It sucks sitting in the Pavilion, watching the Pro Combine with Carrie and Coach Thibs and Coach Taylor. Not that I don't enjoy the company. I do. But watching the other tight ends go through their drills and stations, I want to be out there. My hands are constantly wringing, and my feet twitch as I watch them do their drills, wishing I could be taking part. But not yet.

"Oh, come on, they invited that guy?" I ask as the tight end from Northern Virginia runs the 40-yard dash. "He's a blowhard with weak hands, and he can’t read blocks!"

"Tell us how you really feel," Carrie teases me, smiling a little bit. The past few weeks have been awesome, although Carrie's been looking a little tense. I can understand. I've been feeling tense too. While I'm sitting here trying to focus just on rehab, there are two other members of the Western Bulldogs who got invites to the Combine. Tyler already had his workout with the other quarterbacks, while tomorrow, Joe Manfredi gets a chance with the defensive backs. Today, though—today is the tight ends, and I'm watching my competition on the screen. "I mean, don't hold back at all."

"He is holding back," Coach Taylor jokes. "At least, based off that stream of curse words that would make a sailor blush that he let go the other day."

"Hey, I missed the weight," I weakly justify. "I got pissed. Besides, considering what you do in the weight room, I'm the Pope."

"Still, I didn't know there were so many different ways to use the word 'fuck' in a single sentence without repeating yourself," Coach Thibs jokes. "You might want to work on that before you do the sit down interview portion of the Pro Day."

"Speaking of which, thanks for delaying it as much as you guys did," I say. One week before the draft, and I'm having to do a Pro Day. I could skip that too, but it'd hurt my draft position. The pro teams know about my elbow. There was no way to hide it after the first injury, and certainly not after my surgery. I have to show them that not only am I changed as a person, but full-strength as a player. I need the Pro Day. "Are Tyler and the other guys upset about it?"

Coach Thibs shakes his head. "Nah. Only Tyler and Joe have a legit shot at the League. The rest of the guys, they might get some indoor contracts or overseas, if they're willing to deal with the cultural stuff. So for them, they're figuring on not getting drafted anyway. But having a little more time to be polished and strong for a Pro Day might get them an invite to a training camp. So they're cool with it. How about you?"

"I—I'm good. My elbow’s feeling as good as I assume it's going to be for a while, and I'm getting stronger still."

In reality, I'm not good. I'm nervous as hell, but I don't need to tell Coach Thibs that. Instead, I finish watching the review of the tight ends who did the Combine, a whole day's worth of stuff condensed to a single two-hour special. The best part, at least to me, was the analyst review at the end. "So with fifteen tight ends displaying their skills at this year's combine, there is still a sense of incompleteness with the absence of what many scouts are saying is potentially the best tight end available this year, Western's Duncan Hart."

"That's true, Tony," the other analyst says, a former player whom I remember watching growing up. "If it wasn't for an early season reputation for being a hothead, a half-game suspension after being tossed from the Clement game, and of course, the elbow injury that forced him out of the crucial minutes of Western's loss in their last home game, Hart was in line for quite a few awards. With on-field numbers like he put up, it's hard to argue that he could potentially be a top ten pick, something that hasn't happened for tight ends in over a decade. While reports from Western say that Hart is currently rehabbing from elbow surgery, his second in a year on his left arm, he will participate in a Pro Day for the scouts at Western."

"Hart's a good player, and in the latter half of the season, he showed a lot more maturity to go with that amazing talent," the first analyst objected, "but I don't agree with the hype of him being a top ten pick. I'm not saying he's not a great tight end, but with the current needs of the teams in the top ten, they'd be better to spend the money and the picks on the bigger issues like quarterbacks, the big linemen, and linebackers. I wouldn't be all that surprised if Hart falls all the way to the second round, and maybe the third if his Pro Day isn't as successful as he's hoping."

