CK slung his trons into his locker, closed the hermetically sealed door and rested his head against the cold, metal mesh—a facade created to mimic old-fashioned lockers. Nothing had changed with the afternoon practice session. He’d hoped the hitch in his arm would magically disappear—like slamming the side of an old transistor tube television. No such luck.
He did manage to get the starting defense chewed out for allowing the scout team two touchdowns. One of them had come on a designed bootleg to CK’s right. He’d muscled the touchdown pass across the grain while levitating over the boundary line. It was a thing of beauty, as good as his pass down the seam that morning.
Unfortunately, it was exactly the type of pass Diesel and Coach Costa would criticize as low percentage and risky. The defensive coordinator placed the blame on the defense for giving up on their coverage. Only CK’s receiver had patted him on the butt for a play well made.
CK wanted to swear. He wanted to kick his locker and tear the whole place inside out. But his anger didn’t make sense. All of it was his own fault—everything since the riots and not getting drafted. The riots had been someone else—someone who’d never been caught. Someone who’d never been punished. And it made no sense to seethe with undirected anger for a mystery someone when the results of that anger would only hurt himself.
CK changed into his workout clothes and headed for the weight room. The scheduled workout and rubdown was the last thing before dinner. Later, an all-offensive strategy meeting would end a really long and exhausting day. He hoped a good night’s sleep would put everything into perspective.
In the weight room, he worked through his individualized routine, making allowances for his shoulder implants. Every workout reminded him of the last year’s ups and downs—from the top of the world to the depths of the pit. He’d survived both extremes and everywhere between.
As he finished a ten-mile spin, he rested his head on the handlebars. All he could do was give it everything he had until the day the team locked him out of the facility—whether that day came tomorrow or in fifteen years.
“Working hard, I see.”
CK jerked his head from the handlebars of the exercise bike. “It’s been a long day, Doc.”
The trainer from earlier softened his expression. “I might have been in a hurry to get rid of you this morning. Sorry about that. After the fact, I realized there’s still an avenue you could pursue in regards to your shoulder. It’ll probably have to wait until next Tuesday, but you could request a check up with the surgeon who performed the procedure.”
CK wiped the sweat from his forehead. “But like I said, my arm feels fine unless I’m plugged in.”
“It’s possible for the implants to miscommunicate with the VR matrix and still work fine in the real world.” The trainer shrugged and headed for the door. “No sweat off my teeth. Just thought it my duty to provide you with all the options.”
“Thanks, Doc.” CK didn’t want to sound ungrateful. In fact, as he headed for the showers, he dawned a new glimmer of hope. Heck, medical science was all voodoo to him. Maybe his problems were as simple as an oil change and a tune up after all.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
