Page 36 of Lessons in Lemonade

“All right then, let’s get started.”

Moving, he reaches for a folder and flips it open. My ears buzz as he reviews my contract and the details in regards to a long-term injury like this. I know everything he’s saying; my agent went over it with me last week. His words are scripted—after all, organizations like this always protect themselves. This may not be their first rodeo, but it is mine.

“The most common complication of dislocating the knee includes ligament weakness and loss of motion. There’s also the possibility that the kneecap may be different after it heals. As you know, complete recovery takes a minimum of nine months, and it can take up to a year. That means next season is out as well.”

Next season—gone. Poof.

Sweat breaks out across my back with anxiety. I’m already thirty-two. By the time I would even possibly be able to return, I would be pushing thirty-four. The writing is on the wall. Why would they keep me when they could bring in someone younger, faster, healthier? Letting out a deep breath, I know what’s coming, and I’m not ready. Why couldn’t it have been just an ACL tear? Six to eight weeks and then I’m back at it and with the team I love.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “What happens next?”

Coach tilts his head as he looks at me, like really looks at me. “Rehabilitation. Lots of it.”

“When?” I look at the doctor.

“Soon. Maybe two more weeks,” he says, glancing back and forth between the coach and me.

Needing to throw caution to the wind, I lock eyes with Coach and ask, “At what point will I be ready to return to the team?”

He presses his lips into a thin line.

“For you to return, Dr. Leffers will most likely want to test your leg strength before giving all of us a go-ahead. He will compare your strength using some functional knee testing, like hopping. The goal is that it be at least eighty-five to ninety percent of your uninjured side. He will also assess your leg’s endurance and your balance, and if you are having any swelling.”

I know all the things he’s telling me. It’s a standard story they tell any of us who end up with a knee injury, but it’s not the answer I’m looking for, and I rub the nervousness from my palms across the tops of my thighs.

“But you’re saying there’s a chance I’ll be able to return?”

“Again, not next season—that would be a little too aggressive in our thinking—but as for the season after, maybe. None of us can predict how your body is going to respond, how fast it’s going to heal, and what type of range of motion you’re going to have at the end of the day. All we need you to do right now is take it easy until it’s time to work hard, harder than you ever have, and come back to us. You will be camping out on the injured reserve list for a while. There’s no guarantee or promises, but, Jack, you’ve meant a lot to this organization for a long time, and we’re committed to giving you the time and the resources you need to recover.”

My heart thumps hard in my chest and I reach up to rub it. They didn’t say it. They’re giving me a chance. If I could I would damn near bawl like a baby, but not here, and definitely not in front of them. For the last four weeks, I’ve felt nothing but disappointment, and with this tiny life raft into my future, I’m reminded that there’s still fight in me. I can do this; I know I can. I just need to find my place here while I’m doing it.

The meeting lasts for another fifteen minutes or so. I can see them assessing my headspace as we talk, not that I blame them. Everyone handles injuries differently. I know they feel the presence of the cloud lingering over me, but a tiny crack of light peeked through today and I know that’s a start.

Once the meeting is over, Brett, our athletic trainer, and I make our way into the training room. I’m assaulted by the smell of sweat, metal from the equipment, and laughter from the few guys who are in right now. I miss being in here with them; I miss my team. Granted, I know I’m romanticizing the kumbaya atmosphere—it is the offseason now and most people have left town—but still.

The clinking of weights, the whir of the treadmill, rap music playing overhead . . . another crack breaks through the melancholy cloud—that is until about thirty minutes into working with him when I realize teammates are moving around me as if I’m invisible. Sure, a few toss out a “What’s up?” but mostly I only get nods with no eye contact. I’ve become that person, and people are too superstitious to overlook the fact that I need my team. I need my football family. The crack closes, pushing away the light.

Being here, doing these simple exercises, I’m not feeling invigorated or really even a sense of relief; I’m feeling frustrated and lonelier than I have in a long time. These are not moves of a professional athlete; they don’t make me feel like I’ll be back with my team here shortly. These are moves that remind me I’m not currently one of them.

Words from my coach filter back through my mind. “We’re postseason now, Jack. You don’t have to stay here. You can go home, heal, just continue the rehabilitation and have the trainer check in weekly with progress updates.”

At the time, I immediately dismissed the idea—I’m certainly not going to Arizona. Tampa is my home. Reid and Bryan are both here, and they’re like my brothers. Then reality sinks in a little as I think about how our lives have changed over the last year, theirs in particular. Both fell in love and have, in many ways, moved on. Bryan is really only here half the time now as he goes back and forth between here and his house with Lexi in the country, and Reid now has Camille. Sure, I’m always included, but I am the third wheel, and suddenly that doesn’t feel so good.

If I don’t have Tampa, what do I have? Where do I go? My thoughts drift to Meg, a warm flicker dancing under my skin as the idea of home and her mingle together. It’s strange. I’ve thought about her nonstop over the last two weeks—well, if I’m being honest, for the last seven months. I’ve only seen her face-to-face maybe a total of five to six days, but she makes me happy in ways no one else does, or at least can right now.

With that, a plan forms, the first plan in weeks that feels good, feels right, and I welcome the new emotions coming in. I’ve been sitting in a fog, and finally, finally it’s clearing a little.

Peanut Butter and Oat Snack Balls

THE FIRST FOUR months of the year in Charleston are my absolute favorites. Technically it’s winter, but really here in the south it’s spring. Every year I look forward to it, and on the first day of March, we celebrate at OBA by changing the menu and welcoming spring-inspired dishes. With the weather cool and mild, our patio fills up with guests first, and they find themselves surrounded by blooming flowers such as roses and wisteria.

In addition to the Wine and Food Festival, there’s also the Festival of Houses and Gardens. It takes place the weekend after, and this year I bought two tickets to celebrate. I’m not sure who’s going with me yet, but there are a hundred and fifty historic homes calling my name and saying, Come tour us. Wander through our impeccable gardens and explore our unique architecture. I truly love that these old homes do this. Outsiders get to wander through the historic district and glimpse the insides through the windows, observing in awe and wonder, and this allows us to step back in time and see it for ourselves.

It’s while daydreaming of sweeping grand staircases and elaborate crown molding that my phone pings with a notification in my back pocket. It’s seven in the morning, I’ve just finished making today’s haul of madeleine cookies, and I’ve paused to slip on a pair of animal print heels I brought to wear today and to drink another cup of iced coffee. I am addicted to this coffee, which I have no qualms about admitting; it’s just so good.

When I pull my phone out, my brows pull down as I see it’s an Instagram post from Jack. Surprisingly, my heart rate picks up a beat as I open the app and stare down at the image. It’s a picture of Zeus sitting in the grass with a beautiful old oak tree behind him. Around the tree, fog lingers on the ground. It’s a beautiful photo, and I know right where this is: Lexi’s back yard.

So that’s where he’s been, or that’s where he is. I wish he had told me; then again, the last time we spoke was about a week ago. Since then it’s just been short text messages about our days, the weather, boring things like that.