That was over an hour earlier.
Bored and growing antsy, Kris paced the tiny interior of the room, going over every possible permutation of what the scan had said in his head.
As best he could figure, the optimal result would be that the swelling was subsiding. He would be ordered to take a few days off from practice, fly to LA on Friday and be allowed full participation.
Worst case he might have to miss a game. It was something that had only happened twice in the previous decade and a half, both at the end of a lost season six years before. The mere thought of it brought a feeling of revulsion to the pit of his stomach, despite telling himself two things that would make it a little better.
First, he would be on the sideline walking Walsh through every play as it happened.
Second, they could afford to lose one and still make the playoffs.
The door to the room burst open, stopping Kris mid-stride. Any thoughts of the playoffs or the weekend ahead evaporated, his attention on Dr. Kirby standing before him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, his chart in one hand, a large manila envelope tucked under the opposite arm.
“Doctor.”
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning towards the examination table behind him.
Kris glanced over his shoulder at the table and felt the same pang in the pit of his stomach. He walked backwards two steps and leaned against it, his hands shoved into his jeans.
“How are you feeling today?” Kirby asked. She kept the envelope tucked beneath an arm and raised the chart in front of her. Page by page she rifled through it, refreshing herself on their last encounter.
“Better.”
She cocked an appraising eyebrow at him and said,
“Better, but not well?”
Kris’s head rocked back with a smirk. “I’ve been a football player for thirty years. I couldn’t tell you the last time I felt well.”
Kirby raised her gaze from the chart, her head rolling back a few inches so she could stare at him. “Are you trying to make a point or can you really not remember?”
“Why wouldn’t I remember?” Kris asked, his eyes narrowing.
“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” Kirby asked, ignoring his question.
“Fruit and oatmeal,” Kris replied.
She stared at him for a moment before snorting and looking back down at the chart. “Same thing every morning, right?”
Without waiting for a response she dropped the chart down on the counter and took the envelope from beneath her arm. She walked to the opposite wall and flipped on a light board, the white surface giving off a pale glow.
Kris winced a bit as she extracted two films from inside the envelope and jammed them under the upper lip of the board.
“I’m not surprised you don’t remember,” Kirby said, folding her arms and staring at the scans. “Judging by these, I’m surprised you can even walk right now.”
Kris glanced at her and pushed himself up from the edge of the exam table, using his hips for leverage. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, walking a few steps forward. He remained several feet back from the light, peering over Kirby’s shoulder.
“Obviously, these are images of the brain.”
Using her finger as a pointer, Kirby started on the left. She moved her hand in a circular motion, outlining the depictions before them.
“CT stands for computed tomography. The machine you were just in took an x-ray of your brain one, for lack of a better word, slice at a time. Once all the slices were collected, the computer organized them into a rendered 3-D depiction.
“This scan here is what a normal brain looks like. These splotches are the most active areas, the dark colorings indicative of blood flow.”
As she spoke Kris looked at the film on the left. A series of nine different images were arranged on it in a three by three grid. Each one was colored a little different, the shapes shifted just a bit, but almost all with the same end product.
A brain with clearly delineated areas of function, demarcated by blood flow patterns.
“On the right here is yours,” Kirby said, pulling her hand back to let the images speak for themselves.
At first glance, the two scans were hardly comparable. If not for the general arrangement of the films and the outlined shape of the brain in each depiction, Kris would have no way of knowing what the shots on the right were.
Instead of featuring concentrated centers of brain activity, his scan seemed to be one large blotch. No matter the angle, it stretched over much of the image, broken up only by the gulf dividing the two hemispheres.
“Meaning?” Kris asked.
“Meaning all of those distortions are areas of extreme swelling. Blood is flooding in and putting pressure on the inside of your skull.”
Kris nodded, looking at the films another moment before retreating back to the bed. He leaned himself against the edge of it once more, folding his arms across his chest.
Kirby flipped the light board off and took down each of the films, working them back into the envelope and dropping it onto the counter beside his chart.
“How many concussions does this make for you Mr. Hopkins?”
Kris kept his gaze aimed at the floor. “How many does the chart say?”
“I’m not asking the chart,” Kirby countered. “I’m asking you.”
A long moment passed as Kris stared at the floor, processing what he’d just seen. Not ten minutes before he was trying to rationalize that missing one game might be okay. Now he had the sinking feeling that his perceived worst case scenario was about to get a whole lot uglier.
“I want to say seven, but who the hell knows.”
“Ah,” Kirby replied, picking up his chart and making a notation. “I’m not clearing you to travel with the team this week.”
It took a moment for the words to find their way in, pulling Kris’s gaze up from the tile floor. His face hardened as he stared, vitriol rising in the back of his throat.
“What? You can’t keep me here. It’s not like I’m going to try and suit up down there.”
Kirby finished her note and flipped the pages back down atop the chart. “Right now, I don’t even trust your brain to undergo the changes in elevation of a plane ride. We’ll run another CT the first of the week.”
Kris’s jaw dropped open, his brain fighting to compute what he’d been told and formulate a response.
