Page 7 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“And risk ending your career?”

“Look. I know my body better than anyone. I’m not going to risk my career by pushing myself too early, which is why—”

“Which is why the club hired Doc.”

“Don’t remind me.” My laugh is loaded with sarcasm but my thoughts are already back on the athletic brunette with challenging gray eyes and a smartass mouth. The one I’ve probably thought about more times in the last few hours, while waiting for my agent to call back, than I care to count. “And for clarification, it’s not Doc doing my rehab. It’s Scout. Whoever the fuck Scout is, because I’ve made some calls, been asking around, and I can’t find shit on her other than she’s his daughter. His daughter, Finn? Not some topnotch professional who is scheduled out for months in advance because she’s everyone’s go-to. Look, I’m not one to knock taking up the old man’s profession because . . . well, because pot meet kettle. But taking over and actually being as good as him are two entirely different things. The club promised they’d get me the best physical therapist after the bullshit I had to put up with from the other one. Second best isn’t the best, Finn. This is my arm we’re talking about here. My career, so—”

“The same arm you want to chance by thumbing your nose at the club’s protocol and declaring yourself ready to go without the therapist’s consent, right?”

Fuck. Finn’s got me there. I roll my shoulders in reflex and hate that there’s that slight stab of pain when I do—my constant reminder that I’m not ready to play, and yet that’s all I want to do to get my life back to its norm.

“Easton.” He sighs. “You agreed to the terms and have to abide by the parameters now.”

His disapproving tone grates on my nerves. “We’ve gone over this.” What feels like a million times.

“Well, you’re the one who signed the papers—”

“You’re goddamn right I did. They carted me off the field and the pain was so brutal I would’ve signed anything for them to get the oxy quicker to dull it some; so don’t chastise me like I did something stupid. You would’ve done the same exact thing.”

His silence is more irritating than his disapproving tone. “I would have at least read the papers first.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. But I didn’t, and now I’m forced into their rehab guidelines. Can they really put a deadline on when I have to return? It’s not like everyone heals the same.”

“Should they? No. Can they? Well, you signed the paper that said you’d be back by August first, so yes, now, they technically can.”

I roll my shoulders, pissed at myself for signing it, at him for his constant nagging over it, and at all the shit that can’t be changed. “And if I’m not ready by then?”

“I told you, they can trade you.”

“And you also told me during the last negotiation that I had an iron-clad contract, Finn. Eight years with an extension option.”

“It is iron-clad. . . but then you went and signed the first papers they put in front of you without reading them, and—”

“It wasn’t like . . . you don’t understand.” Frustrated, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes to shut out the stadium laid out before me, taunting me. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t quite understand this new general manager yet, but I guess it’s his new protocol.”

“What is?” he asks. “Making a player sign something when his arm was just ripped apart? Sounds pretty callous if you ask me. What’s the purpose? Is dotting all your I’s and crossing all your T’s really that important in that moment?”

“You’re preaching to the choir, dude.”

“Everyone says he’s the best there is when it comes to this kind of thing, and there’s no way they can all be crazy, so hang in there.”

“Easier said than done,” I gripe.

“Yeah well, the bright side is that it typically takes him three years to successfully restructure an organization before he moves on to the next one.”

“Three years?” Fuck.

“Let’s just hope all these new policies and strategies are worth it. I expect to see a pennant won before he leaves.”

“Always looking for the diamond in a pile full of cow patties aren’t you, Finn?

“One of us has to.”

“Strategies are one thing, but treating your players with respect is another. Giving me a finite amount of time to rehab and return to the starting line-up is definitely not a way to show me respect.” Everything about the situation pisses me off and rubs me the wrong way.

“I know. The timeframe is most likely Cory’s way to add a bit of pressure so you get back on the field as soon as possible. After all, you’re their star player.”

“He does know this is my job, right? Star player or not, I’m a big boy who’s well aware of what my fucking obligations are.”