Book III of UNC Series
While it's known that there are five stages of grief, did you know that there are also five stages of love?
Bailey Nicholson dreamed of finishing her Master's degree and settling in Boston while working alongside her boyfriend...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I adjust the strap on my shoulder, wincing at the sting it leaves behind. I hate that I've succumbed to wearing a brace again. After weeks and months of physical therapy, after finally working out my arm to ensure that I could play in the NFL without any residual pain, Sinclair had to go and play dirty.
I don't even know what his endgame is. Why did he and Coach conspire to get me into the NFL if he was going to make sure I didn't play? He could have saved us all the trouble and just let me be. I didn't even want to play in the NFL at the beginning of my senior year.
Sinclair is a stubborn thorn in my side, and I don't know what to do to get him off my back.
Thankfully, when Sinclair ran into me to grab the ball, instead of hurting my forearm, he almost ripped my arm out of the socket. Shouldn't be grateful for that, but I'm thankful for small miracles. I only have to wear the brace to give my shoulder time to recover from being stretched beyond its limits rather than the forearm that's already sensitive from the break a couple winters ago.
When I hear my name, my attention hones in on the TV overhead the bar. The loud chatter, laughter, rattling of people playing pool, and the soft hum of some country song filter in, drowning out the voices of the reporters who are recapping the game from this afternoon. They replay the incident with Sinclair tackling me to the ground just before the linebackers hound me repeatedly.
I roll my eyes, pinching them shut before I turn away. I grab the beer bottle before me; my fingers turn white from lack of blood with my grip, and I take a swig, chugging the entire thing.
"Whoa, take it easy," Sutherland laughs as he sips his own beer. It's the first time I'm seeing him since he popped in for Ethan Collins' wedding reception in June. Since then, we've both been busy with preseason training and press tours for our upcoming seasons.
"I will when they stop covering that crap," I tip my chin toward the screen before physically moving my shoulder to give it my back.
It's worse enough having almost lost my temper on the screen and having my own teammate—even if it is Sinclair—tackle me to the ground, but to have it broadcasted and shoved into my face every two seconds isn't how I wanted to spend the night.
"That was brutal. I feel for you, man," Blake, who sits across from me, winces into his glass of Jack and coke. If there's anyone who understands what Sinclair is genuinely like, it's Carsen Blake.
Having to deal with him not only as a player on the same team when we were both at UNC but also to know his girl has a tragic history with Sinclair is challenging enough. I'm sure Blake's glad he's not on the same team as Sinclair.
Toying with the bottle in his hand, Sutherland glances over his shoulder to the screen, tipping his hat up so he can see out from under the bill, "Please tell me he's getting reprimanded for that stunt."
I shrug, not knowing what's going to happen.
Management and the coaching staff let him get away with bullying me for the past few weeks. They only started defending me when they realized I was more than a number on their playbook. But would they actually do something about what he did on the field? I doubt it.