"That ain't going to happen," Carrie says next to me, her inner fire showing. "I'll kick your ass if it does."

"Yes, Ma'am!" I retort with a mock salute, which earns a smile from everyone. "Speaking of kicking my ass, shouldn't we get to work? I mean, watching this is nice and all, but I need to get my work done too."

Carrie gives me a kiss, and we leave the coaches' office, going down to the weight room. If there has been anything that has been good about my rehab, it's been the opportunity to work with Carrie again on a daily basis, both in rehabbing my arm and in getting everything else ready to go. Except for the skill work that I've been working with Coach Thibs on, Carrie's been my main trainer, spending two to three hours a day with me. And like over the summer, she goes rep for rep with me.

We get changed and set up the safety squat bar, a device I hate with a passion but with my elbow screwed up, I have to use. "This thing always knocks me off balance," I gripe as I set up for the first warm-up set. "Why'd they make it this way anyway?"

"Precisely to knock you off balance," Carrie replies with a laugh. "If you get off balance, you have to keep your form tight. You can't just bounce and momentum your way out of the hole."

"No shit," I grunt as I start the reps. It's not too bad at first. The bar's only sixty pounds, but as we add plates, it gets harder and harder. I have to keep my stomach tight and my hips under control, or else, I start to fall backward. We work side by side in adjacent squat racks, and after I leave, my legs feel like they're about to catch on fire.

"What's next?"

“Kettlebell swings. We're going to up the weight, thirty-five pounds this time. Just remember to keep the hand palm downward, and it'll be fine on the elbow."

I nod and wait while Carrie goes through her final set, gritting her teeth and grunting the last few reps, and it's amazingly sexy, especially with her ass stretching her shorts tight each time she goes down. Watching Carrie work, motivation to push harder is easy to find.

We get through the rest of the workout, including the five minutes of hell at the end that Carrie deceptively calls 'high-intensity intervals’. I call them five minutes of hell, but I know that in terms of creating football-based endurance, there isn't much better. As the moon rises behind the hills in the east, I'm wiped, but still, the little worm that's been twisting in my guts since seeing the special on the Combine won't let go. We go back to the apartment, and Carrie breaks out the massage oil, a nightly treat that both of us enjoy since I always return the favor, which usually leads to the bed.

"You're tense tonight," Carrie says as she rubs the eucalyptus-laced oil into my back. "What's wrong, babe?"

I chuckle, thinking about how the first time I ever called Carrie that, I nearly killed our relationship. Now, we use it, but only when we're having fun with each other, trying to get the other person to answer a difficult question. "Sorry. Just having a hard time letting go today."

"I noticed. It showed in the sprints and jumps at the end there. Even with the squats we did, you were off."

I nod and lay my head down on the pillow. Maybe it's not a professional massage table, but having the woman you love rub soothing oil into your back should be done on a bed, not a table anyway. "Yeah, I know. I guess I'm just worried. All that talk I did, I'm still worried that I'm going to screw up come Pro Day. We've only got a few weeks."

"And your plan is put together by the best of the best in the country, and you're right on schedule," Carrie replies, her thumbs working magic on my spine as they work in alternating outward circles. "What's really bothering you?"

I sigh, the tenseness inside mixing with the outer muscular relaxation in an unpleasant blend. I know what Carrie's doing. She's trying to massage my mind as much as she is my body, and it's coming out. Months together, and I'm still shocked at the strange mix of biology, exercise science, psychology, and just in general bad assedness Carrie's picked up in her studies so far. “This is the first time I'm really operating without a net?"

"You mean your Dad's money?"

I nod. Carrie's insight is clear. "Yeah. My entire life, I could go all out, knowing that if I fu— I screwed up, I’d have a bail out. In some ways, I'm surprised I didn't screw up more often, just in order to get his attention. But now . . . now, there's no safety net, not even his money. I'm going to have to back myself, and it’s a new feeling.”

