Like that matters. "Yeah, just like every other coach around college ball. You guys get a player with my talent, and you bend over backward to make sure we stay eligible and putting cash in your pockets. How much is that Nike endorsement contract the team signed last year worth to you? Half a million a year?"
"That contract is written with the knowledge that players like you come in and fade out. There are some who have a good year, then shit happens," Coach counters, still smiling a little smile that disturbs me. Maybe Bainridge knows something more than I do. “By the way, I know you had that agency do an evaluation of your potential draft position over the summer, and I know the results. Coming off the chips in your elbow, and as a tight end, regardless if you have good speed and hands for that position and can play slot, you were looking at nothing higher than a third-round pick in April's draft, weren't you?"
Damn, Coach knows more about me than I thought. Talking with an agent like that is technically against the rules, although I never signed any contract with them, so there's nothing that can be proven. "Something like that."
Bainridge nods and continues. "But if you put up good numbers this year, you've got a chance at a first- or second-round pick, which doubles or even triples the money you get on that rookie contract. I know you don't give a fuck about the money—you care about the fame and your reputation. Being some third-round scrub pick is nothing. Being a first- or second-rounder though, you come with expectations and a greater potential of fame. You think you're the first egotistical prick I've had to deal with in twenty years of being a head coach?"
Of course I don't. It was one of the reasons I picked Western. I knew that Bainridge ran a program that produced League-level players nearly every year. He'd just had a dry spell, and there were whispers that maybe he'd lost his touch as a recruiter, that he was getting too old to keep up with the modern game. Not that I cared. I cared that Western got a minimum of nine games a year nationally televised. "You covered for the other guys."
"Of course I did. You're right. But I also demanded at least a modicum of professionalism from each of them. Which meant that I overlooked their poofty, underwater basket-weaving major schedules, the girlfriends that got stacked two and three deep at times, the parties, the drunken frat antics, all of it . . . IF they showed up and did their jobs for the team and produced on the field. Now, I will admit you've been a tougher nut to crack than most of the others. I could hold their scholarships over their heads. But I know what drives you, Duncan. I take away your ability to get fame, and you're stuck. So that's what I'm holding over you. You either get with the program, or some of the front offices in the League get anonymous but easily verified reports about your antics during the past four years."
Fucking asshole. But he has me over a rock. "What do you want?"
"I talked with Coach Taylor. He says you've been avoiding coming down for a rehab."
"Of course. That meathead can't tell me what to do." When I say meathead about Coach Dave Taylor, that is exactly what I mean too. The guy has a neck larger than his head and seems to think that the cure for everything is squats and deadlifts. If he got an AIDS diagnosis, he'd probably go do some power cleans to cure it.
Bainridge doesn't agree with my opinion. Nothing new there. "Actually, he can. In fact, he's got a PhD in kinesiology and rehabs more athletes in a year than some strength coaches and trainers rehab in a lifetime. So here's the deal. For your own damn good, I'm ordering you to go down to the weight room tomorrow as soon as your last class is finished. When is that?"
"Two," I grumble, knowing if I lied, Bainridge would just look it up anyway. He gets that information from the registrar's office every semester. "So three?"
"Two thirty," Bainridge counters. "Coach Taylor has an offseason lift with the volleyball team scheduled to start at three, and I won't let some prima donna player of mine screw with his schedule. So you get your ass down there by two thirty, and you talk with him. I don't care if he wants you to sleep in the weight room and do wind sprints before breakfast. You do them, and you do them exactly according to protocol. If he says walk, you walk. If he says run so hard you puke, you’d better bring a bucket."
"Why the fuck are you doing this?" I ask, and I know I'm pouting. Still, this sucks, and I can't do a fucking thing about it. "You just want to see how hard you can push me for a year? Getting your rocks off or something?"
