Stadium of Lights: A Second Chance Sports Romance (14 page)

H
e loved me
. I loved him. But that didn’t mean everything was sunshine and lollipops. Two people could feel a lot of love for each other, but it didn’t mean they could live together.

Two days after the accident, I finally felt lucid enough to talk things out. The sight of Max’s bandages getting changed was enough to rip me out of my stupor. His seared hands looked terrible.

His hands
. I gasped, which got his attention.

“I didn’t think you were awake,” he said, looking sheepish.

“Yeah, I feel like I’m always out of it,” I admitted.

“Painkillers,” the nurse said. “Believe me, with the burns to your legs and feet, you want help with the pain.”

“I’m sure,” I murmured. It already hurt enough with the meds coursing through my system. I couldn’t worry about that at the moment. The sight of Max’s hands brought tears to my eyes.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, my eyes wide as the nurse checked to make sure there was no infection, that it looked as though the burns were healing well. She seemed pleased, and I couldn’t imagine why. It was terrible looking. Maybe because I loved him. That might have been why it bothered me so much to see what he’d done to himself, and all for me.

“What do you mean?”

I snorted. “Are you the one on a ton of meds, or what?”

“Now that you mention it, yes, I’m on a ton of meds. But that’s not why I was asking.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off his hands, as much as I wanted to. They were red, raw, blistered. He couldn’t flex his fingers. “I mean, what are you going to do about your NFL career?”

A dark shadow seemed to float across his features. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah, that little thing. No big deal, I guess you’ll say.”

He grinned. “Why ask, then, if you know what I’m going to say?”

“Max, please.” I couldn’t joke about it. An injury like his could ruin his career.

He shrugged it off. “So I miss the rest of the season. No big deal.”

I could hardly believe my ears. “You? The great Max Anderson? It’s no big deal if you miss the entire rest of the season? And this from a man who wouldn’t miss a single game?”

He flinched. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why the sudden change?”

He was looking at me but cut his eyes toward the nurse who still bandaged his hands. Yes, no doubt about it. She was going a little too slowly. Listening in. A fan of the team, I guessed. So we waited until she was gone to continue our conversation.

Once we were finally alone again, he turned on his side to face me. I noticed the way he winced whenever he touched anything with his hands, and each wince was like a dagger to my heart.

“I’m not the man I used to be.” He said it simply, like there was nothing more to it than that. He’d changed.

“Pardon me if I’m skeptical—and that’s nothing about you. It’s more like I don’t believe people change that quickly. I can’t help it.”

“Well, you’ll just have to believe me, because I have. When I thought I’d lost you, and it was all my fault …” He looked away, out the window, and I saw the tears welling up in his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was tight, strained. “You’d be surprised what that will do to a man. Everything that’s not important kind of, I don’t know, slips away.”

“Even your football career? The career you worked so hard for?” I found that hard to believe.

“I’m not quitting, Abby.”

“But you don’t even seem upset about it. I can’t believe you don’t care.”

He sighed. “What do you want me to do? Throw a fit? Would that make me more credible?”

I snickered. “It would be a lot more like the you that I know.”

“I’m not that person anymore. I’m just not.” He started at me, his eyes burning with intensity. “I can understand if you don’t believe me right away. It’ll take time. I have all the time in the world.”

“You mean that?”

“I do. With everything in me. I thought you were gone forever, and I had one of those ‘moments of clarity.' Everything was so fucking clear, so true. I can’t believe I was ever mixed up about us. What a waste of time. I wasted so much time.” He rolled onto his back with another heavy sigh. “Years.”

“Years?” I felt myself sliding in and out but needed to hang on to the end. It wasn’t easy to keep my eyes open.

“Ever since we were kids. You know, if another guy had so much as looked at you, I probably would have kicked the shit out of him.”

“Convenient, since you never had to worry about it,” I said, my voice dry.

“Still, I would have. And yeah, that was selfish of me, because I was a punk. I was a punk up until the night of the accident. I never wanted to admit how I felt about you because that would mean admitting I was weak.” He saw the expression on my face and read it perfectly. “Like I said. I was a punk. A pussy.”

“No kidding,” I murmured. “Afraid of being weak.”

“But I was. Do you know how many times I heard my father tell me to suck it up because men don’t cry? Or how many times I had a coach tell me the same thing when I was a kid? Feeling things … That’s not what a man does. We suck it up and move on. And if I loved you, that was weak, too. I can’t help what I thought back then. I can’t change it.”

“I know.”

“But I
can
try to make up for it now. And that’s what I want to do. Will you let me?”

I wanted to let him. I wanted to believe everything he said. I wanted him to love him.

“I learned something a long time ago,” I whispered, fighting harder than ever to keep my eyes open.

“What?”

