*****
After Chase lost consciousness, he was diagnosed with a concussion and possible spinal injury and was carted into the locker room. Jeb and I wait outside the trainers’ room, anxious to hear some news. Through the glass, we can see the team of doctors and trainers discussing the situation.
The NFL concussion protocol is taken very seriously. An “unaffiliated” neurotrauma expert is assigned to each team to weigh in on the player’s injuries, without influence. Lots of people feel this just creates a layer of red tape and unnecessary bureaucracy, but in this moment, it brings me great peace of mind to know someone in there is only interested in Chase. Not the team. Not the playoffs. Not upcoming contracts or trade value. Just Chase.
The locker room fills up—the game must be over. Players swarm, offering support and prayers. I think they’re almost as anxious as I am. This team has a brotherhood unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The team just completed an undefeated regular season, which should be cause for a huge celebration, but no one’s popping corks. The confetti bombs weren’t set off. No one’s cheering yet. Not until they hear about Chase.
The doctors come out about twenty minutes later and confirm Chase has a grade-three concussion and a neck strain. The CT came back clear, so as long as he rests and takes it easy, he should recover perfectly. Recovery, however, can take anywhere from one to six weeks. The Niners’ first playoff game is in two.
A few bottles of champagne come out. Congratulations are shared, but the mood in the room feels bittersweet. Against all odds, they’ve just gone undefeated. But with Chase potentially out for the rest of the season, the hopes for a three-peat are sinking faster than the Titanic.
Once Brock was arrested and subsequently dropped from the team, the Niners lost depth in the QB position. Jamal Crown, the rookie third-string QB who was promoted to backup, looks as though he’s going to puke when Coach tells everyone Chase is questionable for the NFC divisional round of the playoffs. Apparently Jamal almost blew the game tonight by throwing an interception. I’m sure that isn’t how he’d envisioned his first play as a professional quarterback. I try to calm him down while I wait to be able to see Chase, but Jamal’s a jumble of nerves. Coach has a long way to go to get this kid playoff ready.
Finally, the doctors let me in to see Chase. He’s lying on the training table as the PT works on his neck.
“Were you that desperate for attention that you had to go and get yourself knocked out?” I say as I approach the table.
“You know it,” he replies with a half-smile.
With just one look in his eyes, I can tell he’s not right. He looks dazed, disoriented. He looks at me, but I can tell he can’t really focus on me.
I take his hand and run my thumb along his knuckles. “I know what it is. You weren’t looking forward to giving Heisman that suppository to make him sleep on the plane, so you stirred up all this chaos to get out of it. Lame, dude.”
“Damn, the trip!” He tries to sit up. “We can still go. A little sun and sand would be good for me. Don’t they say all headaches are cured by the sea?”
“That’s heartache, not headache, and while I like Garth Brooks, I’m not sure I’d take medical advice from him,” says a woman wearing a lab coat, who I’m assuming is the neurotrauma doc. She extends her hand to me. “I’m Dr. Adler. So nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thank you, and thank you for looking out for Chase. So what is your take on travel?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” She turns toward Chase. “You need to stay home and rest. No matter how relaxing you think your trip may be, traveling always comes with stress, mental and physical. Jet lag throws off your whole circadian rhythm. If you want your brain to heal, you should be home.”
“You heard the lady,” I say. “We’re homeward bound. Which is really for the best. Calder has an ear infection, and I think a six-hour flight sitting next to a baby with an ear infection may be one of the circles of hell.”
Chase lies back down so the trainer can get back to work. “Poor guy. We can convalesce together, watch some bowl games. Eat our weight in wings. Well, he can’t eat yet, so I’ll have to pick up his slack.” He pats his stomach. “A tough job, but I think I’m up for the challenge.”
“No to the wings,” Dr. Adler says as she scribbles down notes. “I want to see a healthy diet and a small amount of low-level aerobic exercise. Start by taking the dog for a walk twice a day.” She looks up from her clipboard. “Walk, not run. Drink plenty of water, no caffeine or alcohol, and rest. We’ll see you in a week.” She pulls the paper off her pad, then hands it to me. “You’ll need to wake him every two hours. Call me immediately if you notice any changes.”
