Another Sunday, weeks later in the season

Rochelle looked up from the papers she was grading. Thank God she’d kept her job by the skin of her teeth. She suspected it was because the principal had also lost some family to violence, but she didn’t ask questions. She’d just said thank you and promised not to do anything that would bring undue attention on the school again. She’d addressed the matter with her students with a simple statement and that had been that.

Except it was Sunday, and she wasn’t watching New Orleans. She’d gone to church, mostly to placate her mama.

When her mama had heard what happened, she’d said “Girl, you need more Jesus.”

Which wasn’t wrong, even if Rochelle didn’t really want more Jesus. She didn’t really care for the sermon, but the music had moved her, so that was something, she guessed.

But now she was watching Jack Murphy and St. Louis take on that New York team. She hated that team the way that you hate the rich southern kids who go north and do good. Wanted to punch the quarterback in the face every time she thought about him.

She didn’t have to punch him in the face, though, because Jack Murphy was sacking him all the time. And from the looks of things, taunting him too. It was glorious.

It didn’t last. Jack went to tackle a receiver, which he did, grabbing him at the waist. But somehow an offensive lineman was in the same space and when the play was blown dead, Jack didn’t get up. Instead he was on his stomach, fists pounding the ground.

Rochelle’s stomach churned, and she put her hands to her mouth. What was wrong? Why wasn’t he getting up?

The team doctors came out to check on him. After a few minutes, they waved over the Gator. They lifted him onto it to drive him back for x-rays. At last, he gave a weak thumbs up.

She hid her eyes from the replay as the play-by-play team discussed what had happened. Soon, though, the game went on.

She couldn’t watch anymore. And she certainly couldn’t concentrate on her students’ papers, either.

She and Jack had been texting since the New Orleans game. Their daily text exchanges, sometimes as serious as his processing white privilege, sometimes as lighthearted as silly GIFs, took up too much of her brain space.

His foundation had started, and her family now had lawyers and therapists that came to their houses. That night, the punches, the tears—well, she wasn’t at peace with her cousin’s death, but she wasn’t controlled by it as much. She didn’t understand how she could be more okay by time spent with someone who didn’t fully understand why she wasn’t okay, but her heart didn’t seem to care. He was Jack.

It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

Now she, along with every St. Louis fan in the nation, was waiting on the results of the x-rays. The sideline reporter (cute, white, blonde) was reporting back: “Steve, X-rays show that he’s broken his ankle. He’ll be out for the rest of the season. This isn’t good news for the young player, who’s been working this season through some unusual off the field issues and trying to live up to an outstanding rookie season. Best wishes to Jack Murphy for his recovery.”

“Fuuuuuccccckkkkkkkkkkk.” She said it on a long exhale. “Oh, baby, what’s going to happen to you now?”

She sent him a text: Hey, call me if you need me. I am so sorry.

* * *

Coming out of surgery was the worst. Jack was itchy and groggy, and his ankle hurt with a fierce and unrelenting ache. Pretty normal when you have to get five screws in, but holy shit, he thought the pain killers were supposed to do something about it. Yeah, that was a morphine drip. And oh man, he didn’t want to be the dude dependent on painkillers.

Hey, there was his dad! “Hey Dad. I love you. I’m sorry you had to come here.”

His dad hadn’t been to a hospital since his wife died. He’d said once, “I can’t stomach it.” And that was it. But he was here now. Rochelle wasn’t here so he must’ve dreamed that interlude where she was stroking his hair. It was a good dream.

The nurse (there was a nurse) spoke from the other side. “How’s your pain, Jack?”

“Awful. Fucking awful.”

“Push this button.” She showed him how to work the pain pump. “If you need more and it’s time for a new dose, you’ll get it. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about getting you out of here.”

“When can I play again?”

“The surgeon and the physical therapist will be in to talk to you about that sometime soon.”

That didn’t sound good. He closed his eyes and let the morphine carry him away.

* * *

He couldn’t believe it. It was just a dumb broken ankle, but he would be out for the rest of the season. Logically, he knew that was what would happen, had seen it happen to his heroes and his team mates. But he couldn’t seem to imagine a future where he wasn’t out there on the field, getting paid to hit people, being in the middle of the action. No more sacks. Crutches. Couldn’t even carry his food to the couch. His crappy apartment in Carondelet was on the second floor. He couldn’t even live by himself anymore. Just thinking about it made his throat start to close up.

He’d prided himself on not having handlers, or life arrangers, on keeping that money in the bank for his mom’s foundation. Interest accruing and all that. He had his same truck from college. He kept his head down in his neighborhood and nobody had noticed him.

