Over the Middle: A Sports Romance

by Lauren Landish

  "What's the deal? Rough guess, Doc?"

  He looks at me, curious, then continues. "Nothing's broken, bone-wise. But you've at least partially torn the anterior band of your elbow joint, and it's my guess, the biceps tendon too. That crunch you told me about was your elbow bending the direction it's not supposed to bend."

  Coach Bainridge comes in, his face grave. "How's it going, Duncan?"

  I force a smile to my face and sit up. "Not bad, Coach. Just need to rub some dirt in it, and I'll be good."

  Coach Thibedeau is looking at me like I'm out of my mind, and even Dr. Lefort is shaking his head. "Duncan, did you hear what the doctor said? You need surgery."

  I look at Coach Thibs and shake my head. "No. What I heard is that I have partial tears of a ligament and a tendon. Partial tears. Not total. So it's something that can wait until January. We've got a bowl game to win, and I intend to help the team do it."

  Coach Bainridge looks at Thibs and gives him a thumb. He gets the message and gathers up Dr. Lefort to leave the exam room. Once we have privacy, Coach B sits on the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"

  I take a few seconds to think about how I want to say what I want to say. Finally, the words come to me. "For four years, I've been an arrogant, greedy, selfish asshole. I've hurt this team as much as I've helped it, and I can't make up for that. For these last few games, since my suspension, I've tried, and I've found something out.”

  "What's that?"

  I look at him and smile. "I love football. Not the fame—I mean, that's cool too—and not the money that might come in the next few years. I love the game. I've loved being part of this team. And I won't let this team down again. So if that MRI says I can move my elbow at all, that I can even bend my arm, then I'm going to be out there. We can worry about the surgery afterward."

  Bainridge shakes his head. "Duncan, if you go out there in a bowl game, you're putting your entire future at risk. One wrong hit to that elbow, and your biceps tendon gets fully torn off the bone. You lose at least a year to rehab, and nobody's going to draft a tight end with a bad bicep in the first round. You'll be lucky to get a third-round pick—if you can even play at all."

  "It's my career, Coach. Besides, there are things—" my voice catches, and emotion chokes at my throat. "There are things more important than football. That's why I have to do it."

  "Tell me. Tell me why, or else I put you down as unable to play in the report to the AD."

  In my mind, I see Carrie, and the words come easy. "Because I love her. Because I need to be a good man for her. A good man . . . he'd go out and fight with his team."

  Coach studies me for a minute, then nods his head. "Okay, fine, but you could be making a huge mistake. I guess I get to tell you now that the team got the invite right before I came to see you. We're going to be playing in the Sunshine Bowl."

  I nod, somewhat pleased. "Sunshine, huh? That's in Florida, right?"

  "Yep. Not a New Year's Bowl, though, but right after Christmas. It doesn't give you a lot of time to heal up."

  Chapter 18

  Carrie

  "Are you insane?"

  Duncan shifts the sling strap around his neck to get a better seating for the padding and chuckles before reaching out and taking my hand with his good one. "You're about the third or fourth person to ask me that exact question this morning. Can we at least get back home before I have to answer it again?"

  I roll my eyes and nod, carrying his bag over my shoulder. We get on the bus from the hospital to his apartment, and as we ride, I can't help but feel better. Seeing him down on the turf, holding his elbow and trying not to scream, I'd been so scared. What made it even worse was that, as Duncan's girlfriend, I couldn't get past the nurses at the front desk. I wasn't family, and I wasn't one of the coaches. I was just some girl. Thank God Tyler saw me and snuck me in a side door.

  "I owe a date to a very star-struck nurse for this one, so make it good," he whispers as I go by. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret the date."

  It was helpful to see Duncan in the hospital, and now, riding the bus next to him, I'm even happier, even if his plan is crazy. "So are you gonna tell me why you're thinking of sacrificing yourself and your future for this?"

  Duncan thinks about it, then nods. "I've got a laundry list half a mile long. I can't begin to name them all. When Coach B first came around, I said it was for me, to become the man that I want to be instead of the person I am. I told him it was for you for the same reasons. But that's only part of the truth."