*****
Pat helps me get Chase home. Knowing Pat is desperate for a little alone time with Chase so he can see for himself how Chase is really doing, I encourage them to take Heisman out while I whip up something to eat. As I chop lettuce for a salad, I strategize how the next few days are going to go and it dawns on me—this is going to be a long week.
He’s probably going to have a chronic headache and neck pain. Nothing with a screen for seventy-two hours. Limited-to-no reading. Nothing where he has to focus his eyes. All he can do is rest.
With nothing to distract him, he’s probably going to obsess about the playoffs. Thank God he didn’t hear about Jamal’s abysmal performance, or he’d spend the next few days freaking out.
Chase has killed himself all season to get them where they are. It’s going to kill him to sit back, helpless. Keeping him away from the field will require Herculean strength, and I can’t even distract him with sex! He’s not allowed to practice until he’s cleared by the doctor, and that won’t happen until he’s been symptom free for forty-eight hours and can pass a series of gross motor and cognitive tests. That could be days, weeks, months. We don’t know.
Until then, it’s going to be a battle.
I set out bowls of white bean chili and put the salad in the center of the table. I’m grabbing the stuffed tomatoes out of the oven as they come back in.
Pat kisses my cheek. “I’d stay and eat, but Katie’s up at the house, pacing and waiting for an update.”
“Tell her I’m going to be fine,” Chase says as he walks to the fridge and digs through the drawers until he finds a bag of shredded cheddar.
“Night, Pat,” I say as he goes out the back door.
Chase sits down, then dumps half the bag of cheese into his chili. “This week is going to suck. But I’m going to do everything the doctor says. Rest. Chill. Watch the grass grow. Whatever it takes.”
I grind some pepper onto my stuffed tomato. “I know you want to get back on the field, but—”
He stirs the cheese into his chili, trying to get it to melt. “It’s way more than that. Sure, I want to play in two weeks. Jamal isn’t ready to take a high school team to the playoffs, let alone the Niners. But that’s only part of it. Pop and I were just talking about this. At some point in every career, you have to weigh the risks and the rewards. I’ve read the studies on concussions. I like my brain. It’s served me well, and when we’re eighty, I’d like to still be able to remember my name. I’m not fucking around. There are some injuries you play hurt. This isn’t one of them. Another ring just isn’t important enough.”
Those are the words every wife and girlfriend wants to hear. I don’t believe him for a second, but they sure sound good.
******
Even after all this time, he can still surprise me. He’s stuck to his word. Over the last five days, he hasn’t watched a second of television, reached for his phone, or tried to sneak onto the computer. He’s slept a lot. We’ve done a lot of yoga. He’s played fetch with Heisman for hours and even taught him how to roll over. We were supposed to go to Pat and Katie’s for New Year’s, but while he was in the shower, he got a little dizzy and decided to stay home. He’s the perfect patient. So perfect, I’m really starting to worry how much that hit scrambled his brain.
While we’ve been camped out at home Jeb has either called or stopped by to check on Chase and get my thoughts on the state of the team—players to scope out for the draft in April, potential rule changes, NFL expansion. I can’t tell if Jeb really wants my opinion or if he just likes having someone to talk to.
On January 2, he comes over in a panic. The team returned to practice yesterday, after a mandatory four days off, and Jamal was a hot mess. The whole team is worried. No one ever expected Jamal to see playing time this season. As the practice squad quarterback, he was supposed to watch and learn for a few years. But then Brock had to go and get involved with Tate, arrested, and booted off the team after the deadline for finalized rosters had already passed. The Niners couldn’t shop for a new QB if they wanted to.
So now everyone is scrambling to come up with any ideas to keep the ship afloat until Chase can come back. Chase, Jeb, and I throw around potential solutions, everything from simplifying the playbook to turning to the running back on the team who played QB in college. A few other players played QB in high school. Oscar would probably have a coronary if he knew Jeb was doing this. Players (and players’ girlfriends for that matter) aren’t typically involved in personnel discussions. But times are desperate.
