The Second Jam Page 20

  I didn’t even have to try, they just flocked to me.

  Point to the bedroom and they file in.

  We broke free from our line-up and began to warm up on the field. I saw the coach waving for my attention, sidled up by Davey. I bet that douchebag wanted my spot.

  Over my dead body.

  “Crown, I want to save you for the last half. Take the bench, Son. Davey’s gonna take left forward this half.”

  Letting my best smile gleam, the one that made them question my sanity, I seethed, “The hell you are. That’s my position. I’ll play the whole game.”

  Davey patted my shoulder, “Hey man, we all want a shot to play. Take one for the team.”

  I wanted to rip that hand from its socket and watch it bleed all over his shitty white cleats.

  “You’ll regret this, Sanders,” I growled at the coach who was now nearly trembling. His damned chin was waggling like a kid whose ice cream cone had just fallen to the ground. Stomping over to the bench, I grabbed my team hoodie and threw it over my head. It wasn’t cold out, but I wanted the hood to cover what I knew was a deep frown of anger and disappointment.

  Keeping up good appearances and all that. Otherwise, I’d get a lecture from my publicist.

  I didn’t want my fans to see him get to me.

  “He just wants to see what the kid’s got, man. Don’t let it get to you.”

  Next to me was Derrick. What was with this damned team and D names? He and I had signed with the team at the same time. I guessed we were friends. We shared an apartment and hung out when there was time. He didn’t really say much to me, though I saw him chatting it up with the other players all the time. He was from Texas and whenever he drawled out something, all I heard was ‘baked beans, cowboy, horse, taters.’

  “Yeah, no shit. But isn’t that what practice is for?”

  I pulled surveillance on the little bastard as he weaved through the other team’s defenses. He was skilled, I’d give him that much. But he faltered some at the goal and missed his shot or it got blocked by the goalie, time after time. He was excellent with the process, but his execution was shit—he got cold feet. Every time he missed or fouled up a shot, I looked to the coach to pull his sorry shit from the field and put me in. But he never did. Instead my ass just became more and more sculpted to the shape of the metal bench. If someone would pants me at that point, they’d find lines indented on my ass cheeks like a piece of lewd sheet music paper. He was royally pissing me off.

  Crown Sterling didn’t sit on the bench.

  When half time rolled around, I was ready to strangle the coach with my bare hands. How dare he bench me! There wouldn’t even be a team if it weren’t for me. We wouldn’t be on a winning streak if it wasn’t for me. Hell, half the people in the stands were there just to get my autograph and take some half-assed selfie with me in it. They came to see me dominate.

  I got up and began to warm up, the anger bubbling and boiling inside me. I approached the sideline and waited, not giving that asshat coach a chance to tell me otherwise. He didn’t have a choice. I was playing whether he liked it or not. Davey hadn’t even scored any goals. He’d attempted about a dozen, but didn’t cut it. So now I’d have to get in there and pull us out of defeat.

  I’d love every second of it.

  Thirty minutes into the second half and I’d already scored two goals and flipped off the other team’s goalie under the roof of my shirt as not to get carded. The other team’s defense was fierce—no wonder Davey couldn’t do much. But it was nothing for a player like me.

  Approaching the goal again, I showed off some tricks for the crowd. Using some stellar footwork, I got around one of their fullbacks and zeroed in on the goal. One of their hotshot players, number ten, like me, zoned in on my path and we grappled back and forth for possession of the ball. I finally broke free and lined up my shot. I could hear the hoots and hollers of the crowd cheering me on, putting me on the pedestal where I belonged. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as my foot connected with the ball I knew so well.

  I saw the ground coming toward me and the realization poured over me slowly like warm honey. It wasn’t until I felt the blades of grass against my face that it registered that I was the one plunging to the ground and not the other way around.

  And then devastating pain.

  I watched the crowd who showed me unfettered adoration stand up as I looked up at the stands..

  The whole thing took hours in my mind.

  Whistles blew and the roars got louder. Above me, I could see the robotic hovering cameras buzzing in for their close-up.

  I realized the blow, but didn’t know what it was until I tried to regain my ground and realized where the pain was emanating from.

  Throbbing pulsed along my leg and a liquid warmth polled along the back of my knee.

  Looking down in the direction of the sensation, I saw blood on my shorts and bone protruding from my leg. My knee was shot to hell, shattered beyond recognition.

  Crown Sterling was out for the count.

  ~~

  My knee wasn’t only shot to hell, it was shattered. Surgery was my only option—followed by physical therapy and tons of rest.

  I didn’t know how to rest.

  Crown Sterling doesn’t rest.

  I looked around my hospital room, knee casted up and clear, liquid-filled tubes coming out of my arms and took in the people around me.

  Publicists and their assistants, my personal assistant and the team’s publicist are in a fury, dodging interviews and making sure perfectly placed information is accidentally leaked. These were not the people I wanted to see when I woke up, so for a while I just kept my eyes closed and pretended to go back to sleep. I could hear the deals being brought to the table, either to be taken or to be turned down—forty grand for an exclusive two minute statement—one million for an interview with me in the hospital—a hundred grand for a picture.