As if sensing what he was attempting to do, Kirby tossed his chart back on the counter and strode from the room, leaving a stunned Kris in her wake.
Chapter Eighteen
Late day sun filtered through the house as Kris entered, tossing his keys on the counter. They landed with a clatter, tangling themselves into a ball as they slid across the smooth black granite, coming to a rest no more than an inch from the edge.
Circling around the island, Kris grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and opened it, taking a long pull. With his other hand he called up the voicemail on his phone, flipping it to speakerphone as he went back for the jar of almonds. Scooping out a handful he leaned against the counter and dropped a few into his mouth, crunching on the unsalted snack as the automated voice on the phone informed him he had one new message.
Without waiting it pushed forward, the first message starting to play.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hopkins,” a young, female voice began. For just the briefest of moments Kris was curious before she continued, “This is Gwen with Good Samaritan Hospital calling to confirm your CT scan is scheduled for next Tuesday at 11 am.”
Kris reached out and pressed the pound sign on his phone, skipping ahead. At the moment, the last thing he wanted to hear about was another scan.
“First skipped message,” the mechanized voice of the phone operator said.
“Um, hi, Kris, this is Emily...”
Again Kris snapped his hand forward, ending the call. He stood over the phone a moment, staring down at it, before dropping the remai
nder of the almonds on to the counter and picking up the device. He scrolled through his contacts list until finding her name, debating the call for several seconds before pressing the button and dropping the phone back where it was.
The line rang three times, the sound echoing through the house, before she picked up.
“Hello?”
Kris couldn’t recall the last time they had spoken, though her voice sounded exactly the same as he remembered. Maybe a bit tired, somewhat distracted even, but underneath it all the same tone he’d known for years.
“Uh, yeah,” Kris began, his voice thick. He raised a fist to his mouth and coughed, clearing his throat. “It’s Kris returning your call.”
There was a confidence that Kris could hear in his own voice, a false front masking how he really felt.
“Oh, hi,” Emily said. “Sorry to call out of the blue, but after Kyle said what happened I went online and read up about it. Sounded pretty bad. How you doing?”
“Ah, it wasn’t as bad as they made it seem,” Kris replied. “You know how those hacks are always trying to sensationalize things.”
“Really?” Emily said, disbelief dripping from the word. “So you weren’t knocked unconscious and taken out on a stretcher?”
Picking up the phone, Kris walked through the living room and into his bedroom. He grabbed up the remote and parted the curtains to look at the city of Portland below. A few miles away he could see Warriors Stadium, the enormous concrete edifice sitting silent and brooding in the late day sun.
“Aw, I’ve had worse. You remember that hit from Stanson-“
“Stanson in ’09. Yeah, I remember,” Emily finished for him. She paused a long moment before asking, “How many is this now, Kris?”
His focus still on the stadium, Kris raised his eyebrows, a small sigh sliding out. “I don’t know.”
“Too many,” Emily replied.
Another sigh escaped Kris’s lips, this one in response to a conversation they’d had many times over the years. He waited long enough to let her know he was finished discussing the topic before asking, “So, how are you? How’s Kyle?”
This time it was Emily’s turn to sigh, knowing full well she’d just received Kris’s stock response any time a conversation threatened to become a little too real.
“We’re good. The same. Busy.”
“Yeah, me too,” Kris said. “Are you still getting the money every month, no problem?”
The words were no more than out of Kris’s mouth before a pained look crossed his face, knowing they didn’t sound the way he wanted them to. He held the phone an inch away from his face and glanced at it, hoping it wouldn’t have the effect he feared it might.
“Hey Kris, I’m sorry to cut this off, but I’m just now getting dinner on the table for us,” Emily said, an unmistakable edge in her tone. “Glad you’re okay, or, well, the same anyway.”
Kris pressed his lips together tight and nodded, the reaction just as he’d expected. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.”
There was no final response from Emily, the line already dead.
Kris looked down at the phone a moment before tossing it on the bed. He shifted his attention back to the world outside, staring down at the city below before shifting his focus to the reflection looking back at him in the window.
Chapter Nineteen
The late season chill of Portland was just starting to set in, swirling around Kris’s legs as he stood a few yards back from the huddle. Dressed in shorts and a pullover with sunglasses covering his eyes, he looked just like any of the dozen assistant coaches scattered around the field.
It was a fact he noticed the moment he stepped out to practice, something he would remedy before the next one for sure.
In front of him the offense was gathered in a cluster. Linemen stood with hands on their hips, drawing in large gasps of air. Beside them various backs and receivers, Adler and Dickson among them, stood staring at Walsh and Dumari.
The two men were side-by-side a few yards away, going over a play card Dumari was holding. After a moment he slapped Walsh on the helmet, sending him jogging back towards the huddle.
“28 Crack China Moon,” Dumari called out as Walsh reached the huddle, the offense circling around him. A moment later they broke out with a synchronized clap, ten men jogging to their various positions as Walsh slowly walked to the line behind them.