“It’s a lot harder not to be able to show the person you love how you feel about them than it is to know they don’t love you. You never showed me how you felt, and I learned to live with that—especially since I didn’t think you felt that way. I never would have dreamed it. But not being able to love you? That was much worse. Much, much worse. Having to hold it all inside. It was terrible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” I whispered that, falling farther than ever into sweet, narcotic-enabled sleep.

“Relax. Rest. You heal better when you’re sleeping.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” I whispered, just as I fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. Knowing he would be there when I woke up was a comfort beyond any painkiller.

* * *

“
Y
ou’re going
to need rehab.” The doctor’s face was grim.

“That’s my game,” I replied with a smile. I knew better than any of them what I would need, though I wasn’t cocky enough to believe I could manage my own program. “I’d like the freedom to consult with any physical therapist you pair me with. I’ll let them do their job, but I’m not any ordinary patient.”

“I can see that.” The doctor motioned around the room, which resembled a florist’s shop much more than a hospital room. The smell of fresh roses, hydrangeas, hyacinth and more was practically cloying, and the colorful arrangements covering every flat surface were a testament to the team’s kindness. Even the team owners had sent a massive floral arrangement which had to be placed on the floor, it was so huge.

“I didn’t mean that,” I smiled.

“I know what you meant.” Max was taking a walk around the halls, stretching his legs, so we could talk frankly. “He’s already told me all about you, while you were sleeping.”

“Oh, really? What did you find out?” This would be interesting.

“That you’re a top-rated sports physical therapist. You’re one of the best, he says. You’ve worked in Europe, as well as here in the States. And you’ll likely work in pro football leagues for years to come.”

“Wow. Better than any resume,” I replied. He laughed.

“So I know you know your business. Any therapist we pair you with will know the same.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t think I could stand being told what was best for me. Then, something else. “What about him?”

“What about him?”

“His hands. What do you think about his hands?”

He looked grim. “It will take a lot of work, and it won’t be easy. He’ll have to be vigilant against the formation of scar tissue, which could greatly impact his gripping ability. It will be painful, and he won’t want to do it sometimes.”

“Same as me,” I murmured.

“Yes. You’ll have to do similar work. Of course, the team’s owners want to be sure their investment is protected, so he’ll have a dedicated team of therapists.”

“Of course.”

“And he’ll need help doing even the most basic things for a while.”

“I understand.” That would be a lesson in humility, for sure. I wondered how well he’d deal with it.

“He loves you very much,” the doctor added, smiling in a fatherly way. “He was frantic when he couldn’t find you.”

“Couldn’t find me?”

“Yes. He was in a different room at first, and he just about mowed down my entire team of nurses and orderlies to get to you.”

“Oh.” It was all I could say. The doctor left with another smile, and it wasn’t long before Max joined me again.

“Around two miles, I guess.” He flopped down onto his bed with a satisfied smile.

“Not bad.”

“But not great,” he acknowledged. “Not the same as a good workout.”

I stared at him for a while, waiting for him to tell me what he’d really been doing on his walk. He hadn’t taken his phone with him for nothing. I saw the outline of it in the pocket of his sweatpants.

“What did the coach say?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“I know you called him. What did he say?”

He laughed. “I can’t keep anything from you,” he said, shaking his head.

“No, you can’t. I know you too well. So? Honestly.”

“He said what you’ve already said. I’ll miss the rest of the season, and anything beyond that will have to wait until my therapy progresses.”

“I guess that’s the best we can hope for.”

“I guess so.”

“Was there anybody else who could have helped me?” It had been bothering me for days.

“What do you mean?”

“Did it have to be you? Why did you do it? Especially when you knew what it could mean.”

“I didn’t care about what it could mean. Don’t you get it? I only cared about you. Getting you out of that car. I couldn’t think about anything else. And you’re okay—or you will be. But you’re alive, which is what matters. That’s all that matters. I can do anything. I don’t have to play ball.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I can coach, I can consult, I can go back to school and get my Master’s. I’ve got more money than I need, so that’s not a problem. Even so, all I need is you.” He took my face in his bandaged hands, gentle both for the sake of his hands and the burns on my cheeks. “You’re everything.”

“I want to believe you.”

“I’m sorry I made it so you think you can’t. I’m sorry I was such a prick. I’ll work the rest of my life to prove how sorry I am. I wasn’t the man I could have been, but I can become him. I swear it.”

I covered the back of his hand with mine—gently, so gently. “Okay. Let’s go for it.”

“
A
re you ready
?”

“I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear if you ask me one more time.” He was smiling, at least. I admired his perfect profile, the very sight of him still setting my heart a-flutter after being officially together for nearly a year.

“I just want to be sure you’re sure. Maybe you should sit out the preseason, just in case.”

He wasn’t smiling anymore, glancing at me from behind the wheel of the car with a scowl on his face. “How else am I supposed to show the rest of the team and the city and the whole NFL that I’m ready to play again if I don’t play tonight?”

