First Position (19 page)

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Lewis asked, ignoring Emory.

“Much better now that the sling is off.”

He flipped through Mason’s chart, then examined the scar.  “Looks like it’s still healing.  Discoloration is normal.”

“Really?”  Emory asked, surprised.

It had been almost eight weeks since his injury, and in her lay opinion, it looked awful -- like it happened two days ago.  Dr. Lewis gave a sideways glance to Emory.  He’d never seen this woman at any other appointment and wondered what she was doing in his examination room.

He moved Mason’s arm into various positions, asking for a pain level.  Mason said he felt no pain each time.  “When can I throw a football?”

Dr. Lewis paused before answering, flipping again through Mason’s chart, Emory looking at Mason with concern in her eyes.  “Well, you need a few weeks of physical therapy before you try that.”  Mason shot Dr. Lewis an angry look, fed up being told what he could and couldn’t do -- by his brother, NFL teams, Alexis, and now Dr. Lewis.  “Let me take a look at your latest MRI.”  He held up several pictures to the light, then scribbled some notes in Mason’s chart, as Emory feared something was wrong.  Dr. Lewis closed the chart, leaned forward, and looked directly into Mason’s eyes.  “Have you been following my instructions?”

“Yeah.  Of course.”

“My limited movement instructions?”

“Oh, those, well, I, uh, I’ve been doing my best with that, but I’ve had to travel some, so . . . .”

Dr. Lewis put up his hand, not interested in hearing rambling excuses.  “I figured as much.”  Mason peeked at Emory sitting in the corner, one leg crossed firmly over the other, her top foot shaking rapidly.  “I know I made it clear that you had a grade 4 separation and taking it easy was part of the healing process.”

“A minute ago, you said it was healing, right?”

“You’d be further along now, if you had listened.”

Emory rose from her corner seat and took a step towards Dr. Lewis.  “I’m playing catch up here.  Has Mason done further damage to his shoulder?” 

He turned to her, wrinkling his nose.  “Who are you?”

“I’m Emory,” she said, as if it was obvious.

“And?”  Dr. Lewis pressed, expecting to receive more than a first name.

“And what?” Emory retorted, in no mood for snotty questions.  She didn’t like the doctor’s attitude, or that of his nurse, and was pissed Mason hadn’t taken care of himself.  Dr. Lewis narrowed his eyes and scratched his head, at a loss for how to deal with this woman.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lewis,” Mason said, trying to avoid a stand-off between Emory and his old-school surgeon.  He patted Emory’s hand.  “She’s just concerned.”

Dr. Lewis placed his hands on Mason’s chart, trying to re-focus himself.  “Your friend over there asked about further damage.  It’s really too early to tell.  We won’t know until you’ve completed PT and tried to throw a ball, and ultimately try to take a hit.  This was always a 50-50 proposition.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Mason said confidently, then Emory slipped her hand from his, retaking her seat in the corner.

“You won’t have any chance at all unless you do what I say.  But you do what you want.  It’s your career.  I get paid either way.”  Mason hung his head to the floor, feeling Emory’s eyes burning into him.  Dr. Lewis sensed the tension between them and wasted no time wrapping up the visit.  He provided Mason with physical therapy instructions and the name of a specialist to consult in Charlotte.  He shook Mason’s hand, ignored Emory, and left.

Emory moved from the chair and sat on the table next to Mason.  “How could you not take care of yourself?  How could you not tell me how bad it is?”
 
Is he hiding anything else?

“Em, I . . . .”  Mason started, then stopped, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

“A grade 4 tear, Mason?  A 50-50 chance you may never play again?”

Mason knew the seriousness of it all -- so did Alexis, and she left.  “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said in the sweetest, softest voice he could muster. 

But it wasn’t good enough.  “Maybe I should have just Googled it!  I would’ve gotten more information that way.”

“I just wanted us to be happy, and to move forward together.  That’s all.”