  "What do you mean?" I ask, already moved by what Duncan said.

  Duncan puts his arm around me and gives my shoulders a squeeze, smiling. "I do want to be a man who’s good enough for you. That's not a lie. But when you don't have a model to base yourself on, you have to base it off what you don't want to be. So, I looked at my father. Did you know he used to be an athlete?"

  "Not really, no. Was he a football player too?"

  Duncan shakes his head. "Nope, or else, I never would have gone near the game. He was a basketball player, actually. From what I heard from my grandfather before he died, he was a pretty good shooting guard. Not pro-caliber, but when you add that to Mom, you get me. She was a near-Olympic level heptathlete. I double-checked recently. Anyway, I looked to Dad. And what I said to myself was, what would Winston Hart do?"

  "And what would he do?"

  Duncan pulls me closer. "He'd take the easy way out. He'd take the surgery, cruise past the pro combine or the school's pro day, and then cruise into a rookie contract if someone offered it to him. You see, for all his venture capitalist act, he's always cut and run when the going gets tough. So skipping the Sunshine Bowl—that's something he would do."

  I nod, not liking Duncan's thinking, but at least understanding it. The game is as much about personal development as it is the team, and there's nothing wrong with thinking that way. After all, being a team player doesn't mean you need to be a masochist. Just partly so. "Then can I ask you a favor?"

  "What's that?"

  I raise my head, whispering into Duncan's ear. "Can I help out?"

  The bus stops, and Duncan and I get off, walking the half-block up to the Vista Apartments before taking the elevator up. Duncan's thinking the entire time, and when we get inside, he closes the door behind us and goes into the living room. "Carrie, it's not that I'm not happy that you offer, but you know with the Honor case still pending against you, that you're technically under suspension. If some jealous bitch like Chelsea Brown catches you working any sort of rehab with me, you're putting your future of getting back into the intern program at stake."

  I nod. "I know that. But I know something else, something you haven't thought of yet."

  "What's that?"

  "Us. What you’re doing could be dangerous, and I want to do whatever I can for you. Besides, after I’m cleared, I really doubt they’d ever do anything to me. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Actually, I'd like to go one better."

  “What do you mean?” Duncan asks, and I point to the bedroom. "I think I'm a little banged up for that."

  "No, you horndog," I say with a laugh. "Look."

  Duncan goes into the bedroom, where I've fully made the bed and cleaned, something that he, despite being neater than most men, didn't do a great job of before. I set a bag next to the dresser, where it sits face up. "Two sets of pillows. Nice, and I appreciate the cleaning job, but what are you saying?"

  “What I'm saying is . . . maybe you'd like a live-in rehab specialist?"

  Duncan turns to me and shakes his head. "No . . . but I'd love to have a girlfriend who wants to live with me for as long as she wants. How about that?"

  I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, blinking away the tears that are forming in my eyes. "You have no idea. Actually, there’s one more thing, if you don't mind me being positively domestic."

  “Huh?”

  I laugh again. "Actually, I was thinking . . . after we talk, would you like to meet my parents? Skype, o
f course . . . at least for now.”

  Duncan nods, then his face clouds. "I get the feeling from what you’ve said, though, that your parents don't like me."

  I nod. "Dad doesn't. Mom's just . . . Mom."

  "Why?"

  I sit down on the bed, and Duncan takes a seat next to me. He undoes the strap on his sling and slowly lays back, resting his arm on the bed while he begins to slowly curl and relax the arm. He's gritting his teeth. It has to be hurting him, but I know he's trying to keep his joint mobile, not stiffening up on him.

  "Dad's a long-haul trucker," I tell him as I shift sideways, sitting cross-legged next to his arm. "But he used to be an athlete too. Baseball player, actually. I guess I take after him that way. At his high school, at least my grandmother told me, baseball was a very distant second to football, and the players at his school were, in general, assholes."