“I know. And you’re ready—everybody thinks so, including me. I’m just, you know, concerned for you. I care more about you as a man than as a player. Sue me.”

He shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m your girlfriend.”

“I know.” He smirked. “You won’t let me forget it.”

“You can forget it anytime you want to, Mr. Anderson.”

“No, thanks.”

I giggled quietly, glancing at his hands on the steering wheel before looking away. It was a big day, one I’d been simultaneously looking forward to and dreading ever since the doctors made it clear he couldn’t play out the rest of the previous season due to the burns on his hands. All because of me. That had been a major hurdle to get over, the guilt.

Then again, if that incident hadn’t occurred that night, we might not be together. We could have kept dancing around each other, throwing insults and trying to protect ourselves from what was happening between us. There was no loss without a gain, and our gain had been a big one. We had each other, really and truly. No holding back, no fear.

We’d helped each other through physical therapy, encouraging each other during the tough times. He hadn’t suffered nerve damage, thank God, but he’d needed to work his hands continuously to avoid scar tissue tightening his muscles and affecting his grip. I’d burned my hands, legs and feet pretty badly—again, no nerve damage, but I’d needed help getting around for a while. The treatment I’d received from the doctors and physical therapists had only deepened my love for what I did. I could understand what my clients went through. It gave me a new appreciation for how it felt being in their shoes.

It was the first day back to work, really back to work, for the both of us. I’d only consulted after getting home from the hospital, slowly working my way back to the office after I could walk again. Still, it was one thing working in the off-season and another in the pre-season.

I sensed the tension in Max even though he assured me he felt fine. His pride was his biggest setback, always, so he wouldn’t admit to feeling nervous. And his pride was on the line. If he didn’t perform well …

I believed in him. I’d never seen anybody work as hard as he had, and he’d pushed me just the way he’d pushed himself. We were a power couple, as he put it, so we had to set an example. I was okay with that, as long as we were together.

* * *

I
couldn’t be
on the sidelines during the game, as much as Coach Cramer had wanted me to be there. “To watch our boy play,” as he’d put it. I appreciated his care—he’d been incredibly supportive—but it was too much for me to bear, watching Max play for the first time in a year. Even though it was only pre-season and Atlanta only used their second-string players throughout, it meant a lot to see him giving it his all out there. I had to be alone while I reacted, chewing my nails and talking to myself throughout the game.

The first half was fantastic. He’d started out a little slow, going with more running than passing plays. But once he got his confidence up, he started throwing more and more. That arm of his hadn’t been damaged in the slightest, even though he’d suffered a few pulled muscles while trying to get me out of the car that night. He was looking great. Better than ever, even. Probably because I kept him on the straight and narrow, living the clean life. No more wild nights, no more heavy drinking. He even looked younger, leaner. Handsomer than ever, too, though I shook my head and reminded myself how little that meant. I had to think of him as a professional while we were at work.

Halftime was a flurry of activity in the locker room. I was only able to give him a thumbs up as he passed by, and he winked. He was sliding right back into that cocky, confident player he used to be. I was glad to see it as long as that playing limited itself to on-field. So far, so good. He hadn’t looked at another woman since we got together. He kept his word.

By the end of the game, the score stood at twenty-one to seven. Max had thrown two touchdown passes. I could tell from the size of the smile on his face, as he pulled off his helmet to answer questions from reporters, how relieved and happy he was. My face wore the same smile. I watched with bated breath as the TV reporter approached him.

“You looked great out there tonight, Max. The fans have missed you.”

“I’ve missed them.” He waved to the screaming fans in the stands.

“We love you, Max!”

Women. I rolled my eyes with a smirk. So typical.

“You worked hard to get your hands back in shape, and it’s clear the work paid off from what we saw out there tonight. We know your team of doctors and therapists went a long way toward getting you back out here. I’m sure they’re proud of the work they did.”

He grinned, nodding. “There’s one in particular who deserves the thanks. She’s made me the man I want to be, on and off the field.” He looked into the camera, then, and my heart nearly stopped. I couldn’t catch my breath. It felt like he was looking right at me.

“And I was gonna ask her to marry me tonight when we were alone, but I guess this is as good a time as any. I want everybody to know how much I love her, and how much she means to me. I would be nothing without you, Abby Morrison. Will you marry me?”

I almost fainted. It took a second for the meaning of his words to sink in. Would I marry him? What did he think? I took off at a run, racing down the hall, through the tunnel and onto the field. I looked around wildly, searching for him in the crowd of players, coaches, and reporters.

Then I saw him on the fifty-yard line. I jumped up and down, waving, before fighting my way through the crowd to reach him. He met me halfway and caught me as I leapt into his open arms, swinging me in a circle as he did.

“Yes, yes, yes.” It was all I could say, over and over. Flashes went off all around us, people cheered, reporters asked questions. We might as well have been alone for all they mattered. All that mattered in that moment was us, the way it would always be.