"Actually, whether you believe it or not, I'm doing this because I think you actually do have the talent to be a good pro-ball player. In fact, you’re one of the most talented players I've seen on this team in the twenty years I've had at Western. But . . . you're lazy and undisciplined. You take those habits to the pros, and you're going to be broken in half. So I'm going to make you learn discipline and how to work hard and be a man instead of an overgrown boy. That it will just happen to benefit this football team is what is known as a win-win. Understand me?"
I nod, and I'm not happy, but at least it's not as bad as I thought. He has what my father calls leverage, and most people with that amount of leverage don't exactly give it up this easily. Still, I can’t be sure that this was all that Coach wants. "Okay, I'll be there. Now, is there anything else you want?"
Coach shakes his head and points at the door. "You should probably get going, Duncan. After all, you still have a doctor's appointment this afternoon to make sure you're medically cleared to start your rehab tomorrow."
I get up and resist the urge to kick the chair across the room. Instead, I grab my backpack and go to the door, pausing before I open it. "You know, Coach, I'm going to take this shit and shove it down your damn throat some day."
"Good. That means you'll be scoring touchdowns while doing it, too. Now get out."
I leave the Coach's office, and I'm determined not to act like anything is wrong as I head out. I'm Duncan Hart, and there's no way that I can be made to look like a punk ass bitch. I'm going to play it cool.
Unfortunately for me, I'm playing it so cool—especially when I see a couple of girl's volleyball players heading down the hall toward the gym they use for practice, with their tight, thick volleyball asses snug inside those ridiculously hot short shorts they wear—that I'm not really looking where I'm going.
"Hey, Linda," I say to the one I know. "Whatcha doing tonight?"
"Don't even try it, Touchdown," Linda replies with a little mix of hatred thrown in. Okay, so I'd slept with her twin sister. That didn't mean I had to be hated, did it? Besides, I noticed Linda checking me out even afterward, especially when I was wearing my football pants, which are nearly as tight as her shorts. She wants the Hart Attack. Her sister loved it, and I know they talk.
"Come on, you know I'm not that—"
I'm not looking where I'm going. My eyes are fixed on Linda's ass, and I collide with someone, knocking them to the ground and causing me to stumble into the wall. “Holy shit! Look where you're going next time."
I see long blonde hair, maybe a girl's, as I grab my backpack, but before I can do anything else, the alarm on my phone rings, and I need to haul ass. My doctor's appointment is in twenty minutes, and since I can't technically be without my sling, that means I can't ride my motorcycle. Thankfully, the campus bus is convenient enough, and I catch the bus right as it starts to pull away, taking it the ten-minute ride to University Hospital.
I’m glad that Western University has one of the better orthopedic departments in this half of the United States. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have dealt with any sort of injury at some cow college in the middle of nowhere.
"Mr. Hart? Let's get you to X-ray," the nurse, a cute little thing who's already eying me as we walk down the hall, says as she leads me to the scanning room. I check out her name tag, and I have to do a double take. I've seen her before, but this is the first time I've seen her name tag. Really? Someone actually named their daughter Nancy Drew? You've gotta be fucking kidding me. "You're feeling no pain, right?"
"None that the doctor can help me with," I
say, giving her a smirk. Nurse Nancy might just be what I need to relieve some stress. "You might be able to, though."
"Oh?" she purrs, leaning in. She's got a tight little body—that's evident even through her uniform—and she's showing me just a little bit of cleavage with her scrub top. "Find me after the exam. Maybe we can see what I can do for you."
"For sure." I smirk. "Think I can get the speedy service? You know, I'm having so many aches and pains in my hip area."
"Swelling?"
"Lots of it. Huge amounts of swelling."
The nurse is breathing heavier. She's already DTF, and I take her hand and give her a little kiss on the knuckles. "After my appointment, where will you be?"
"Department desk," she half-moans. Her brown eyes are half-lidded and she’s biting her lip. "I can take a meal break then."
"And we can get some privacy?"
She nods, and I kiss her knuckles again. "Good. Now, let's get the scans done."
