Doug, the trainer, came over to me. “Okay, Dorsey?”
I shrugged. “Hard to breathe. Might’ve dinged a rib on the landing.”
Doug knelt in front of me, poking and prodding under the pads, then got up to his feet with a grimace. “I think it might be broken. We should get you to the locker room so I can look at it.”
“I’ll be fine. Just tape it and get me back out here.”
Doug shook his head. “Don’t be stupid, Dorsey. If it’s broken, you can’t play.”
“Then it’s not broken.” I didn’t bother telling him how many times I’d played with bruised ribs.
I’d never tried to play with a broken rib before, but I knew I had to do it. I wasn’t about to get benched my first game. Each breath, each motion was pure f**king agony, so bad my eyes stung and watered when I stood up. I stretched gingerly, stifling a gasp when the motion sent a lance of pain through me.
Doug was no fool, though. He saw the wince on my face. “You tied us up, Jason. Jarred’s got the next drive. Come on back, let me look.”
I knew I had to at least let him tape it, so I followed him off the field.
“Jason, what’s wrong?” I heard Becca’s voice from one side and saw her jostling through the crowd to the edge of the stands, cradling little Ben against her chest.
I moved to stand beneath her. “I’m fine, baby. Nate caught me in the ribs, but it’s nothing. Don’t worry, okay?”
Becca knew me, though, and she saw the pain in my eyes. “Don’t be a tough guy, please? Sit out if you’re hurt.”
“Fuck that. I’m fine.”
“Watch your language around your son, Jason Michael Dorsey.”
Doug snickered beside me. “Oh, snap, you got the full name.”
I glared at him. “Shut up, Doug.” I turned back to Becca. “Sorry, babe. But I’m fine, I promise.”
Doug moved away and beckoned to me, glancing back at Becca. “I’ll make sure he’s really fine, ma’am. Don’t worry. He doesn’t play unless I give him the okay.”
Becca seemed relieved, but the worry never left her eyes. I forced myself to perfect stillness while Doug examined my rib, refusing to so much as wince.
“Well, I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely bruised, if not cracked. I’ll have to get some X-rays done to be sure. You’re definitely not playing with it like that, though.”
“The hell I’m not. Tape it and get me back out there.” I stared him down.
“Dude, seriously.” Doug was a younger guy, thin and fit, carrying himself with authority despite the newness of his position. “It’s not worth it. You don’t have anything to prove. You just made a catch that’ll be pure gold on the Sports Center highlight reels. Sit it out, take care of yourself. Be smart so you can go back to playing that much sooner. If you play and it gets broken further, you’ll be out for weeks.”
I hung my head and rubbed the back of my neck. I knew if my dad was standing over me, he’d insist I play. Men play hard, and they don’t sit out. Unless you can’t move, you play, no questions asked.
I could almost hear his voice: Don’t be a f**king sissy, Jason. Get out there and score. You’re my son, and you’re a winner. Winners don’t quit. If you don’t get out there and play, everyone will know what a fragile little f**king bitch you are.
I’d never backed down, ever. From anything. No matter how hurt I was, I played. That had been drilled into me since I’d heard those words at age eleven, the first time I’d gotten hurt on the field. I’d sprained my wrist, and Dad had knelt in front of me, hissing those words into my face, the smell of whiskey on his breath overpowering me, making my eyes water along with the tears I knew I didn’t dare shed. I’d gone out and I’d played, and I’d scored. He’d only nodded at me, hadn’t said a kind word.
I gritted my teeth and stood up. “Tape…my f**king…ribs.” I growled the words at Doug, flexing every muscle in my body, clenching my fists, letting adrenaline surge through me.
I let my anger at my dad take over, brought up every memory of his fist crashing into me, every demeaning word. I felt myself swelling up, heat radiating from my skin, anger from my eyes.
Doug paled. “Okay, man. Okay. It’s your career, not mine.” He snagged the role of tape from the counter and stuck the end to my sternum and pulled it taut around my body, stretching it so it bound my ribs together.
I ground my teeth and clenched my fists, staring at the wall over his head. He rolled it around my torso again and again, pulling it tight and smoothing the edges together. When he was done, the agony of each breath was intense but more manageable. I donned my gear, slid my gloves onto my hands, and pulled the straps tight.
Doug stopped me with a hand on my shoulder, pale blue eyes on mine. “Jason, I’ll say it again: You shouldn’t play. I’m gonna tell Coach Payton you’re playing against my recommendation. You don’t have to prove anything. Whatever’s driving you right now, it’s gonna get you injured. Season-ending, possibly, or worse. A broken rib can puncture your lung.”
I pushed past him, my shoulder jostling his and sending a brief bolt of pain through me. It was going to seriously suck to get tackled.
Becca was waiting for me. She saw me in my gear, saw the expression on my face. I didn’t stop for her, though, even when she called my name. Ben’s babbling voice stopped me, though. I turned back and glanced at him, his innocent face lit up with excitement as he reached for me, and then I looked up to Becca’s eyes, which was my undoing.
I moved back to the stands, and Becca switched Ben to the other hip so she could reach down and take my hand. “Don’t let him push you anymore,” she murmured to me, barely audible over the noise of the stadium. “He’s not here. I’m here, and I’m proud of you.”
Her words pierced through my self-induced haze of anger-fueled adrenaline. I kissed her fingers and then continued on to the sidelines, taking my place next to Coach Payton.
“Ready, Dorsey?” he asked without looking at me. “We stopped their drive. You’re up. Let’s win this.”
I glanced back at Becca, who was watching me with a pleading expression on her face. She knew exactly what was driving me, and she hated it.
I’m here, and I’m proud of you.
When Dad had been injured, he’d been warned not to play, but he had anyway. His ankle had been f**ked up by a tackle, and if he’d let it heal, he would have gone on to play again. Things could’ve been different for him, I realized. The trainer who’d been working for the Jets at the time had recognized me at a training camp in Florida a few weeks back, since apparently I looked exactly like my dad had back then. He’d told me the story, shaking his head ruefully and bemoaning the stupid loss of what could have been a damn good career.