  "Hmm, asshole football players. Never met one," Duncan jokes, and I teasingly slap him on his chest. "Ouch. Now, you have to be fully moved in before you can do whips and handcuffs, but spanking is okay already, got it?"

  I laugh and pat him on the chest again. "Careful. I may have a side to me you haven't seen yet. But, as to Dad . . . long story short, one of the football jocks stole his girlfriend. Of course, he has a grudge against all football players. Perfect logic.”

  "Ooh, ouch," Duncan hisses. “Sounds about right.”

  "Well, that's half the reason he doesn't trust you. The other half has to do with his trucking."

  Duncan sits up some, confused. “What do I have to do with trucking?”

  “He’s an independent long hauler, doing cross-country runs about two to three times a month. This keeps him on the road a lot, but it wasn't always that way. When I was a little girl, he was part-owner of his own trucking company, Longstar Consolidated."

  "What happened?" Duncan asks, and I shrug.

  “He got bought out. Some bigshot came in when Dad was looking to expand the fleet and pushed him out the door. Now, it wasn't your Dad directly, but he was supposedly one of the investors."

  Duncan thinks about it, then nods. “Well, this is going to be fun. Tell you what. How about I finish up these arm flexes I'm doing, and in the kitchen, there are two buckets under the sink. We can get some contrast baths going to help out . . . and then when I'm done with that, let's call them."

  "Really?" I ask. I'm surprised. I didn't think he would want to jump into the fire that quickly.

  Duncan nods. "Really. If we are going to be us, then I guess we need to get it over with sometime or another. As for my father, I don't give a damn if he ever meets you. For now, he's done with my life until he reaches out to me."

  After the call, which had none of the rancor that I thought it would, Duncan sits back and smiles. "See, not so bad?"

  I nod and give him a kiss. "Nope, I think the most difficult part of moving in with you is going to be the next part."

  "Which is?"

  "Stopping kissing you long enough to actually get some studying done. We've both got class tomorrow, remember?"

  The next day, I go to the student union during lunch, where I meet up with Coach Taylor. "Hey, Carrie. It's good to see you."

  "Thanks, Coach. Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I know you're busy."

  He shakes his head and cracks open a can of coffee flavored pre-mixed protein shake, a disgusting concoction that only a guy like Coach could love. "No problem, Carrie. You're looking good. You keeping up with your work?"

  I nod. "The regular gym sucks compared to what the weight room is like, but I can still get something done there. Like you say, if it has a barbell and a squat rack, you can get work done. I'll be truthful, though. I can't wait to get back down in the basement with everyone."

  "Yeah, a lot of folks are telling me the same thing. Alicia is about ready to go to the Honor Board and beg them to hurry up. Since you've been suspended, she's rolled her ankles twice."

  I sit back and shake my head, chuckling. "You and I both know that it's more due to bad luck than anything. Who was taping her up?"

  "Freddie Maxwell. He knows what he's doing. In fact, I'm giving him a letter of recommendation when he graduates. But yeah, Alicia's about ready to kill him." Coach Taylor takes a long drink of his protein shake and grows serious. "By the way, Chelsea quit the program. Bunch of rumors swirling about that one."

  "I bet. I can't say I'm upset about that, though. You know, since she lied about what I did . . . let's not go there though. I sent you an email because I'd like your advice."

  "Advice is always free for you," Coach says. "At least, monetarily. What's up?"

  "Well, let's say, hypothetically, of course, that someone wanted to do some home-based rehabilitation on an injured elbow."

  Coach sees right through me. "Like, say, a biceps tendon that is seventy-five percent torn and a nearly fully-torn anterior band?"

  "Something like that. Not quite a Tommy John surgery candidate, but certainly someone who needs to go under the knife."

  "But who refuses to for another three weeks or so. Well tell me, Carrie. You're pretty smart. What would you have this person do?"

  "Mostly range of motion work, lots of contrast treatment, and in their sport, limited contact along with a limited range of motion brace. Once the swelling goes down in the elbow, light work, mostly to retain as much of the overall body muscle as possible without stressing the injured joint."

