Her boss at the mill had given her all the time she needed to be with Tyler, but even nights spent by his bedside and meals from vending machines couldn’t make up for the extra flight and lost week’s wages.
True to its hype, the KnightRunner had Tyler up on crutches by the time she left. Rehab started two days later, the moment the painkillers and swelling subsided enough to allow for movement.
Phase one was a regiment of aquatic movements, the buoyancy of a controlled pool removing most impact from the joint. At first it was straight line walking, followed by jogging, followed by lateral movements.
By week three he was walking unassisted.
Phase two started a week later, the same exact regiment performed on dry land. Plenty of light strengthening exercises, quad extensions, leg presses, hamstring curls, mixed in.
By week six, he was jogging in a straight line.
Every single day for the first two months Tyler worked with his strength and conditioning coaches, the lecherous eyes of Dr. Pinkering and Sarconi never far away. For every drop of sweat he perspired, they stood before a bank of microphones and reported to the world how well their new product was working.
As spring settled in around Columbus, Tyler was certain they saw him as their personal mascot and nothing more. Day by day he bit back the animosity that welled within him, funneling it into his workouts.
By March, he began shuffling laterally. Two weeks later, he was do
ing it at full speed.
Every night Tyler fell asleep staring at the wall above his bed. On the left half he posted the cards and letters of support he received from coaches, fans, and friends all over the country. On the right half hung an oversized schedule for the upcoming season surrounded by detailed printouts of his progress.
Everything was going on as planned.
Chapter Ten
“These four a.m. workouts are killing me, Coach,” Tyler joked as he and OTU strength coach Harold Curl walked through the athletic center and onto the indoor turf field. Each of them carried a large duffel bag over their shoulder filled with supplies for the morning workout.
“Four?” Curl return in mock indignation. “Look out that window there. You see that big yellow thing in the sky? Trust me, if this was four a.m., that wouldn’t be there.”
Tyler made no attempt to bite back a grin. “Still, this is awful early for a college kid on spring break.”
“What, you think you’re on MTV or something?” Curl asked, dropping the bag from his shoulder. It landed with a heavy thud against the artificial turf surface, a trio of orange cones spilling out.
A black man with very light skin and close cropped hair, Curl was an aspiring all-natural bodybuilder and thick all over. He had a quick smile and a genuine interest in the athletes, something that won him many friends throughout the school.
When Tyler first began his rehab stint, it was Curl that volunteered to come in at four a.m. to work him out. The time was less than ideal for both of them, but it was the only chance they had when another varsity sport wasn’t using the facilities.
For the first time in three months, they had been able to come in at a more reasonable hour. Spring break had most of campus deserted, leaving behind just those athletes still in season.
Curl bent down and extracted the rest of the plastic cones, stacking them high atop each other. “Alright, let’s get going. Two laps, you know the drill.”
Tyler unloaded his bag beside Curl’s and bent at the waist to slide an elastic knee brace up around his knee. He snapped it into place with a heavy slap of rubber against skin and took off at a brisk jog around the field.
Behind him, Curl unzipped the second bag and extracted a nylon harness and several thick rubber bands. He laid them out in order beside him, then took up the stack of cones and arranged them in a pattern ten yards in length.
From his own bag he removed a speed ladder, a metal sled, and a twenty-five pound weight. He attached the harness to the sled and slid the weight down onto it.
He was just positioning the speed ladder when Tyler finished his laps and sat down on the ground beside him.
“So how’s life, Coach?” Tyler asked as he dropped to his bottom and spread his legs wide. Next he walked his hands forward in front of him, stretching out his hamstrings.
“Calm before the storm. Kids are about to start little league, full load of teams back in here after break, got spring tournaments coming up.”
“After that things ease up again though, right? Nobody’s in season. You guys divvy up the sports for the summer, get everybody ready for next year?” Tyler asked, lying flat on his back and extending his right leg into the air.
“True,” Curl replied, gripping Tyler’s ankle and stretching his leg back towards his head. “That’s still a load though. You guys alone give me over a hundred players to keep track of.”
“Yeah, we’re a demanding bunch,” Tyler conceded.
“Yeah, well, football money keeps the lights on for most of the other sports around here. I’d say you’ve earned it,” Curl said, lowering the leg and shaking it out. He began to raise it again for a secondary stretch, but paused halfway up.
“You ever notice these bruises all along your calf here? Little dark spots everywhere?”
Tyler raised his head from the turf. “Oh, yeah. Damn things hurt like hell too. I keep asking the docs about it, they keep telling me it’s normal. Leg getting itself back into shape, muscles adapting to the implant, all that stuff.”
Curl lowered the leg and shook it out again, bringing it up for one last stretch. “I’ve worked with a lot of athletes and I’ve never seen bruising like this before, especially not from muscles getting back into shape.”
