After Haley left, I paced back and forth in my living room, pumped full of energy. I called Coach Harris. When he didn’t answer, I went upstairs to get my tablet to check the damage online.

Most of the idiots calling for me to be cut from the team didn’t understand the whole story. I wasn’t able to come out and say my ex-wife had done it to me because I had no proof.

Upstairs, I grabbed the tablet and sat down on my bed. As soon as I turned it on and read the message boards at ESPN. I glanced over the comments. They were getting uglier.

How the fuck could she do this? Either of them. I needed someone smart and discreet.

I stood up, still holding the tablet, and headed downstairs for a glass of water. At the bottom of the stairs, I saw a new thread pop up with the hashtag #ChezLouieLives.

“What the hell?” I muttered as I tapped the screen and opened the thread.

My eyes were immediately drawn to an old photograph of me at my parents at the Grand Re-Opening for Chez Louie two years earlier. Who posted the photo? I wondered as I scrolled down the page.

The comments were surprisingly positive, saying that the naked photo leaked by an anonymous person wasn’t a big deal and that helping the local community mattered more.

I flipped over to Twitter and saw the hashtag trending on their front page. Oh, shit! Emails poured into my inbox again, this time with more positive subjects – at first.

The trolls soon went into overdrive, causing #TobyCock to rise up out of nowhere as a popular hashtag in the emails flooding my inbox and the posts on Twitter and Facebook.

“Fuck,” I said, throwing the tablet on the carpeted floor.

Unsatisfied with the thump, I turned and kicked the nearest object, which turned out to be the stairway bannister. Pain flashed through my foot as my foot made contact.

“Fuck!” I yelled again, much louder.

My toe throbbed. I almost fell to the floor when I tried to put all my weight on it.

While most people would have been able to get a ride to the hospital or call an ambulance, I did not want a fresh wave of memes to hit the internet about me.

I stumbled forward toward the door, stepping on the tablet and cracking the screen. What the hell is going on today? Am I cursed or something? I took another step.

“You got this,” I told myself then thought, call Haley!

I threw the idea away without giving it a second thought. She was the one who had gotten me into this mess by taking those damn photos in the first place.

When I made it to the front door, the pain in my big toe worsened. Even if I somehow got back on the team before the playoffs, I’d never be able to play with a broken toe.

Had I broken it? I needed to get to my private doctor. Coach Harris would go ballistic if he found out I’d hurt myself too. The Browns would be the laughingstock of the league.

Step by pain-filled step, I walked down my front steps and toward the Maserati. Even with favoring my left foot, the pain in the right one intensified as I hobbled closer to the driveway.

You got this, I told myself, breaths coming quick and shallow as I fought through the pain. I’d done it many other times during games, but the pain-killers they gave me had made it tolerable.

The pain coursing through my body every time I stepped down on the foot was on another level. A lifetime later, I reached the car and got behind the steering wheel.

Too bad they don’t have those self-driving cars yet, I thought as I pressed the button to start the car. When I put my right front on the brake to get the car in gear, I cried out.

“Fuck!”

Using my left foot to hold the brake down, I put the car in reverse. My heart pounded as I gingerly disengaged the brake. The car shot backward, freaking me out.

I stomped down with my right foot, forgetting it was still over the gas pedal. The pain and my surprise at the sudden speed caused me to twist in my seat.

When I grabbed the steering wheel, the car cut to the left and slammed straight into an old oak on my front lawn. I took a deep breath. Two seconds later, the airbag went off.

“Fuck!”

Can this fucking day get any worse?

I smashed the airbag down. The pain in my toe increased tenfold as I reached into my pocket for my phone. After a few swipes and taps, I put the phone to my ear.

Come on, Haley. Answer.

The call went straight to her voicemail. Could I blame her for turning her phone off? I’d yelled at her like a total asshole. I’d shut the door in her face like a prick.

My only real friends were on the team, and they would be under orders from Coach Harris not to talk with me until he decided what to do with me.

I was screwed.