  Of course I’d take them all. The only deals I’d ever turned down were those that made me look like a puss.

  “I need everyone to exit the room. Mr. Sterling needs his rest and the other patients are complaining.”

  I heard a heel stomp against what I assumed was the polished white tiled hospital floor. That was Gina. The woman wore heels no matter what. I’d once seen her stomp across the newly plotted soccer field in a pair of shoes that looked like they were meant for hooking, ruining the ground in a path of anger until she reached me—to tell me about some bullshit deal for athlete’s foot cream.

  Nope.

  Puss deal.

  “We are his team. Anything you have to do, just do it. And honestly, you people should’ve put him in a more private room.”

  I could practically hear the bitch voice rear up in the nurse. You didn’t have to have your eyes open to know that kind of fury was on the cusp of being let loose. Silently, I heard the nurse, now next to me, flip papers on what I assumed was a clipboard of my medical records.

  “In this hospital, ma’am, everyone is just another patient. So, you can either leave or I can call security. I’m assuming you being hauled out by our security guards wouldn’t be good for appearances.”

  Gina guffawed at the gall of this measly little nurse, but a marching tune of heel clicking and door squeaking let me know they may not agree, but they were complying nonetheless.

  “You can open your eyes now, handsome. Cruella and the nineteen dwarves are gone.”

  Squinting against the overbearing fluorescent lights, I met her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “No sweat. You were fluttering your lids too much. Might want to work on that if you want to pull that stunt again.”

  This girl was blonde and perky in attitude and all the other right places. She paid no attention to my appraisal as she scribbled down blood pressure numbers and fiddled with whatever was dripping down into my veins.

  “What’s your pain like, one to ten?”

  I shrugged. “It’s getting bad. Maybe eight.” It was a bold faced li
e, but being knocked out was better than facing the bullshit in front of me.

  The incapacity that was now me.

  “You’ve been here for two days and you’re not throwing up. We can move you to big boy pills. You’re eating well?”

  No, I wasn’t eating well. I, like everyone in the world, had heard the shit about hospital food and it was all true. I’d asked Gina to smuggle me in something decent, but she must’ve been too preoccupied making me deals to pay attention or follow through.

  “Yeah, here and there.”

  Naturally, she followed up the eating questions with more questions about how the food was coming out and little by little her attractiveness was fading.

  “I’ll go get your pills. You want those other pills allowed back in here?”

  I popped a shoulder in aloofness and forced my stare out the window.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Not two seconds later, Gina and the rest of the hungry pack were back in action, not even pretending to heed the noise warnings set forth by the bubbly, nosey nurse.

  I’d forgotten to close my eyes as they entered, so faking sleep was out of the question.

  “There’s our superstar!”

  Jesus. Could she get anymore cartoon mom?

  I turned a cold eye on her pseudo-elation and cleared my throat—hospital breath was a real bitch.

  “So what’s the plan here?”

  That changed the attitude in the room.

  Gina straightened her already straight, way too tight for a middle-aged woman skirt and came by my bedside to hold my hand. “Well, Crown, you’ve got a lot of recuperating to do. That’s our priority—getting—you—better.” With each word came a pat to my hand. I thought maybe I’d heard her talk to her hairless Chihuahua in the same tone once.

  “I know that. I mean, am I going to some physical therapy center? What?”

  “We’ve got some amazing options for you.” She smiled at me revealing an eye tooth marred with spot of her red lipstick.

  Options? There were no options. There was only one path to be taken here. I would go to the Woodlands Sports Clinic, a place I knew some of the other players had gone to, and I would recover in six weeks and be back on the field—period.

  In the meantime, I’d have to watch the failure that was a team without me unfold on the television.

  “Cut to the chase before I fire you.”

  She flinched at that notion.

  “Well, considering the circumstances, your fame, the press and your need for some—downtime—we think the best option would be for a low-key residential situation with a medical staff to attend to you there.”

  I scooted up and pushed the button to lift the head of the bed to a seated position.

  “Downtime? The last thing I need is downtime. And the Woodlands is very strict about the paps. It won’t be an issue. Get them on the phone. I will tell them who I am—simple as that.”

  I snapped, like snapped them to attention with my fingers.

  But no one moved.

  Someone should move when Crown Sterling snaps his fingers, for Christ’s sakes.

  “You see, Crown, there’s more to it than that.” My manager, I called him Geraldo, but his name was Gerald, I thought, mimicked my snap, and the rest of the team jumped to attention and retreated from the room. His nose and moustache moved as his mouth talked. It was the only thing I could see when he was speaking to me. “Given your financial status—and we’ve explored all the choices—the only thing you’re left with is Rougon.”

  Rougon—what the hell was a Rougon? Sounds like one of those burlesque clubs. Yeah, I could be down with that.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He looked out the window as he continued to speak. “Rougon is where your uncle Eric lives in Louisiana. You do remember your family, right? He’s agreed to let you live in one of his rentals while you recover for free.”

