That was the problem. Everyone knew Dallas had torn his meniscus three weeks ago. The official story was "week-to-week." The real story—the one I’d overheard while charting in the ortho clinic—was that the second opinion had been a nightmare. Three surgeons disagreed. The coach wanted a rush job. The NFL scouts had started circling like sharks smelling blood.
That’s how it started. Not with a grand gesture or a fireworks kiss. It started with a broken knee, a missing roll of tape, and two people who had no business being in the same room at midnight. For the next ten days, the secondary treatment room became our confessional. Searching For- Sidelined The QB And Me In-
"Because my dad was a quarterback," I said. "Small college. Nothing like this. He blew out his knee in his senior year. No one helped him rehab it right. He gained forty pounds, lost his scholarship, lost his mind. By the time I was ten, he could barely walk up the stairs." That was the problem
"Liar. You brought me a smoothie."
"You're not supposed to be nice to me," I said quietly. Three surgeons disagreed
"Why are you really here? Not the tape story. The real reason."