The Final Quarter Read online

  “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow, Derek.” Mitch turned and strolled away, his arm aching and feeling heavy from the weight he’d pushed earlier. Only this time, he wasn’t sure if it was his arm that wanted to drag him down or his resolve to play regardless of the consequences.

  * * * *

  Serena had arrived at the gym early, wanting to get a spot on a piece of the equipment in a far corner before Mitch arrived with his trainer. He’d mentioned last night that today he was being reassessed for playing. She knew how much this meant to him and wanted to be there for him so she’d postponed her photography session this morning.

  After their night at the club, he’d finally opened up about his injury. At least now, she knew how worried he was about his future. If Mitch received clearance this morning, he might be able to play in Friday’s game. If he didn’t, then as far as he was concerned, he was out. He’d mentioned the possibility of surgery, and although he wouldn’t open up to her about the long-term ramifications, she got the picture.

  She still sensed there was more, however. When she had tried to discuss other career options, he’d clammed up. She worried how he would take the possibility of not being able to play for the rest of the season. What would happen if he couldn’t play football anymore?

  While she started a slow, steady pace on one of the treadmills, she dared a glance around the room. She recognized a few of the other players. Many lived in the area full-time so she’d seen them often enough. When on the road, they always looked for hotels that offered decent training fitness centers, but at home in Minneapolis, they had complete access to one of the bigger training facilities in the area. One that just happened to be tacked onto the home stadium. Luckily for her, it was large, had lots of equipment to choose from, and, more importantly, had enough people currently working out in among the football players that her chances of going unnoticed increased exponentially.

  Music blasted through the sound system, but it didn’t drown out the spinning tires on the elliptical machines, the thump-thump of sneakers on treadmills or the clanging of metal on metal as people dropped weights onto the racks. Grunts of exhaustion and strength, or frustration, drifted throughout the open space. The smell of sweat permeated the air. In one of the back rooms, a Zumba class was currently underway and the clapping of hands as well as the instructor yelling instructions floated out to the bigger room.

  Mirrors lined the wall next to her, so when Mitch walked in with a man she assumed to be his trainer—considering that he was dressed in workout clothing—she took immediate notice. She focused on her husband, trying to read his body language. He looked stressed. His brow was puckered in concentration—or was it worry? He nodded at something the trainer said and placed his hands on his hips as they faced each other, but they both turned their heads when two other men walked through the doors.

  The older man had graying hair and a weathered face, his impressive build belying his age. She knew he was Mitch’s coach. He was about the same height as Mitch, but at least twenty years older. The other one Serena guessed to be in his late thirties. He had a slimmer build but looked just as physically fit. She didn’t know him, but when he shook hands with Mitch, he smiled and laughed. Then he grew serious as he took in Mitch’s appearance, studying him with an eagle eye. He spoke and waited for a response from Mitch. Judging by the look on the inquisitor’s face, Mitch probably gave succinct answers, but no informative details. He had a habit of doing that, so she understood his frustration. He must be the team’s doctor.

  The four of them chatted for about five minutes before the coach patted Mitch on the back. Then Mitch and his trainer moved to a free area to do some warm-up stretches before he had him climb on a treadmill. The doctor hovered nearby while the coach took up a position on the wall close enough to watch the workout, but far enough away not to be a distraction.

  She watched surreptitiously as Mitch slowly worked through a routine of exercises. Most focused on his upper body, his arms in particular. She saw the way the three other men paid close attention to each element, each move, keeping their eyes on Mitch’s posture and arm position.

  Serena, on the other hand, kept her gaze glued to her husband’s face. Watched the determination etched in every hard edge. As his skin flushed with effort, his lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. She caught the pinched look of pain that he masked before the others noticed. She dropped her gaze to his injured shoulder, catching a slight tremble during each lift of weights. And the amount of weight he levered without strenuous effort was far below his normal. Even she recognized that.

  Irritation began to cloud his features. Grim resolve pushed him on, hid the anguish she’d seen, but the fierce burn in his eyes highlighted how angry he was. Then his willpower kicked in. His face became a veneer of stone when they put him through a few drills that mimicked passing a ball.

  The workout finally ended, and she waited, breath held, anxious to see what would happen next. The doctor manipulated Mitch’s arm as he asked him some questions. When he finished, the trainer handed a towel and bottle of water to Mitch then both men left Mitch standing on his own while they joined the coach, where the three huddled for a private conversation. Mitch remained rooted to the spot, wiping his face with his towel and guzzling the water. He didn’t look over at the men. He kept his gaze glued either to the floor or off into space.

  She scanned his body from head to toe, looking for any sign of distress, but saw none. Then he turned in her direction. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. He clenched his jaw. When he opened his eyes, they flared with pain. His gaze snagged hers. His eyes widened then he shut down completely. He dropped his head, hiding his eyes as he spun on his heel, turning just as the others joined him.

