As for Reynolds, his days of raking in a hefty salary for doing nothing are over. After the Knights throw him to the wolves, he’ll be done in football He’s not prepared. After watching from the sidelines for the past ten years, how can he be?
For his sake, I hope he’s able to retire in one piece because if he survives without sustaining a major injury, I’ll be surprised.
Lying face-down on the floor, Levi listened as a respected member of national media tore him, his career, and his team to shreds. Luckily, he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel simply because of someone else’s opinion.
Yes, the words hurt, and Levi’s ego had suffered a few bruises. But in sports, results were what counted. After he had a few games under his belt, if he proved to be a failure, then he might take the criticism to heart. Maybe.
“You won a few Super Bowls. Big deal” Levi sneered at the man on the television. “Where does an ex-linebacker get off pretending he knows what’s needed to be a successful quarterback? Looks to me like all his muscle has turned to fat—and most of the blubber went straight to his head.”
Satisfied with his assessment, Levi wanted the jerk broadcaster’s face out of his living room, pronto. However, reaching for the remote control was easier said than done.
Stiff, sore muscles rebelled against the idea of lifting his arm. When he tried to roll over, Levi groaned in pain.
“I should have kept moving.” Levi sighed and gave up. “The second I stopped to rest, every inch of me decided to rebel and go on strike.”
Practice went well—for the most part. Levi spent most of the morning working with the coaching staff on the basics. Relearning, as Coach McClain explained. Muscle memory was fine, but his mind and body needed to be reintroduced to the rigors of four quarters of smashmouth football.
No amount of simulations could prepare a body for the reality of an NFL game.
Run, throw, repeat. Levi ran the plays until he thought his arm might fall off. Or explode. Or both. After a break for lunch—and lots and lots of ice to soothe his tortured muscles—he faced the defense for the first time.
Even at half-speed, Levi felt overmatched. He missed routes and missed receivers. Every ball that left his hands was either under or overthrown. His timing sucked. He sucked.
Then, as if the football Gods took pity on him, things began to click into place. Levi’s footwork improved, his vision of the field sharpened, and though his arm felt like melting rubber, he managed to get some zip on the ball.
When on the last play of the day Levi threw a long bomb, straight into Dylan’s waiting hands, he almost wept with relief. He wasn’t back—not yet. But he was on his way.
Gingerly, Levi tried to stretch his arms over his head, failed, and winced. He’d showered in the locker room and spent a blissful hour sprawled in a heated whirlpool tub. After he was dressed, the members of his offensive line invited him out to dinner. He turned them down with a promise to join them for a meal after their first victory together—his treat.
Levi drove home and parked his car in the garage. As he climbed from behind the wheel, he felt his muscles rebel but was able to walk into his house without more than a wince and a muffled groan.
Stripping, Levi dumped his clothes in the hamper, pulled on a pair of dark blue sweatpants, and took a beer from the refrigerator. Taking a long, satisfying swig from the bottle, he headed into the living room and turned on the television. Mistake number one. His fatal error was when he didn’t change stations before lying down—perhaps never to rise again.
The floor wasn’t a bad place to spend the night, Levi decided. A bit on the hard side, but he’d prudently grabbed a pillow and blanket before collapsing in a tired heap. At least he wouldn’t freeze to death.
Levi’s stomach growled. Great. Forget protecting himself from the cold. He needed food. Sustenance. Fuel so his weary body and mind could properly refuel and recuperate.
Just as Levi was about to gird his loins and crawl to the kitchen, the doorbell rang. He sighed with relief. Right about now, he would have welcomed a serial killer into his home if the man agreed to feed him before the dismemberment began.
“Shit. The door’s locked,” Levi hissed. “Should I starve, or yell out the security code?”
Thankfully, the decision was taken out of Levi’s hands.
“Are you home?” Piper called out.
Relieved, air gushed from Levi’s lungs. He wanted to kiss beautiful Piper’s feet in gratitude. If she came close enough for him to reach.
“In the living room,” he told her.
“Why are you on the floor?” Levi couldn’t see Piper’s face, but he could hear the trace of bewilderment in her voice which quickly turned to exasperation. “And why are you watching SportsCenter? Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t scold,” Levi pleaded as she turned the television off and tossed the remote onto a table far, far away. “Be nice. I hurt all over. Plus, I’m one step away from starvation.”
“Let me guess, old man.” Piper snorted. “You’ve fallen and you can’t get up?”
“Ha, ha.” Levi turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Piper. Unfortunately, she refused to stay in one place long enough for his tired eyes to focus. “No more jokes. Laughing hurts. Breathing hurts. Hell, the hairs on my arms hurt.”
“Poor baby,” Piper said, almost sounding sincere as she knelt by his side. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your skin is like ice. Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
“Can’t raise my arms above my head,” Levi explained, feeling more and more pitiful by the second. “Help me.”
“I’m going to kick Joshua McClain’s ass,” Piper said as she gently rolled Levi onto his back. “What was he thinking? Bastard Mac. Did he let the defense tackle you on the first day? Are you hurt?”
The more Piper vented, the angry she became on his behalf, the better Levi felt. His body still felt like ten miles of bad road, but emotionally, his outlook had improved by leaps and bounds.
“Mac only did his job,” Levi said in defense of his head coach. “The guys went easy on me.”
“If this is easy, what happens when they ramp things up?” Piper asked. She shook her head. “Don’t answer. Knowing the details won’t stop you from putting yourself through the torture gauntlet.”
“Football is hard,” Levi explained.
“Football is stupid.” She let out a fatalistic sigh. “Which do you want first? Food or a massage?”
“I get a massage?” Levi grinned. “From you?”
“Let’s feed you first,” Piper said, making the decision herself. “After your stomach is full, we’ll see if the lotions and potions Claire left with me live up to their reputation.”
“Claire Thornton?” Levi asked, groaning as Piper helped him into a sitting position. “I’ve used her products before. They’re magic. And what the hell are you wearing?”
Rather than answer, Piper grasped Levi’s hands. Standing, she tugged and grunted and struggled until he was on his feet. She gave him a quick glare before heading toward the kitchen.