  Coach Taylor nods and sits back. "My prognosis exactly. Now, if you had access to an ultrasound machine, I'd add that in, but most houses don't have that. Even ones in the Vista."

  I nod somberly. "Think we can keep this under our hats?"

  "Unless someone makes a direct request, sure. What you do with your boyfriend in his apartment is none of my business."

  "Our apartment now. I'm moving my stuff this week."

  Coach Taylor nods and gives me a smile. "Congrats. I know I warned you about him way back when, but I'm happy to have been wrong in this case. And don’t worry, Duncan will get the best treatment Western can provide."

  Chapter 19

  Duncan

  For most of the guys, being away from home for Christmas week is hell. Some of them have always gone home for Christmas, and until this year, Western's been lucky, getting December 31st or January 1st games, giving everyone at least a chance to eat dinner and open presents with the family. So for a lot of the team, it's strange being in Tampa for a football game. Then again, we're getting a longer Christmas break because of it since our vacation isn't being interrupted by football practice. We just start later than most students.

  Personally, though, I don't really mind. Christmas for most of my life has been just another day, perhaps with some presents thrown in, but no real feeling behind them. But when you can buy pretty much anything you want, except the attention of your father, Christmas and those presents are mostly meaningless.

  This Christmas is different, however, in that I have Carrie. She went home to spend the holiday itself with her parents, and while I miss her, we can't spend the nights together the way we want anyway. We're in a team hotel, after all.

  "Merry Christmas, Duncan!"

  "Merry Christmas, beautiful," I say into my computer. I made sure to bring my laptop along with me, and the hotel has a good enough Wi-Fi connection. "How are things?"

  "Dad's relaxed some," Carrie says, pointing toward her right, "especially after that back massager you got him for a present."

  "Oh, did I put the wrong tag on that? That was supposed to be a, ahem, 'massager' for your mom."

  "Duncan Hart!" I hear off-screen, and Carrie leans back, laughing. I join in as Vince sticks his head in the screen. "Tell me you did not just say that!"

  "Sorry, Mr. Mittel," I apologize, still laughing. "I couldn't help it. Carrie's laughter was too worth it to worry about you being upset."

  "Well, okay then. By the way, we saw you on TV today. Nice interview."

  "Thanks. I felt like an idiot the wh
ole time." I did, too. It’s something I've been surprised with, as I've gone through finding the new me. I've gone from being a glory hound camera hog to being a bit shy in interviews. I guess when you can't hide behind talking shit, it's a lot more difficult. "So did I look okay?"

  "You looked amazingly handsome," Carrie says, smiling. "I'm looking forward to seeing you play tomorrow. How's the arm?"

  "As good as it could be," I answer, flexing it for her approval. "The team docs shot me up with a cortisone injection two hours ago, so it hurts like hell right now, but it'll feel much better tomorrow. At least until the pounding starts."

  Carrie nods, and Vince sticks his head in again, taking a seat. "Duncan, are you really sure about this? I mean, Carrie explained to me why you're doing it, but it still seems awfully risky."

  "It might be, but it’s what I want to do."

  Vince strokes his chin and nods. “Well, I guess it’s your choice. Still, be careful out there. I'd prefer if my daughter's boyfriend spends as little time in the hospital as possible, okay? She's already talked my ear off for three days about all her ideas for your rehab after your surgery."

  I laugh, and my stomach rumbles. "Deal. Hey, my stomach is kicking me for missing the team lunch—because of the interview, in fact—so I'm going to have to take off soon to find some grub."

  Carrie smiles and nods. "We're going to be sitting down in a couple of hours ourselves. How about we catch up after the game?"

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say, and Vince looks at his daughter before giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  "Okay, I see you two want to share your goodbyes, and you don't need some old man getting in the way. We'll be watching tomorrow, Duncan. Good night."

  Vince leaves the camera, and Carrie and I just look at each other for a little bit. "I've missed you," she finally says, smiling.

  "My arms have felt pretty empty too. Have they asked you about it?"