When Jeb leaves, I feel as though he took all the Zen in the house with him. When I return to the living room after walking Jeb to the door, Chase is on the phone with Coach, pushing for details. For the rest of the night, he’s in knots. The stress consumes him. He can’t sleep, can’t relax; he snaps at me all night. I feel awful for him. I wish there were anything I could do.
The next day, he’s scheduled for a concussion evaluation. He fails, and I’m proud of him. He could have lied, manipulated the test so he could be cleared, but he didn’t. Even though he’s feeling the stress of the season hanging in the balance, he stays true to his word and puts himself, his brain, and our future first. They’ll re-administer the test in three days, but until then, he’s back to resting. The doctor does give him permission to attend some team meetings, but for no more than two hours.
After leaving the doctor, we head to the field so Chase can meet with the coaching staff. When we get to the field, we stand to the side and watch Jamal take a few snaps. I can understand Jeb’s panic. This is ugly. He’s too slow and can’t keep up with the speed of the pro game. College quarterbacks are used to having more time in the pocket before the defender gets to them. Not in the pros. The defenders here are bigger, faster, and have sack quotas to fill to get their bonuses.
The other issue is his body language gives away the play. He stares at the intended receiver before the ball is snapped. Even someone who doesn’t know football can tell where he’s throwing the ball before the play even begins.
He can’t follow the system. His mechanics are sloppy. His wrist supinates instead of pronates. He throws with his shoulder instead of his arm, which means he can’t get the velocity he needs, his accuracy is all over the place, and he’s going to blow out his arm. Quarterbacks can get away with that stuff at the college level, but not in the pros.
After Jamal throws the ugliest pass I’ve ever seen, Chase asks, “What do you think?”
“I think he needs an overhaul, but a week and a half before his first game isn’t the time to mess with his throwing motion. He needs a miracle.”
Shaking his head, Chase looks down and kicks a stone across the field. “Fucking Brock had to go and fuck everything up! I didn’t go through everything I’ve been through this season to go out like this.”
He heads off to meet with the staff and punches the wall as he walks down the hall.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Arianna
Chase is only cleared for two hours of practice a day. The NFL strictly forbids him from participating in any other activity with the team. The NFL rules don’t say anything about Jamal coming to Daddy’s house.
Over the last few days, Chase has given Jamal a crash course in how to lead this team. Jamal comes by for a few hours before practice and a few hours after practice, looking like a nervous wreck every time. Chase is still true to his word—he only works with Jamal for a few hours at a time and won’t work with him at all if he has a headache. The two times that has happened, I’ve taken over and worked with him. I have to keep reminding Jamal to look at my face and not my chest, but I think I actually help him.
Each time Chase gets a severe headache, we know that means his recovery isn’t progressing as well as we would like. It scares me to death, but the doctors insist that sometimes brain injuries just take time. Of course, that is the last thing Chase wants to hear. He’s ready to get back on the field.
On Sunday, we’re one week from the Divisional playoffs, and we still have no idea if he’s going to be able to play. The team doctor feels Chase is on the cusp of turning the corner and he’ll definitely take the field. The “unaffiliated” doc from the NFL isn’t as confident. Regardless of their differences of opinion, collectively they clear him for more time at the field. He still can’t drive, so I’m on chauffeur duty. I could easily have someone from the team do it, but showing up every day gives me a chance to pop my head in at practice and see how things are going.
While he’s away more, I try to catch up on everything that’s been simmering on my back burner, such as finding a new agent and manager and meeting with Shelly. I’ve been pushing her off since Chase’s injury, but she insists it can’t wait another day.
When she arrives at the house with Scott in tow, I know immediately I’m not going to like the direction of this meeting. I lead them into the living room.
After I give them each a bottle of water, I sit on the sofa and cross my legs. “Okay, Shelly, what do you have for me?”