On the opposite side, the defensive practice squad got into position, assuming the formation of the Lancers. Kris watched as they shifted into a staggered 4-4 alignment, the cornerbacks up in press coverage.
“Check the Will!” Kris called out, pointing towards the outside linebacker creeping up off the edge. “Check the Will!”
On the opposite hash Dumari glared at Kris, making no effort to mask the venom he held within.
Kris could feel the stare on his skin but kept his gaze aimed forward, watching as Walsh took his instruction, pointing out the Will linebacker and beginning his cadence.
“Blue 42!” Walsh called. “Blue 42!”
He waited a moment, scanning the field from one side to the other. “Hut! Hut!”
The ball was snapped up into his hands, the linemen taking two quick steps before throttling down. On the outside the skill position players ran at full speed, receivers crisscrossing the field.
Walsh took three sideways steps back from the line of scrimmage, faking play-action to Dickson. He slowed for a step to sell the handoff before reversing field and running a naked bootleg back out in the opposite direction.
He made it no more than three steps before the outside linebacker was on him, wrapping him up. A trio of whistles pierced the air as players on both sides slowed to a halt, trudging back to their respective huddles.
“Dammit!” Dumari barked, waving his play sheet towards the ground as if he might throw it.
Ignoring him, Kris strode right to Walsh, pointing as he went. “That’s why you’ve got to know where the Will is at all times. LA loves to bring him on that delayed blitz.”
“Okay,” Walsh said, glancing back over his shoulder at the retreating linebacker. “What’s the best way to handle it?”
“Audible,” Kris replied, not a moment of hesitation in his response. “And if it comes after the snap, get outside the tackle and throw it away. Better to lose a down than take a ten yard sack.”
“Got it,” Walsh said, falling in beside Kris as they walked back towards the huddle.
“And Rook?” Kris said, lowering his voice and leaning in close. “Lose the Blue 42. This isn’t Pop Warner anymore.”
The corner of Walsh’s mouth curled up in a smile as Kris slapped him on the helmet and headed back towards his post on the opposite hash. He could still sense Dumari glaring at him the entire time, but made a point not to acknowledge it in any way.
“Run it again!” Dumari barked, walking up beside Walsh. He held the play sheet up like was going to point out something, but instead used it to block his face from view.
“I’ll tell you this once and only once,” Dumari said, making sure his voice was loud enough for Kris to hear, despite the gesture with the play sheet. “Don’t you ever audible out of one of my play calls.”
From his spot on the opposite hash Kris shook his head, working on his chewing gum in rapid fashion to keep himself from spitting out a nasty barb. He folded his arms across his chest and watched as Walsh relayed the play to the offense, the team breaking the huddle as one.
“Looking mighty comfortable in those shorts there, Hop,” a familiar voice said, pushing a smile to Kris’s face. He turned over his shoulder to see Mills approaching, a cup of water in one hand, his helmet in the other.
“You’re wearing shorts too, you know.”
A lopsided grin split Mills face as he nodded, finishing off his water and dropping the cup to the ground behind him. “Yeah, but I’m also wearing a helmet and shoulder pads.”
“Uh-huh,” Kris said with a sardonic nod. “Don’t get used to it. Only tem
porary.”
“Might have to start calling you Coach soon,” Mills said, his gaze aimed at the play being ran in front of them. Just a few yards away Walsh eluded the linebacker and hit an open Adler on a crossing route.
“Give it a week or two and I’ll be right back out there throwing spirals for you to drop,” Kris countered.
Light-hearted chuckles slid from both men as Mills gripped the side of his helmet in both hands, walking backwards towards the huddle already taking shape again.
“Spirals?” he said, mock surprise in his voice. “You kidding me? It looks like a damn episode of Duck Dynasty out here when you throw.”
Kris’s upper body quivered with silent laughter as Mills pushed the helmet down atop his head and positioned his hands like he was holding a shotgun.
“Quack...quack...quack...BOOM!” Mills called, jerking the imaginary gun up in the air for effect. Behind him Dickson and Adler both laughed aloud, miming weapons of their own.
Again Kris laughed, for the briefest of moments not noticing the withering glare of Dumari aimed at him from just ten yards away.
Chapter Twenty
The stench of stale coffee and body odor filled the booth as Kris took his customary seat opposite Jimmy Burns. It was the first time he had ever done a Friday show, always before coming in on Monday, or in the rare event of a Monday game, Tuesday.
In the past Kris had requested the time slot because it made sense. He could come in the day after a game when everything was still fresh in his mind and rehash it for the fans calling in. It was always an off day for players too, which made it that much easier for him to find the time.
Not once before had the fact that the cleaning service employed by the studio came over the weekend crossed his mind.
After just five minutes inside the enclosed space, no windows in sight, it was something he would never forget again.
Feigning warmth, Kris nodded at the small oscillating fan sitting atop a CD rack in the corner. “Any chance we could turn that on?”
“Sure,” Jimmy said, hopping up from his chair and flipping the switch on the fan. It squawked in protest a moment before settling down, the metal blades throwing minute dust bunnies through the space.
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