“I know. Everything else they said has been true though, so I guess I’ll go with it.”
“Alright, just keep an eye on it.”
Curl finished stretching Tyler and hefted him onto his feet, moving him straight into a series of agility drills on the speed ladder. From there they shifted over onto the sled, running sprints of various lengths with the steel implement sliding along on the turf behind him.
Twenty minutes in Tyler was soaked through with sweat. He stood bent at the waist, his lungs burning for air, droplets dripping from the end of his nose.
Beside him, Curl stood with his arms folded, a half-smile on his face that resonated somewhere between self-satisfied and sadistic.
Every Ohio Tech athlete knew the look. None of them liked it.
“Looks like you’ve almost got your straight ahead speed back to normal,” Curl said, letting the statement hang in the air.
“And?”
The smile grew broader. “Got a new one for you today.”
Tyler made no effort to move as Curl lifted a trio of bands from the ground by his feet. All three were circles two feet in diameter, colored blue and constructed of rubber over an inch wide. Curl hung all three from a finger and extended them towards Tyler.
“So now we continue working on that lateral movement.”
Tyler dropped his gaze to the ground for a second and shook his head, a series of mumbles escaping his lips. Just as fast, he stood to full height and snatched the bands away.
“Three bands?”
“Three bands.”
“How many laps?”
“I didn’t say.”
Tyler carried the bands to the top of the cone formation and slid the bands around his ankles. He lowered himself into a football position, his thighs parallel to the ground and began.
Moving to his right, he extended his foot out as far as the bands would allow, planted and drug the left in behind it. Never did the two come closer than shoulder width apart. Not once did his pace increase above even and methodical.
“Come on, Superstar,” Curl called as he went. “Valley game’s less than six months away. You want to be ready or not?”
After just ten yards, his quads started to burn, a slow, searing ache that started at the base of his spine and wrapped clear around to his calves.
After twenty yards, his knee started to burn. Not the tingling flame of lactic acid coursing into the body, but a deep, breath-stealing blaze of pain.
Gritting his teeth, Tyler gutted out the last five yards and paused at the end of the cone formation. He put his hands on his knees and extended his legs beneath him, trying to shake away the inferno raging within them.
“Come on now,” Curl called. “If you go through hell and still make it back, it doesn’t count as dying, right?”
Once more Tyler dropped into a crouch and started moving, going back the way he’d just came. One by one he counted off the steps, letting his injured leg lead the way. Within five yards his progress was reduced to slow and torturous, his calves and abductors screaming as he inched along.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Curl called. “We’ve got to get that thing stronger if you’re going to be ready.”
After ten yards the pain turned white hot beneath his skin, the agony almost unbearable. Tyler paused for a moment and drew in a deep breath, willing the leg to keep going. He raised it into the air and pushed out against the bands, the knee responding with a low cracking sound that drew Curl to his side in a flash.
“What the hell was that?”
“Nothing,” Tyler muttered, his eyes closed tight and his head pointed towards the ceiling.
“No, for real, that didn’t sound good. We’re done here.”
“Ten more
yards,” Tyler said, his voice just a whisper between heavy panting.
He didn’t make it one more step.
Once more Tyler lifted the leg into the air and pushed to extend the bands. The moment he did, a second crack was heard, followed by a third and a fourth.
White lights danced before Tyler’s eyes as he stood with his leg dangling in air, his body unable to process what was going. For several long seconds, he stood motionless, his body contorted like a macabre marionette.
By the time Curl got to him, the tension of the bands had done their job. They snapped back into shape, bringing with them Tyler’s ankle and slamming into his right knee, the lower half of his leg swinging like a broken twig.
Not a single sound escaped Tyler as he went limp, his body rendering him unconscious before his brain realized the breadth of what just happened.
Curl caught him less than a foot from the ground, lowering him onto the turf and making no attempt to roll him over or even remove the bands from around his ankles.
Instead he used his cell-phone to call 911, sat down beside Tyler, and wept until the paramedics arrived.
Chapter Eleven
Margie pulled her aging Chevy truck up alongside the mailbox and rolled down her window, the engine idling as she kept her foot depressed on the brake. She lowered the lid and pulled out a small stack of envelopes, knowing in advance that most of them weren’t addressed to her.
Even months later, a handful of townsfolk still insisted on sending Tyler their handwriting well-wishes on a daily basis.
With a heavy sigh, Margie tossed the stack down on the seat beside her hard hat and lunch pail, easing up alongside the house. The weariness of the last few months was evident in her movements, weighing her down in everything she did. She wrenched open the front seat of the truck and collected her things, heading for the door. As she approached, she could hear the kitchen phone ringing through the front window.
Thriller Box Set One: The Subway-The Debt-Catastrophic Page 66