Chapter One
At first he thought he was asleep in his bed. He was laying on his front, his legs flung out, his hands clutching something beneath him. But it didn’t feel like a pillow. And it smelled… different. Letting out a groan, Cam Hartson opened his left eye and all he could see was emerald green.
There was a pause. Like the moment when a baby opens its mouth right before it starts to scream. The kind of silence that has meaning, but you have no idea what it is.
And then the noise came rushing in.
The sound of roaring voices was all it took for him to realize where he was. Not at home on his two thousand thread count bedsheets, but on the turf at Freedom Field, where the Boston Bobcats played their home games.
“Is he conscious?” a voice asked.
“One of his eyes is open,” someone else replied. “Cam, can you hear me?”
Cam tried to say yes, but no words emerged. There was some sort of disconnect between his brain and mouth.
“Okay, we’re gonna put a neck brace on, just in case. Then we’ll be sliding you onto the gurney. Give me a signal if something hurts.”
“No neck brace,” he tried to say, but it came out as a grunt. The medics took it as his agreement, because the next minute he felt a stiff plastic brace being clipped around his neck, soft padding holding his chin up.
If he’d had any strength left in his body, he would’ve mustered it to push them away. But whatever had landed him in this situation had winded him completely. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants, and the pounding in his head was stronger than ever. With gentle hands, they lifted him onto the gurney and he closed his eyes for a moment.
His humiliation was complete.
There was one thing every player in the NFL knew. When you got hurt, you don’t let them take you off the field. You swallow down the pain and play, regardless. Because winning was everything.
Only losers left the field.
He’d followed that code since his pee wee football days, and continued with it through high school then college, until his NFL draft nine years ago. And now here he was, being carted off in front of a stadium of seventy thousand people, plus hundreds of millions of viewers watching at home.
And that thought was all it took for his brain to finally connect with his mouth.
“Stop,” he croaked. The medics actually followed his instructions. “Let me off, I can walk.” From the corner of his eye he could see Dan Motion, the Bobcats’ quarterback, running over, followed by a group of Cam’s fellow defensive players.
They were his coworkers, his friends, his partners in every play they made. Apart from his family, they were the closest people to him. They knew him inside out, and understood that the pain of being humiliated outweighed any physical ache in his body. Most of them had been here like this – multiple times.
“How is he?” Dan asked, leaning over Cam’s stretcher. “Hey, you’re awake.”
“I’m coming back on,” Cam croaked. “Give me a minute.” He reached up to touch his throbbing head, and realized his helmet must have come off during the impact.
If only he could remember what the damn impact was.
“You don’t look so good, man.” Dan frowned. “You sure you’re okay to play?”
“He’s not playing.” Cam recognized that voice immediately. He sat up and swung his legs around, jumping off of the gurney onto the soft grass. A wave of nausea crashed over him, causing Cam to sway. Coach Mayberry had his arms crossed as he stared at Cam with his all-seeing eyes. “I’m putting Rayburn on.”
“The rookie?” Dan said. “He hasn’t played a game since he joined us. That’s a fucking terrible idea.”
Coach gave the quarterback one of his famous iron-clad glares, then looked back at Cam. “Hartson, you’re off. Go see the doctor and do what he tells you, including going to the hospital if needed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“But Coach, I’m fine.” Ignoring the jabbing pain in his head, Cam walked toward him. “If I can walk, I can damn well run. There are only twenty minutes left. Let me play.”
A flicker of sympathy flashed over the coach’s face, and that was worse than seeing his anger. Cam didn’t want sympathy. Didn’t need it. He was the Bobcats’ best paid player. Had been their safety since he was drafted nine years ago, and had played nearly every game in that time. That spot was his. Had been since he was a rookie.
But those years had taught him something else. You didn’t argue with the coach during the middle of a game. He was the general, and the players were the soldiers. You kept the discussions for when the battle was over.
“Okay.” Cam sighed, nodding his head. He winced at the white hot pain that stung at his eyes. “The rookie can go on for twenty minutes. But he needs to know one thing.” His voice was full of determination. “That position is still mine.”
“You have a choice to make,” the doctor said two days later, as Cam sat in his office and looked at the screen in front of him. He’d been in for an MRI scan earlier that day, and they were discussing the results. “You give up football or you end up with a traumatic brain injury. It’s that stark, Mr. Hartson.”
Cam ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “What about treatment?” he asked. “Something to get me through the season.” There was no way he was giv
ing up now. He’d signed a contract. After he fulfilled it, he would consider retirement. Not before.
“There is no treatment. TBIs are permanent. Look at what happened to Junior Seau. Sean Morey. Dammit, Aaron Hernandez if you really want to know the worst case scenario.”
TBIs were the dark shadow that followed defensive football players around. The constant collisions as they defended could lead to traumatic brain injuries, which in turn could lead to something worse.
Like the Chronic Traumatic Encaphlaopathy that footballers like Junior Seau and Sean Morey suffered from. Leading to memory loss, sudden outbreaks of anger, and in Seau’s case, suicide.
“Shit.” Cam squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his head still hadn’t quite gone away. “It’s that bad?”