The pudgy-faced nurse knocked on the door, Emory glaring at her as she entered.  “Will you give us some privacy?”

“We need the room for another patient,” the nurse said.

“They can damn well wait!” Emory snapped.  The nurse took a deep breath, mumbling something about NFL quarterbacks and their high-maintenance women, and shut the door. 

“I wasn’t trying to deceive you.  I just wanted to protect you from all my shitty baggage, like my shoulder.” 

“So you thought it was better to lie to me?”

“I didn’t exactly lie.”

“Mason, if this is going to go anywhere, we can’t hold back. We need to talk about things -- like Alexis, like your arm.”  She felt a twinge in her stomach, as if her own secret was attacking her body.
 
You are such a fucking hypocrite.

“After all this time, can’t we just be happy?”

“We can,” she said.  “But it can’t all be surprises and new cars.”

Her words struck a chord.  He’d been so caught up with Emory, starting over again with her, that he’d done his best to ignore reality.  If he wanted to move forward with Emory, he knew he needed to open up and face the consequences of his past.  “I want more than that, Em.  I do.  I’ll do better.  Starting tonight.”

* * *

The doctor’s office was only a few blocks from the hotel, where they’d already dropped their bags earlier in the day.  It was a crisp, clear afternoon in Atlanta that seemed more suitable for a walk back to the hotel than a short cab ride.  They held hands as they walked, Mason feeling energized and free -- not just that his sling was gone and that he could use both arms, but he felt he finally was putting his troubled past behind him, or at least was willing to make some effort to deal with it.  Mason noticed Emory, too, walked with a spring in her step.  It was as if the improvement in his arm, though still on the mend, provided her with an extra jolt.  A few passersby noticed Mason on the street, and asked for an autograph, Mason delighting in teasing them about how much he hated the Falcons. 

As they came upon the hotel, his phone rang.  “So what did Dr. Lewis say?” Steven asked.

“It’s healing -- slowly.  I need to do some therapy and see a specialist in Charlotte.  Still can’t throw.”

“He’s looking out for you.  Being careful.  You need to do what he says.”

“Whatever,” Mason said, opening the hotel door for Emory.  “When are you and Olivia coming to Charlotte?”

“Sunday late afternoon, and leaving Monday evening after the press conference.”

“Cool, that works.  Looking forward to seeing Olivia, and having her meet Emory.”  She walked into a gift shop near the hotel entrance.

“By the way, I told Mom about the Panthers.”  Steven cleared his throat.  “She’s pretty disappointed you didn’t call her yourself.”

Mason looked at Emory through the gift shop window.  He already had his hands full starting over with her and ending his relationship with Alexis.  He couldn’t deal with yet another woman.  “I know I should call her,” Mason said, “but all she wants to talk about is Alexis, and hoping we get back together, which is not happening.  I just can’t deal with that shit right now.  You didn’t tell her about Em, did you?”

“Of course not, but she suspects something is up.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.  I think she just does.  She was telling me the other day she hoped you took the best deal out there because it could be your last.”  Mason ran his fingers through his hair.  “So you need to deal with Mom.  I’m not getting in the middle of any more of your shit.”

* * *

Emory rarely spent more than fifteen minutes getting herself ready for a night out.  She didn’t need to.  She’d been blessed with porcelain skin and rose-colored cheeks and lips.  She typically used only a dash of lip gloss and mascara, and on rare occasions, went for some eye liner.  That was all she ever needed.  But on this night, she took some extra time to prepare.  Perhaps it was the thrill of being in a different city, or a new energy because Mason’s sling was off.  She wasn’t entirely sure and didn’t care.  She was just excited to go out and wanted to make sure she looked her absolute best for whatever Mason had planned.  She wondered if it was maybe another ballet, or Stone Mountain, or a dance club, or just a romantic dinner on Peachtree Street.  She had no idea, which made it difficult to know what to wear, and Mason hadn’t given her a single hint.

