Grisham authors second novel about football

“I’m sorry,” Arnie said, but only because he had to say it.

            “Call the other teams,” Rick said, and certainly not for the first time.

            “Evidently I won’t have to. They’re already calling me.”

            “That’s great.”

            “Not really. They’re calling to warn me not to call them. I’m afraid this might be the end of the line, kid.”

There was no doubt it was the end of the line, but Arnie just couldn’t find the candor. Maybe tomorrow. Eight teams in six years. Only the Toronto Argonauts dared to sign him for a second season. Every team needed a backup to their backup quarterback, and Rick was perfect for the role. Problems started, though, when he ventured onto the field.

            “Gotta run,” Arnie said, glancing at his watch again. “And listen, do yourself a favor and keep the television turned off. It’s brutal, especially ESPN.” He patted his knee and darted from the room. Outside the door there were two thick security guards sitting in folding chairs, trying to stay awake.

            Arnie stopped at the nurses’ station and spoke to the doctor, who eventually made his way down the hall, past the security guards, and into Rick’s room. His bedside manner lacked warmth—a quick check of the basics without much conversation. Neurological work to follow. Just another garden-variety brain concussion, isn’t this the third one?

            “I think so,” Rick said.

            “Thought about finding another job?” the doctor asked.

            “No.”

            Perhaps you should, the doctor thought, and not just because of your bruised brain. Three interceptions in eleven minutes should be a clear sign that football is not your calling. Two nurses appeared quietly and helped with the tests and paperwork. Neither said a word to the patient, though he was an unmarried professional athlete with notable good looks and a hard body. And at that moment, when he needed them, they could not have cared less.

            As soon as he was alone again, Rick very carefully began looking for the remote. A large television hung from the wall in the corner. He planned to go straight to ESPN and get it over with. Every movement hurt, and not just his head and neck. Something close to a fresh knife wound ached in his lower back. His left elbow, the non-throwing one, throbbed with pain.

            Sandwiched? He felt like he’d been flattened by a cement truck.

            The nurse was back, holding a tray with some pills. “Where’s the remote?” Rick asked.

            “Uh, the television’s broke.”

            “Arnie pulled the plug, didn’t he?”

            “Which plug?”

            “The television.”

            “Who’s Arnie?” she asked as she tinkered with a rather large needle.

            “What’s that?” Rick asked, forgetting Arnie for a second.

            “Vicodin. It’ll help you sleep.”

            “I’m tired of sleeping.”

            “Doctor’s orders, okay. You need rest, and lots of it.” She drained the Vicodin into his IV bag and watched the clear liquids for a moment.

            “Are you a Browns fan?” Rick asked.

            “My husband is.”

            “Was he at the game yesterday?”

            “Yes.”

            “How bad was it?”

            “You don’t want to know.”

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