The exam room is really high-tech, with the X-ray not being some old school sit there and take photos machine, but instead, they are able to give you a live scan of the area. I can even watch my elbow move on the video monitor above my head. The X-ray tech records for a minute, then tells me I can go see the doc.
"Mr. Hart?" Dr. Lefort says. "How're you doing?"
"Ready to get out of this sling and back to the real world," I answer, flexing my arm. "You keep me in this thing much longer, and my bike's going to forget who I am."
Lefort laughs, an interesting side effect of my mouth sometimes. I either piss you off, or you think I'm funny. Some people think both at the same time, but Lefort is amused. "Well, let's take a look at the video. Hold on here . . . okay."
He replays the video, nodding and humming to himself in places. "And you're not feeling any pain?"
"None."
"Let me see the incision. You know, I still don’t understand why you didn't let me do the surgery arthroscopically. The scar would have eventually been no more than the size of a thumbtack hole."
I look at the two-inch line on the inside of my arm and grin. It's perfectly aligned with the tattoo I want to get, a half-sleeve that'll go from my shoulder to my elbow. "Chicks dig scars, doc. You know that, right?"
Lefort laughs again and has me flex my arm a few more times. "Okay. You're cleared to start rehab. I assume you'll be working with Coach Taylor?"
"Unfortunately," I grumble. "Coach Bainridge ordered me to."
"Don't knock it. Dave's a good man. Helped me with my rehab when I tore up my hip going hiking last summer. And doctors make the worst patients, because we know that we already know it all."
I smirk at his joke and roll my arm. "Think I can ride my bike?"
"Give it a few days," Lefort replies, scribbling on his clipboard. "Not because you don't have the strength, but just to reacquaint yourself with using the arm. At least wait until this weekend. All right then. I'll forward this to both Coach Taylor and Coach Bainridge. Good luck, Duncan. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do this fall."
"Thanks, Doc. Take it easy."
Chapter 2
Carrie
"Good afternoon, Coach Taylor."
"Carrie Mittel! How're you doing today?" Coach Taylor says, and I smile. Even though he's forty-five, with a bald head and a handlebar mustache that looks like he should be a biker or something, he’s one of the nicest guys I've known . . . when he's outside the weight room. I took two classes with him in the past, a freshman Introduction to Kinesiology course, and then in the first semester of my sophomore year, I took Human Body Mechanics. In class, at least in the lecture portion, he's smart and personable and really funny a lot of the time.
But get him in the weight room for labs, or especially when the bars come out for the squats for team workouts, and 'Coach' Taylor disappears. Instead, out comes 'DT' Dave Taylor, former USA's Strongest Man in the under 220 lb. weight class, and one-time owner of the world record in the squat for that same weight class. That man is a berserker and a borderline psychopath, I think, but in a good way. Age and wear and tear have maybe slowed him down some, but Coach Dave Taylor knows his stuff.
So do I though, which is why he invited me to intern with the training staff starting last semester. It started with a lot of grunt work, and that meant for the first six months, my job was to carry weights, pick up after people and mop the weight room and training room, but most of all, to watch. I watched and learned as Coach or one of the other assistants put groups and individuals through their paces. Once the semester was over, he 'graduated' me to doing tape jobs as well, and I've been doing those for the spring semester. Maybe soon, I'll actually be allowed to work with people in rehab and movements too.
"I'm doing okay. What's on the schedule for me today?" I ask, hanging my bag on the hook that is designated for me. "Anything cool?"
"Maybe, but to start, just normal stuff. Women's basketball's going to be coming by soon for their pre-workout wraps and tape jobs. Think you can handle that? I've got volleyball at three, but I'm handling them myself today."
I grab my clipboard and write it down. He insists that we all carry clipboards and that we write down our work. Tracking is big with him. "Sure. Anyone got anything new?"
"Nothing I know of. Check the computer before you get to work," Coach says. “I might have something for you, but I’ll let you know a bit later. I don’t want to jump the gun. How are your own workouts coming along?"