  They spoke quietly. She sensed the immediate shift in her husband’s mood. Had he just been cleared to play, his posture should have relaxed. Instead, it stiffened. His right hand raised then fell to his side, clenched in a tight fist. The coach placed a hand on his shoulder, said something before shaking his head. Mitch looked ready to argue, but the older man just shook his head again, said something to the others, then turned and left the gym.

  Mitch smacked his thigh. Serena flinched as the sound echoed throughout the room. Knowing her husband, he’d want to roar out his exasperation right now, but couldn’t. The man she assumed to be the doctor was still talking. Her husband held himself rigid. She knew he was listening, but his outward impression gave no indication of that.

  Finally, both men walked away, leaving Mitch standing there. Should I go to him? She wasn’t sure if she’d be welcome. So she waited for some sign from the man she loved so much her heart hurt to see him going through this. Football was the only thing he had ever wanted to do.

  Mitch turned and started walking toward her. But this time, he didn’t hide the level of agony he was in. He held his arm tight to his chest while he rubbed his sore shoulder. His posture screamed dejection. Serena realized he’d been hiding the true seriousness of his injury all along. Probably even from himself.

  She stepped off the treadmill she’d turned off long ago.

  He stopped inches away from her. “Hey.”

  She swallowed. “Hi.”

  “You saw that.”

  “You mentioned last night that you were having your reassessment today.”

  “So you thought you’d come by and watch me fail it, watch me let everyone down?”

  “Mitch.” She reached out to touch him, but he took a shaky step back. “Honey, I’m only concerned with the fact that you’re hurting. And you haven’t let anyone down.” Did he really believe that?

  “I’ve let everyone down.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “He’s sending me for some new X-rays.”

  “That’s all?” Mitch’s gaze darted away and he seemed to take an interest in the group of women leaving the Zumba session. “Please don’t shut me out again, Mitch.”

  “Doc wou
ldn’t clear me.”

  “So, you’ll give it some more time, then in a couple more weeks—”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m out for the rest of the season. Doc’s pretty certain the new X-rays will confirm I need surgery. He can feel it’s not right. He’s declaring me not fit to play.”

  Damn. “Okay. Then you’ll have the surgery, rest up and be playing again next season.”

  He shook his head. “Surgery may repair the damage, but he can’t guarantee I’ll be able to play again. Besides, after the surgery, there’s weeks, if not months, of rehab. I’ll be starting the season on the injury reserve.”

  Oh, Mitch. “It’s too early to tell, honey. Surely—”

  She watched him drag his attention away from the other side of room then he was staring into her eyes.

  “Serena, I’m through.”

  As her gut clenched, she fought to find something to say to her husband, some way to console him, but he retreated before the words came.

  “Listen, I need to go shower.”

  She swallowed. “Let’s go grab some dinner.”

  He took a few steps away from her. “Why don’t you head home and I’ll meet you there in a while, okay? We’ll decide from there.”

  He turned, but she called to him.

  “Mitch?” He paused but didn’t look at her. “Let me help you through this. Let me help you figure out your next steps.” Please don’t shut me out. We just started making things right again.

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Serena held back from chasing after her husband as he walked through the gym, weaving around other people, his shoulders sagging, his arms heavy at his sides, his head dropped forward, probably so he wouldn’t have to see his teammates watching him pass by.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ignoring the incessant ache in his arm, Mitch pushed against the door into the locker room hard enough that it banged against the wall, startling the other occupants. A few fierce glares followed him through to his locker. Mitch grabbed his shit then found an empty shower stall, opting for privacy rather than the communal route.

  He dropped his bag of clothes on the bench, stripped out of his gym clothes, then turned on the water. Stepping in under the flow, he jerked the curtain closed then stood there, letting the water fall over his head and rush down his body. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, placed both hands against the cold tile and hung his head.

  Fuck. God damn it, motherfucking.

  He snorted. Gritted his teeth. Growled. And barely managed to resist punching the wall. His body quivered in anger. Gone. It was all fucking gone. Down the fucking toilet. What now? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

  Shit! He slapped his palm against the tile, the sting hardly registering as he dropped his forehead to the wall, closed his eyes and remembered his earlier conversation with Coach and Noah.

  “I’m sorry, son. But Doc says it doesn’t look like it’s gotten any better. In fact, he pointed out the trouble you seemed to be having just holding the barbells that I hadn’t noticed at first.”

  Mitch swung his gaze from his coach to the doctor, looking for a glimmer of hope. Anything.

  “Sorry, Mitch. It’s stiff. I can see that you’re favoring it. You can’t even lift half your maximum weight. It’s swollen. It’s tender to the touch. I can see the pain you’re trying very hard to hide. I know you. Under normal conditions, you wouldn’t even be sweating like you are right now. That wasn’t a difficult workout.”

  “I won’t have you risk it, Mitch,” his coach added. “Get into the office so the doc can examine your arm properly. If he’s recommending surgery, get it. You can’t go around with it like this. I am truly sorry, but you’re out for the rest of the season, son. We’ll have to see how it is for next year, but we both know, if you need surgery, you won’t be ready for training camp either.”