I chuckle and open an eye to look up at Carrie, whose eyes are so full of understanding, I feel something move in my chest. "I guess you do understand. You've been backing yourself your entire time here. How have you done it?"

"By being scared almost all the time," Carrie says, leaning down and kissing my cheek. "But by doing it anyway. I was scared about loving you. I was scared that I was opening myself to a whole realm of heartbreak. I was scared when I told you no outside the stadium. But I did it anyway."

"You did," I whisper, smiling. "And that worked out well, hasn't it?"

"Because you got over being scared of yourself," Carrie reassures me. "You backed yourself then, and I'm backing you now. Now relax, and let me get your muscles as loose as they need to be before we get ready for bed."

"Hmm, I like getting ready for bed with you. Too bad we're going to have to restrain ourselves for a few days around the Pro Day."

"Oh, I'll still be here for you," Carrie reassures me as her fingers find the tired muscles of my hamstrings and begin to knead them gently. "Maybe we can't be as frisky as normal, but I’m here for you."

I relax, letting go at least for the moment, knowing that Carrie is here for me. Her hands never tire, and when she has me turn over, I pull her to me, ignoring the rest of the massage. "I didn't do anything for my chest or arms today. I think we can skip that," I say softly as I kiss her. “How about we work up an appetite before dinner?"

* * *

There are a lot of scouts in attendance, which I guess helps some with my nervousness. After all, if they didn't think I was worth the time, they wouldn't still be sticking around, right?

Tyler's getting ready to run his three-cone drill again, after we've done our forty-yard dashes. Tyler ran a better time at the Combine, but he still has a decent 4.9-second time today, decent enough for a quarterback. His big test would come later as he goes through his throwing drills.

My forty was a personal best, 4.67, a very good time for a tight end, and I'm up next for the three-cone drill, something the scouts look at more for a tight end than the straight forty.

Tyler finishes his drill and goes off to warm up for the throwing drill while I square myself on the first cone. The lateral shuffle is important, and I explode as fast as I can, my feet remembering without me even thinking about the hundreds, if not thousands, of reps that Carrie and I had done since my surgery. With my arm limited, we'd spent a lot of time running.

"Six point seven five seconds!" Coach Thibs, who's acting as the timekeeper, calls out as I cross the final cone. It's all laser timed. Western doesn't want there to be any doubt about the validity of our times, and I'm happy. That's a good running back time, let alone a tight end.

I grab my water bottle and go to the side, where Carrie is smiling and has a towel for me. "Nice. Time for the heavy stuff, then you've got routes. You're nailing it."

"Yeah, but the hard stuff's next."

Carrie pats my chest and shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. Remember, I'll be there the whole time. In fact, I talked Coach T into letting me be your spotter for the bench test."

"I hope you wore your panties then. I don't want to be distracted," I tease, and she slaps my chest harder, blushing. We go into the concourse of the stadium, where the bench is set up for the convenience of the scouts. I go over and do a few reps to warm up, getting the motion down, and roll up, ready to go.

"Okay, you can lift off. Time starts when the bar descends for the first time," Coach Taylor, who's scoring and running this event, says. Carrie gets onto the spotter's platform and helps me set the bar up in my hands, giving me a confident nod as we get the bar into position. I'm locked, and I start.

I've worked the bench a lot over the past few weeks, and I focus on making each rep perfect, lifting and lowering the 225 pounds exactly to form. The burn starts right about rep twelve, the fire spreading up my triceps from my elbows to my shoulders, and then across my chest. I'm trying to use my back even to help squeeze the bar and pin my elbows, trying to keep it as tight as possible, and forget about the count. Carrie's looking into my eyes, her brown gaze letting me set aside the pain for a moment, and I squeeze out three more before the bar pauses, and she catches it, guiding it into the safety catches.

"Thirty-two," Coach Taylor says. "Better than anyone at the Combine!"