"I'm putting in my time—you know that." It's actually one of the areas that I struggle with the most. I got interested in training during my senior year of high school, when a shoulder injury in softball cut my playing days short. Not that I was good enough for a school like WU anyway, but the rehab was really interesting. Being a long-time athlete, my natural frame combined with my athlete's eating habits meant that my so-called 'freshman fifteen pounds' was more like the 'freshman fifteen kilos,' and I still don't feel good wearing overly tight or sexy clothes, even if I've gotten some of the bad weight off. At five eight and one seventy, I'm still nobody's fashion model, unless you are using Ashley Graham as your template. And if I ever get compared to her, I'm in good company.
"You know, Carrie," Coach says, bringing me out of my reverie, "I keep telling you, drop the worries about your waist, get some protein cycling going, and hit the workouts hard, and it’ll come in time. You’ll have to pick up the bat again if only to keep these athletes away.”
I smile and brush my blonde hair behind my ear. I’m proud of myself as-is, and I have gotten attention from cute guys. I like to think I’m a good size for my frame. "I know, Coach. I’m sure you're right, but sometimes, matching up what I know from class and what I end up doing in my own life . . . it’s not easy.”
He nods, then chuckles. "Sounds like me. You should have seen the rehab I put myself through after my last torn quad. There's no way I'd tell one of the kids who come in here to do that. I'd lose my job. Still, if you need guidance, my door's open."
"Thanks, but first, I'll take care of the basketball team. You know how they are with their ankles and knees."
“Good. If I need you, I'll give you a holler."
The training room is actually right next to the weight room, which is in the basement of the main athletic building at Western University. The Madison Pavilion houses the coaches' offices, the main indoor arena where basketball and volleyball games are played, and in the basement are the weight room, the training room, and the wrestling practice room. Next door is the smaller secondary arena where volleyball, girl's basketball, and other smaller sports do their practices, plus the regular student weight room.
Of course, across the street from Madison Pavilion is Allen Field, where the football team plays, which dominates the skyline of WU and makes the Pavilion look small. It's not that surprising. I guess it takes a lot of space to make seating for eighty thousand people.
There is no way I could see it where I am right now anyway, being underground in the basement. I
get to the tape room, where I see Alicia Torres, one of the basketball girls, already waiting. "Hey, Carrie. How's it going?"
"Good, Alicia. Aren't you a bit early?"
Alicia is a point guard for the basketball team, and despite her diminutive size—she's only five six and a hundred fifteen—she's fierce and has no fear, but because of that, she has a lot of bumps and sprains on a pretty regular basis. One of her weakest areas is her left ankle, and I take out the pre-wrap and tape to start getting her ready. "Well, you know how it is. Now that we're almost in summer semester, I've got more free time on my hands. Derek and I . . . well, let's just say we're traveling different paths."
"Oh, that's too bad," I reply. Derek is . . . I guess was . . . Alicia's boyfriend, a senior who's graduating in a few weeks. "What happened?"
"He took the offer for the job in Berlin, and he felt that the distance was just too far. It's not too bad, though. I mean, he and I weren't too serious. But that means I've got some extra minutes in my schedule, and I figured I'd get down here, get taped, and get some extra warmups in."
I take off Alicia's sock and prop her foot against my thigh, aligning the joint just the way I want it. "And your ankle's doing okay?"
"Yeah. In fact, you do a better job with it than anyone except Coach T. Don't let the other folks hear that, though. You know how bitches be hatin'."
I laugh. Alicia always has a way of phrasing things that seems to put a smile on my face. "Thanks. I hope you just keep doing your warmups and rehab that I gave you, and you won't need the tape at all."
"Nope. Them other bitches will need it, though, when I break their ankles with my crossover," Alicia continues, laughing. "This year, I'm planning—”
I look up as her words fade out, and she's smirking, shaking her head as she looks through the window that allows people in the training room to see the weight room and vice versa, a holdover from when this was a coaches’ office before some renovations about five years ago. "What?"
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