The Game (That Girl, #2)
H.J. Bellus
Dedication
To my husband.
You listen to me complain and celebrate.
Hold my hand through it all.
A king wouldn’t trade his crown for this!
Prologue
1982
“You have to come, Levi. You’s my best friend, and my mom is making us special food and everything.”
“I just have to ask my dad.”
All the enthusiasm from Brady’s face disappears; he knows what the answer will be. Levi never gets to attend parties or sleepovers.
“I’ll just sneak some leftover cake into my backpack and bring it to you at school on Monday.”
“I’ll be there, Brady, even if I have to run away.”
The outcome was inevitable. Levi never stood a chance of living a normal childhood. Time after time he was told…
“Winners are born, and champions are groomed to perfection, son.”
His father’s simple response every time, and Levi knew it meant no.
Levi never stood a chance at a real life.
Chapter 1
Levi
“Surgery went well, Levi, but it looks like you’ll still be out about two full months. You should be back on the field mid-season. My advice is to rest up and follow your physical therapy to perfection.”
“Two months?” I question, hoping I heard him wrong.
“Levi, your body can’t take many more hits, and it definitely deserves a full recovery.”
Trying to sit up in the bed, I begin to argue again. “But football is my…”
“It’s only going to take one wrong hit on your spine, and you’re done. Done, as in the rest of your career, or finished, as in a wheel chair. Without a full recovery, your chances of being in a wheelchair the rest of your life is heightened.” Dr. Valentine hesitates a moment, jotting down some quick notes on a prescription pad, and then continues. “It’s your choice, Levi. You need to give your body the time it needs to heal. I will be the only one clearing you to play again.”
The doctor’s words are crystal clear, and I can see none of my razzle dazzle and shit-talking will convince him otherwise. The words finished and done scare the living shit out of me. They are my worst nightmare and truly haven’t been a reality for me until now. I feel it every morning when I get out of bed. Muscles, bones, and joints all scream in protest with every single movement. Just the simple act of tying my shoes has been painful.
I knew it would be a vicious tackle to take me out, and it was. In a f*cking pre-season game where it’s understood to take it easy on the players, especially the first string. I guess karma is a bitch. I saw number eighty-two flying my direction, but chose to put all my faith in my linemen to block him or at least hold him off until I released the ball. There was a wide-open receiver for a gain of about twelve yards, but I wanted the long bomb for the TD. When I saw my receiver finally open up in the end zone, it was just about the exact time the defender took me out. Lost the ball, lost the game, and lost my opportunity to play for two months.
“Want me to contact your father? You’ll need someone around.”
“No, I’m good.”
“Levi, I can’t stress to you how important this recovery is. You’ll need someone around for physical and mental help. I don’t think any of your blonde bombshells will be much assistance at all.”
His last words make me laugh because he’s absolutely right. None of my frequent weekend entertainment is in it for the long haul. They’re all plumb satisfied with a weekend full of hot and heavy sex.
“No, don’t call my dad. I don’t need his judgmental, overbearing ass on me.”
“Well, you’re going to need some type of assistance over the next two months. Who else is here in Dallas?”
While finally being able to shift my head enough to look out the window, I answer, “I’ll have my driver pick me up.”
“You’ll need help, Levi.”
“I’ll f*cking take care of it.”
Everything inside of me wants to pick up the nearest object and chuck it at the window or the doctor’s face. Glass breaking or some bones crushing under my hands would feel brilliant right about now. I have nothing left to live for until I can get back out on that field.
If I were my brother, Lincoln, I’d have a loving wife and a dog at home to comfort me while I heal. Instead, I have trophy case after trophy case to console me—oh, and my three Super Bowl rings. The one thing about the trophies and rings is they are amazing and life altering to win in the heat of the moment and during the passion of the game, but the metal grows cold mighty fast, leaving behind rapidly fading memories.
My dad has always groomed me to be a living legend, something to talk about for years and years. Football was and has been my only option, throwing the pigskin in the back yard after school and on weekends, attending every single football camp within a hundred miles of home, and watching tape after tape of game films. I could recite any playbook when I was six years old. Lincoln, on the other hand, loves football as well, but played it his way. He did it without Dad’s approval. And that’s my biggest regret; I wish I could’ve been strong like him. Instead, I was molded into my dad’s dream.