I'm gasping for air, but glad. I have fifteen minutes, then the one non-standard event for our Pro Day. At the urging of Coach Taylor, I'm going to do a deadlift demonstration, putting my left arm in the greatest strain I could place it in, just so everyone sees that my elbow is of no concern. The bar is set up, and I see that seven teams have their scouts watching.

The idea is grueling, and straight out of Coach Taylor's strongman days. Starting with 315 pounds, I lift the bar once, then on command, set it down, where Carrie and Coach T put a twenty-five-pound plate on each side. I lift again, set it down, and the process repeats itself.

I work my way up to 465, and I can hear the scouts whispering to themselves. I'm getting into the heavy territory, where a lot of tight ends fail. I'm tall, with long legs. I'm not built for this like Coach T is. It doesn't matter.

Finally, at 615, I have to hitch the bar up, and I set it down, the demonstration finished. My lower back and hands feel like someone just coated them in napalm and set them on fire, but I'm happy with the looks in the scouts’ faces.

"Damn good job, son," one of the scouts says as he leaves. "Hope you saved something to run routes though."

Tyler's also nervous, but we've got five receivers and me running for him. He's got plenty of options, and I've got plenty of rest in between reps. The cuts are sharp, my extension is good, and by the end of our demonstration, including Tyler hitting me with a very nice forty-yard-long heave, I'm happy. We nailed it.

The first thing I do after the last toss is grab Carrie in a hug, lifting her up and swinging her around. She's been just as nervous as I have. I've seen it in her face. She even threw up this morning because she was so nervous, something I'd never expect her to do, but now, she's just as happy as I am. "You did it, Duncan! You were amazing!"

"No. We did it," I tell her, setting her down. “I could’ve never done it without you.”

Before Carrie can say anything, a man coughs politely behind us. "Excuse me, Duncan?"

I turn to see a man in his forties, maybe about two inches shorter than me, one of the scouts from the Pro Day. He's wearing a Jacksonville Wildcats jacket, and I remember him from the deadlift demonstration. He was the one who asked if I still had something left to run routes with. "Yes, how can I help you, sir? I hope I did well enough for the Wildcats to feel I didn't waste your time."

"Waste our time?" the scout asks with a laugh. “That was one of the most impressive Pro Day performances I've seen in eighteen years of doing this gig. By the way, I'm Scott Browning, head of scouting for the Jacksonville Wildcats."

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Browning. This is my girlfriend and trainer, Carrie Mittel."

Carrie shakes hands with Browning, who beams. "You helped him prepare for this? You must be good."

"Thank you, Coach Taylor," Carrie says demurely. "He's the one who taught me so much."

"Duncan, I wanted to come by and congratulate you on a hell of a workout, and I was wondering . . . what would you say to playing in Jacksonville next year?"

I stop, blinking. "The Wildcats? Really?"

Browning nods. "Really. We got ourselves a hell of a deal a while back in a trade with Seattle. You may remember it. We got Troy Wood, and the way it fell out, the Hawks’ first round draft pick in this draft. On the bad side, we had to give up our best wide receiver and a right tackle. Still, it was enough to get us to the Wild Card round of the playoffs, and this year, the coaches are telling me to look for offensive talent. I was thinking, if you're still on the board, that is, on using that number nine draft pick we've got to pick you. What do you say?"

I look at Carrie, who nods.

I laugh and look back to Browning. "I'd say if you do, I'll be happy to sign with the 'Cats."

"Great. Now, that's not formal. I still need to talk to the GM and coaches, but I swing a little weight around there. If you can, keep your schedules clear, and the team will probably want to fly you down to Florida for some interviews, see how you mesh with everyone. Say, Spring Break time?"

I nod, then hold up a finger. "One request, Mr. Browning. Think you can make it two tickets? Carrie trained me, and she should get a chance to go too."

Browning smiles while Carrie looks at me in happy surprise. "I think we can arrange that. I'll be in touch, Duncan. Great work today."