  Mitch looked away from the regret and the pity in their expressions.

  “Skip the game tonight, Mitch. We’ll manage.” He’d looked at him pointedly. “After you’ve finished with the initial medical and have the doctor’s orders, head home.”

  “But the guys—” They’d blame him for the team’s failure. For losing their chance at the trophy. He’d never find his way back.

  Coach had tried to shrug it off, but Mitch had seen the defeat in the old man’s eyes. He’d never pin it on Mitch, or any of his players. It just wasn’t his way. But Mitch knew. And the rest of his teammates would know too.

  Then after they’d left, after he’d composed himself and shoved the anger deep, he’d turned to his wife. He’d seen her the moment he’d walked into the gym. Knew she was there for him. She was there to see the end of his football career.

  ‘I always knew you couldn’t hold up, son. You’re weak. Just like I said.’

  Mitch shrugged off the whisper of his dead father’s words.

  He needed to call his brother. See if there was anything he could do from a contractual angle. Force them to let him play? He couldn’t do that. But maybe they’d buy him out of his contract early. No way in hell would he sit around on the bench. If his job was over, he was out. He’d have to decide about the surgery.

  It still didn’t answer the million-dollar question, though. What the hell would he do with his life for the next twenty years?

  When he began to shiver beneath the stream of water, Mitch shut it off, anxious now to get out and back home before any of the other players showed up. He couldn’t face them. He stepped out of the stall and turned, coming face-to-face with a large mirror. He dropped his gaze. He couldn’t cope with his own guilt at the moment. No way in hell could he confront their anger, or worse, their disappointment in him.

  Mitch wiped dry and got dressed. Serena wanted to have dinner. He couldn’t promise scintillating conversation, or even that he’d be good company, but he also couldn’t leave his wife on her own. He didn’t want to be that much of an asshole. At least they could have a quiet evening together.

  After he’d shoved his dirty clothes into his bag, he lifted it, slung it over his shoulder and strode out of the locker room, avoiding eye contact with everyone. When he got to his car, he phoned Mason and waited for his brother to answer.

  “Hey, about time you called me back. How’s the arm?”

  Just like Mason—straight to the point. “Had my reassessment today.”

  “And?”

  Mitch slumped in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. With his phone held to his left ear, he rubbed his right temple. “I’m done.”

  Silence met his declaration. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Arm’s not getting better. I’ll probably need surgery. The team doctor won’t clear me.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry, Mitch.” Even though his foster brother was also his agent, he was his brother first. “Does Serena know?”

  “Yeah. She was at the gym. Listen, Mason, the reason I’m calling is about my contract. I still have another three years in the current one. What will happen?”

  “I’ll pull it out and take a look, but unless there’s a chance you’ll actually play again, we’ll look at buyout options. I’ll check into it and let you know.” Mason paused. Mitch could hear him drumming a pencil on his desk. His habit when he was deep in thought. “Have you given any thought about what you might want to do?”

  “I’ve hardly even digested the fact that my career is over.”

  “I might have an idea, if you’re interested.”

  “Sure. Whatever. We can talk about it.”

  “I hope you’re not planning on sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Shit, Mitch, please don’t go down the same path Jack did.”

  When his other brother had lost his baseball career a number of months ago, he’d turned to a bottle of whiskey.

  “Don’t worry, Mason. I have no plans to get drunk and end up married. I’m already married.” Though how his wife would feel about him in the coming months and years was up in
the air. “Speaking of which, I need to get home.”

  “Good to know. I can’t afford another out-of-town intervention.” Mason’s tone turned serious. “Listen, hang in there okay? It’s not the end of the world.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Say hi to Serena for me. I’ll be in touch.”

  They ended the call. Mitch tossed his phone on the passenger seat and placed his hands on the wheel. It may not have been the end of the world, but it sure as hell felt like it.

  * * * *

  Serena held Mitch’s hand as they strolled along the downtown street. They entered a popular corner restaurant and stood in a short line waiting to be seated. She’d suggested a steakhouse so they wouldn’t have to listen to the game on a pub television. Other than kissing her when he’d first arrived home, and agreeing to her choice of establishment for dinner, he hadn’t said much—only a handful of casual small talk comments. She searched for a way to broach the issue with him. She needed more information before she could give some thought to how to help him find a second career.

  As the waitress guided them through the restaurant to a more private booth in the back, she noticed a pretty blonde ogling her husband. It was nothing new. He was a stunning man, both in looks and physique. Add his height to the mix, and the man turned heads. But she didn’t seem to be the normal star-struck woman. Her eyes had narrowed and she chewed the side of her cheek as though she were lost deep in thought.

  Serena shifted, trying to put herself between the woman and Mitch. They settled in at the booth opposite each other and waited patiently while a young female hostess placed menus in front of them.

  “Ryan will be your server tonight. He’ll be here in a moment to take your drink order. Enjoy.”