“I know all of everyone’s attention has been focused on Chase and helping him heal as quickly as possible, but we can’t just put the world on pause. There’re a lot of things going on, and we have to keep moving forward.” She opens her laptop, then clicks a few keys. “Shape and Bride are both pretending as though they didn’t give you the boot a few weeks ago. They want to book the cover shoots as soon as possible.” She opens a folder, then hands me a stapled batch of papers. “These are their lists of pre-shoot recommendations. I know you’re not going to be happy, but…”
Hair extensions. Keratin treatment. Teeth bleaching. Anti-pigmentation skin treatment. Laser cellulite treatment. Tone-and-Tighten work-out with a list of personal trainers. Nutritional suggestions that are nothing more than a starvation plan. Botox.
This is the part of modeling that makes me sick. Heaven forbid I look like an actual woman.
She taps her fingers on her laptop. “Since we’re in such a time crunch, they’re worried about how much touch up work will have to do be done on the back end. With all the stress you’ve been under, they’re worried you might have let yourself go.”
“‘Touch-ups’ make it sound so harmless. What they really mean is use Photoshop to completely resculpt my body from an athletic frame to an emaciated one and make me completely artificial and one hundred percent unattainable.” I put down the pile of papers. “My contract specifically says no Photoshop. Please remind them of that. You can also inform them that a diet consisting of twenty-three almonds three times a day constitutes an eating disorder. So let them know that won’t be happening.”
Scott makes a big production of sighing and rolling his eyes. “Do you realize the situation we’re in?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I sneer. “And while you’re doing that, why don’t you fill me in on why you insisted on being at this meeting?”
“If Chase wins the Super Bowl, he will be the first quarterback in history to lead his team to an eighteen-and-oh season and to win three consecutive Super Bowls. All he needs to do is break the passing record, and he’ll have the trifecta! It will be the single biggest achievement in sports history. Bigger than Cal’s consecutive game streak. Bigger than Wilt’s hundred-point game. Bigger than Di
Maggio’s hit record. This is a record that will probably never be broken. With this on the line, he should be the most popular guy in the country, but he’s not. He’s not even the most popular guy in the city. This fucking concussion isn’t helping either! Despite our best efforts, we haven’t begun to shake off the rest of the soot from this scandal.”
“It’s not like he planned it,” I chide. “And I find it hard to believe public opinion isn’t improving. You’d see a sympathy bump at least.”
He bangs his fist on the arm of the sofa. “A sympathy bump is the kiss of death. People will think he’s a pussy!”
Shelly flashes him a warning look. “The polls show fans are less hostile toward Chase, but are at best neutral.”
“Neutral does jack for us. Two years ago, he was voted the player the fans would like to sit back and have a beer with. We need that back. He can’t do it. His focus has to be on healing, then getting back on the field and winning ball games. You’re going to have to do it for him. You need to talk to the press and gush over him. Gush about him, about your future. You need to be relatable. Down to earth. Cool as fuck. You’re the world’s greatest, hottest girlfriend, and he’s the guy people want to spend four hundred a ticket, a hundred on parking, and another two hundred on beer for. The guy they’ll road trip to Green Bay in December, paint their chests, and sit half-naked in twenty-degree weather to cheer their asses off for because they believe in him that much. You need to show the world what a great guy you’re marrying.”
Dammit, I hate it, but he’s right. I saw a few reports of Chase coming across as aloof or as though he’s still bitter. He’s not. Maybe a little tentative around the press, but who wouldn’t be after what he’s been through?
He needs my help. A part of him died when he watched that video of the crying kids. I would do anything to get that piece of him back. Well, almost anything.
“I won’t starve myself. I will not be on a cover supposedly as an illustration of health when the only way it can be achieved is by eating almonds and air. It sends the wrong message, and I won’t do it. They can airbrush the scars on my knees if they absolutely have to, but that’s the only airbrushing I’ll allow. Other than that… I’ll be flexible. Parade me around to all the dog and pony shows. I’ll help however I can.”
Love To Love You (Love/Hate #3) Page 29