Hello Quarterback (Hello #8)

49. Ford

49

FORD

I couldn’t bring myself to go home.

Not after the news I got from the doctor.

So I said goodbye to my dad, assuring him I’d take a taxi home, and stayed at the facility. Walked to the turf I knew so well.

My crutches creaked and crackled as I made my way onto the field. A cool fall breeze nipped at me as I walked farther over the spongy surface. Only the moon lit my path as I went farther, farther, to the fifty-yard line.

In the dark, empty stadium, I could see sixty thousand purple seats stretching up to the sky. The benches on each side of the field. Stark white lines marking our path forward. Yellow goalposts forever waiting for a game-changing kick.

Ironically, I felt small standing here all alone. Without my team. Without a competitor to defeat.

It was just me.

And I had no one to go home to.

That had never bothered me so much before. But now?

Even though Mia hadn’t ever stayed in my bed, I couldn’t bear the thought of returning home and sleeping without a goodnight text.

Without hearing “I love you” one more time.

I’d blown it, in so many ways. And soon, the entire team would get the message.

The doctor told me I needed to stay off my foot for the next week, and then we would check how it was healing. But with the location of my injury, he expected me to be off my foot another week after that, at least. We couldn’t determine how severe the nerve damage would be until the wound closed.

A strong gust blew past, raising goosebumps on my skin.

With a shiver, I readjusted my grip on the crutches’ handles, turning to take in more of the field, the tunnel that led to the locker room.

Cameras typically surrounded me on the way in. Soon, they’d be surrounding me for entirely different reasons.

This would cause a headache for the team’s publicist and Coach Hinkle.

Would our second-string quarterback be ready?

Would it tank our chances at making it to the Super Bowl?

I closed my eyes at the thought, but then black turned orange as a flashlight beam panned over me. I opened my eyes again to see one of the security guards studying me, a person on either side of him.

Milo still wore his buffalo plaid pajama pants with a white T-shirt. His blond hair kept in check under a cap. Krew was more ready, in sweats.

Whatever strength I had left shattered as they came toward me. My hands shook on the crutches, making it impossible to move.

They stopped a couple feet away from me, concern glittering in their dark eyes.

“I’m... sorry.” My voice cracked.

It felt like the rest of me was cracking too. But Milo stepped forward, wrapping me in a bear hug that held the pieces together. Krew patted my arm too.

None of us knew what my injury meant for the team.

But at least I knew I wouldn’t have to find out alone.

My phone went dead sometime the day before, and when I woke up the next morning, I had no urge to charge it and see what messages waited for me. I did want to talk to Mia, but what would I say?

Sorry I’m not the man you deserve?

Sorry I thought I was ready for a relationship, but turns out I lost myself in my love for you?

All of it fell flat in my mind, so I knew it would never be enough said out loud.

But I knew Coach would want to talk more than we had yesterday, so I plugged my phone in anyway.

With a heaviness in my chest, I got up, went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and washed my face like I did every day. I had to hop on one leg so I didn't put pressure on the stitches and bust them. As I was wiping my face dry, I heard my phone ringing in the other room.

My heart leapt a little, hoping it was Mia. But instead, I saw my dad's name on the phone.

I swiped it, answering, and said, “Hey, Dad.”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, son.” I could hear the wind in the background, like he was outside working and had thought of me.

“It was a rough night,” I confessed, my voice breaking. I sat down on my bed, feeling useless and weak. “Krew and Milo brought me home.”

“I’m glad,” Dad said. “Have you heard from Mia?”

Just her name wrenched my heart. “No. I haven’t.”

“Have you reached out to her?”

He knew me too well. I rubbed my brow with my thumb and pointer finger. “No.”

In the background, I heard a cow moo . The sound made me wonder what life would be like if I had stayed on the farm, worked the land, been a helper to Dad. It would have been a nice life. But deep down, I knew it wouldn't feel like enough. Maybe that was the cross I would have to bear in my life—always coming up short. In football, in romance.

Shaking my head, I remembered what my dad had said. Madigans didn’t act like this.

“Everything good with you?” I asked him.

He heaved a long breath. “You know, when you have kids, it feels like a piece of your heart goes where they do. Grandkids too. And right now, a piece of my heart is hurting. So am I good? Not one hundred percent. But I’m here for you, kid, and I know it will get better.”

My lips twitched up. “I’m not sure how.”

“You know, son, you have an entire charity that works to get people mental health support. Maybe it’s time you took your own advice.”

I closed my eyes, hanging my head. Dad was right. My thoughts were a jumble, and I knew I had no chance at figuring out this tangle on my own. Of becoming the man Mia deserved without a little help.