Page 6 of Platinum Pressure

We were all congregated in the living. I had my injured leg propped up on several pillows to keep it elevated above my heart. I had to keep ice on it throughout the day, but shit wasn’t helping much if I had anything to say about it.

“I can’t do that, Mama.” I tapped my good foot on the floor incessantly, needing an outlet to appease the urge to punch something or someone—preferably the surgeon who refused to do the surgery. Nigga waited until I was out of his office before calling me to tell me the timeline of events wouldn’t line up with what I proposed.

Apparently, there were certain protocols I needed to follow before they could get the surgery scheduled. It had only been a couple of days since the injury occurred, and there was too much inflammation and swelling to proceed now—even if I could cut corners and get on the schedule immediately. No one would touch my leg because of legal liabilities and shit.

Between the surgeon pissing me off and the coaches checking in on me every two seconds, I could barely contain my anger. Everybody suffocated me with concern when all I wanted was to heal and get back on the field with my team.

Fuck this shit.

“Look, if you want to be mad at somebody, be mad at me,” Seddrick stated.

My eyes darted over to my best friend turned manager, Seddrick “Seddy” Timmons. We had been best friends since the sandbox days. We went through life together. When I got drafted into the league, I made sure he was there to win with me, even if being on the field wasn’t his thing. My dawg went to college and got a degree in management and learned how to read contracts like lawyers. He made sure any sponsor deal benefited me more than the companies. He handled almost every aspect of my life, including managing my money. He kept my image clean, even when I made it hard for him to do so. I trusted him with my life.

Until today.

Today, I didn’t want to hear him speak, let alone look at his face.

“Mane, get the fuck outta here with that shit. I’m pissed at all of y’all. I should have been on that field with my team.”

“You couldn’t even stand up by yourself, P. You’re just upset because for once in your life, you’re not calling the fuckin’ shots.” Seddy shook his head.

“You better be lucky I respect my mama. All the furniture in this bitch woulda started flying if I could get up without hurting myself.” I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I inhaled.

“You barely got an advantage when you’re not hobbling around with one good leg. If you tried anything right now, you’d lose.” Sed shook his head.

Ignoring his comment, I continued my breathing exercise.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

I exhaled.

When I opened my eyes, I diverted my attention to the television with highlights of the game. They’d been talking about the NFC championship for days now, and I was tired of hearing the same takes.

The facts were that the Silverbacks lost in overtime, 28 to 21. Whatever else anybody had to say was irrelevant.

My strong opinion was the Sugar Gliders wouldn’t have been able to tie the game had I not gotten injured. My team was more worried about my condition than about winning the game. I understood their concern, but top priority should have been knocking them fucking Gliders off the map.

Even though my team lost, I was still the main topic of discussion on every sports channel. I guess, in a sense, it was cool because my injury overshadowed the actual winners of the game. No one was talking about Cauldwell, the Sugar Gliders, or the Pioneers. I was still the main subject in everybody’s mind.