  Hold—the—eff—up.

  Do I remember that I have a family?

  I don’t remember paying this bastard for his extraneous lip. I remember paying him to do a job.

  “I make over two hundred grand per week, Geraldo. Given that financial status, I can stay wherever in the hell I want to. Anyway, I haven’t spoken to Uncle Eric since I was a kid. How in the hell did you even find him?”

  Tugging at his tie, he laughed, but nothing was funny. “He found us, actually. Given the way you blow your money, Slick, living somewhere for free means you get to eat.”

  Slick—he called me Slick.

  The beeping noises on the machines next to me began to flit out of control and before I could argue anymore, there was a needle in my arm and a black cloud in my head, taking me away.

  Maybe Perky Nurse decided I wasn’t as ready for big boy pills as she thought.

  Three days later, against my will, I boarded a plane, and ungracefully took my seat. Looking around at the posh interior, taking in the smell of the leather seats and the champagne just popped open by the flight attendant, I figured this was my last hurrah.

  Pouring bubbly into Geraldo’s tall glass, the flight attendant winked at me but then as her gaze moved down to my lifeless leg propped up on the seat across from me. She pouted her lip out in a ‘that’s too bad’ expression.

  Yeah, it was too bad—too bad she’d never get to experience being crowned.

  That’s what the girls called it when they got to spend the night with me.

  Looking out the window, I bid farewell to all the things I loved—my apartment, my team, my status.

  Beginning that day, I had only one goal in life—get my life back.

  Well, as much as I could get back.

  It turned out that I had been a little frivolous with my money. Apparently, all my Kobe beef had been bought on a credit card to the tune of a hundred grand per month—the insurance on my Lamborghini was almost as much as the car—and the kicker? The real, kick you in the balls and leave them throbbing while holding the bag of ice a few inches away kicker?

  My agent had negotiated a contract for me that included not getting paid in the chance of an injury.

  He was at the top of my shit list as soon as I could walk well enough to beat his beady-eyed ass.

  Everything in my life had gone to hell because of one blown out knee.

  Louisiana—the birthplace of people who ate red things that crawled on the bottom of the river, making other creatures’ excrement their diet, the place where, according to the pictures on the internet, they threw plastic beads and listened to accordion music. These people wore dirty, tattered clothes and took boats from place to place.

  That’s just the place I wanted to go.

  After I was in a coffin.

  Ignoring the gaze of my manager, I focused on the clouds around me as we traveled. I tried every hard not to hear the cover up stories Geraldo was feeding to the press. Finally, unable to cope with his constant stares, I popped two frivolous pain killers and spent the rest of the flight in blissful ignorance.

  It took an hour to get me off the plane. I hobbled like a peg-legged pirate down the narrow stairs that led from the jet to the ground.

  They must’ve kept this very secret.

  “There’s no one here.” I hinted at Geraldo, who was on the phone, again.

  He pressed a few fingers to the speaker on his cell and said, “No one knows you’re here. That’s the point.”

  He could’ve at least leaked the info to the press. A few pictures of me in this lame wheelchair should’ve drummed up some pity if nothing else.

  The wheelchair had ‘Property of MSY’ scribbled on the seat and back in a thick, black permanent marker. Sloppily, I backed into a sitting position and let out a great ‘Oomph’ as I plopped my leg onto the stirrup. When I did, a pungent, ammonia smell wafted up from the chair.

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s property of the airport. Nothing we could do.”

  Nothing he could’ve done. I was a professionally paid soccer playe
r and suddenly I couldn’t afford to have a decent, non-piss-smelling wheelchair brought in?

  Either I was in deeper than I thought or Geraldo was hiding something.

  Rat bastard.

  We sat there, outside the airplane a little too long while he talked on the phone pacing around. The sun was baking me and the air in this place felt like I was in a steam shower.

  I missed my steam shower—and my sauna.

  These Louisiana people probably hosed off in the yard.

  Finally, Geraldo clicked off his phone and gave a one-handed gesture to the guy in coveralls who’d been recruited to push my lame ass to the car. I looked at the chain-link fence around the airport feeling the tug of remembrance. When the team touched down at airports, the fences were lined with girls pressing their bodies into the diamond shapes, lips, hands, and boobs would be squeezed in, waiting for us to just touch them.

  I had always taken advantage of that situation.

  While burning in the sun on the way to the car, I turned my phone back on, out of airplane mode and waited for the mass influx of texts, calls and e-mails. My phone temporarily cheered me up, beeping for me.

  It was like my own digital applause from afar.

  “Here.” Geraldo pointed to a black Lincoln that befit the situation. It looked like a hearse and I resembled death.

  On the way, we passed through the city which looked like it had seen better days. A cemetery on my left had coffins covered in cement above the ground. Still woozy from my pain killers, I dozed off again, hoping they would let me sleep through the whole six weeks of recovery