His dad didn’t like the city. He preferred his mostly country life, driving 15 minutes to the Schnucks, and going back to being surrounded by pastures. Jack couldn’t ask him to stay in the city for too long. Maybe a couple days, but Jack would be on crutches for much longer. He was still puzzling all this out from his hospital bed when his phone buzzed.

It was Rochelle: You gonna make it?

He texted back: I don’t even know. My life isn’t cut out for broken ankles. He added a sprinkling of assorted emojis. Texting with morphine was more fun.

I know. I’m so sorry, Jack. She replied to that immediately, and then the three dots hovered on the screen for what seemed forever. I’m so sorry for everything. And an emoji heart.

He replied with a thumbs up emoji and put his phone down. He drank some water. Shifted his pillows. Thought about trying his crutches again. Then there was a knock at his open door.

It was Cedric. Behind him was a nurse with a wheelchair.

“What’s up, Cedric?”

“I’ve come to spring you out of here.”

“Ced, you know where I live. I haven’t figured out what to do yet.”

“You might not know what to do, but I do. You’re coming home with me.” Cedric spoke like it was the most normal thing in the world to offer to take in an injured co-worker.

“I can’t do that! You’ve got a family, man! Your wife doesn’t want a strange man in her house.” Where ever Jack went, he would be dependent on somebody, the fact a hot coal on his skin. He’d already had to rely on Cedric’s good will once this season. But going to Cedric’s would be less hassle than hiring an assistant and finding an accessible room. And he could find a way to make it up to Cedric, maybe help out with some of the volunteer work he did.

“Exactly. I have a family. I know what it’s like. And Ceci, well, it was mostly her idea. I love you man, but I wouldn’t have thought through what it was like to live with a broken ankle like my sweet wife did.”

“You got a treasure, man.”

“More precious than rubies: that’s what she’s always telling me.”

“Well, I certainly can’t get away from you like I am, so I guess I’ll go. I don’t want to spend one more day at this hospital.”

* * *

Cedric was one of the other players that chose to live in the city. His wife had been captivated by the big old houses in the Shaw neighborhood and by living so close to a huge park. Their front yard held a lot of trees, a huge flag sporting St. Louis’s mascot, a tidy flower bed, and a Black Lives Matter sign besides the steps. Their four kids went to the Catholic school in the neighborhood, and they had shifted things around to give Jack a bedroom on the downstairs level. He wasn’t sure if he’d met Ceci before. She was a Black woman who exuded warmth and energy—he could immediately see why Cedric would’ve said yes and offered to house an injured teammate.

She gave him a tour, with extensive commentary. “Can you believe it there are some houses here that only have a bathroom on the upper level! We nixed those right away when we were house hunting. Anyway, here’s your room, here’s the bathroom—Marcus is going to lend us the shower stool he used when he broke his leg, and here’s the kitchen and the play room.” She pointed at a framed paper on a sideboard. “That’s the Wi-Fi code, and please just go wherever you’re comfortable.”

They’d stopped behind the couch in the TV room, and Jack let one crutch rest against the edge of the couch. He risked falling to reach an arm around Ceci and squeeze. “Thank you. This is… Cedric told me it was your idea and I just can’t thank you enough.”

“You just get better as fast as you can so Cedric doesn’t have to do it all by himself, okay?” She poked him in his ribs.

“I’m afraid I can’t help him this season, but I’ll be ready next year, if they still want me.”

“Go team!” She waved a fake pompom in the air. Cedric came into the room and almost knocked Jack over with a bear hug. “Oh, sorry, man. Welcome. I got all your bags in your room and I think you should be all set. I got to run to that meeting.”

Jack clumped over to the front of the sofa and sank into it. Then he swung his legs over so he could rest his ankle on the sofa arm, keeping it elevated. Shit. “Hey Ceci? I’m so sorry. Can you bring me the remote?”

He heard her laugh from a different room. “Sure, hang on,” she called. She came in a few minutes later and went to the TV console and came back with a whole basket of remotes and video game controllers. “Okay, so I’m not sure which one does what, but these are all the ones we have. We’ve got satellite of course, but also lots of video games. Just holler again if you need me.”

God, he was going to need so much in the next month or two. He’d be hollering all the time. He’d never been physically helpless like this before. He wouldn’t be able to hit people anymore. This fucking sucked. People would bring him things—he suddenly had flashbacks to all the grief casseroles his dad and he had gotten after his mom died. They hadn’t even tried to eat them, just thrown them out. He couldn’t do anything, this time. He’d have to eat the fucking casseroles.