She emerged from the hotel bathroom in a gray pencil skirt with a white silk top, wearing the black stilettos he’d bought for her.  She had a smokey eye and nude lip, and her blonde hair, curled loosely, cascaded down her shoulders. 

Mason shut off the television and stood up, wearing a blue, buttoned-down shirt and khaki dress pants.  “You look fantastic!” 

“Is this OK?” she asked nervously and made a slow twirl.

“Absolutely,” he said, sizing her up.
 
Black thong?

“Can you tell me what we’re doing now?”

Mason winked at her.  “We’re not leaving the hotel.”

“What?  Why did I get all dressed up?”

“I didn’t say we were staying in the room, but we could just that, if you want.”

Emory smirked at him.  “Please tell me what we are doing.”

“Let’s go.”

Emory followed Mason out of the room and down to the lobby, eyeing him curiously.
 
In the hotel
?
   Mason sensed he had Emory all confused, enjoying teasing her.  They walked through the huge lobby holding hands, through various corridors branching out from the main area.  Emory looked around, all turned around, unsure where they were going and what was going on.  She loved Mason’s surprises but didn’t like to give up control -- especially after a long day when she was hungry. 

Mason turned a final corner towards an upscale steakhouse.  “I thought we could have an early dinner.”

She kissed him on the cheek.  “And after dinner?”

“One thing at a time,” he said cautiously, opening the door, Emory noticing his change in tone.

A young hostess politely greeted them.  Mason informed her they had a reservation, then she scanned some papers on her podium.  “Yes, party of three.”

“That’s right,” Mason replied.

The hostess responded quickly.  “The other guest is already here.  Please follow me.”

Emory stared up at Mason, confused again.  “Who’s the third wheel?”  He didn’t answer her, relishing yet another tease and also nervous the moment was upon them.  He swallowed hard, as the hostess led them through the foyer, around a corner, and into a large dimly-lit room, with mahogany walls and tables and leather chairs, perfectly polished silverware and huge steak knives and candlelight on each table.

Emory saw the third wheel across the room, sitting alone at a table by a window.  She walked quickly to the table, leaving the hostess and Mason behind.  John Claire stood up, his daughter leaping into his arms.  “Daddy!” 

Mason and the hostess reached the table but stood back, giving Emory and her father some space.  The hostess advised Mason their server would be with them shortly, then left. 

“Oh my God, what are you doing here?”  Emory stepped back to look at him, his strong body, as usual, appearing in good health.  John gave a nod to Mason, still a safe distance away.  “You called my dad?”  Emory looked at Mason in shock.

“Yes.”  Mason said, gingerly approaching.  He hadn’t seen John in years and wasn’t sure what to expect from him.  But he knew if he was ever to work out his past and go forward with Emory, he had to smooth things over with John.  It would take time.  Dinner was only a small first step.

Emory raised her eyebrows.  “That must have been an interesting phone call?” 

“There were a lot of apologies from me.  A bit of cursing by your dad, which I completely understood.”

“I’d say so,” Emory said, kissing her dad on the cheek.

Mason gave John an awkward smile, then extended his hand.  John shook it, but not without returning a mildly disapproving look.  John appreciated the invite but wasn’t about to let Mason off easily.  He had hurt his baby girl -- breaking up with her and quickly getting with Alexis -- to the point that Emory fled to Europe after graduation, causing John to miss out on years of his daughter’s life.  Mason, in truth, had missed John as well.  They’d spent hours talking football, watching film, running plays in John’s backyard, and dreaming about the NFL draft.  He filled a significant void in Mason’s life after his own father left, even accompanying Mason to a father-son awards dinner in college.  Mason had missed that relationship. 

Mason pulled out a chair for Emory and sat down next to her, with John on the other side of the table.  Emory sensed the tension coming from her father and could feel the anxiety dripping from Mason himself.  She held Mason’s hand, feeling his sweaty palm, and rested it on the table.
 
Dad must have really threatened him.