I'm studying a model of a human knee, reading the word medial meniscus when the doctor knocks on the door twice and I signal him to come in.

"How is the new ACL feeling?" Dr. Kramer asks.

I extend and retract my right leg a few times. "It feels good, strong. I finally started squatting more than my grandmother again this week," I say.

Dr. Kramer shakes his head and laughs. "Against doctor's orders, but how did it feel when you did?"

"Like it always does. No stiffness or aches or popping," I lie.

My knee was so stiff the next day that the athletic trainer had to stretch me for almost an hour. But I decided that it was just a side effect of adding more weight along with a little too many beers and not enough protein in my diet over the summer. I should really have built my way back up, but I guess part of me just needed to know that I still could. That everything hasn't gone to shit.

I've been coming to this god forsaken rehab facility since I tore my ACL in the championship game last January. I only got to play until halftime because I tore it on our first possession in the third quarter. I didn't have the surgery right away, opting to wait a few weeks to finally go home and spend some time with my family first. But when I came back to school, I came straight to Dr. Kramer. He claims to be the best, but the best would have me back on the field already if you ask me.

"Great, let's take a look at your latest scans," Dr. Kramer says.

Dr. Kramer clicks something on his iPad and then the images appear on the TV screen hanging on the wall across from me. The screen is split into three separate images, each with their own label, dates I realize. A before surgery, after about a month of physical therapy and then last week when I went for the scan.

He pauses for a long time. The only sound in the room is the tapping of my boot heel on the white porcelain floor. I can't help it. It's a nervous habit I developed when I was a kid. I don't even notice it anymore really. This room is just eerily quiet considering there are about ninety oversized men just down the hall watching film.

"Come on Doc, the silence is killing me. Can I play in the opener against FGC or not," I finally say. It just kinda spills out rather than me making an actual conscious effort to speak.

He puts the end of his pen up to his mouth in a way that tells me nothing good is about to come out of that shit hole. "There is more anthrofibris tissue than I would like to see."

"Simple terms Doc. Please."My words clipped. My mama raised me with better manners, but I need him to get to the point.

"Scar tissue Taylor. Right here," he says pointing to a thin line of white surrounding the little white mass I have come to know as my patella tendon.

"Scar tissue? That's it? Okay, well how do we get rid of it?"

"Given that this is your second time tearing this ACL, and how quickly the scar tissue has built itself up, I think it would be wise for you to take a break. Of course we can go back in and remove it, or we can start with injections to see if it breaks up on its own. You're only twenty years old and hopefully have a long football career ahead of you. I know this isn't what you want to hear from me but I'm not in the business of lying to my patients. If you want to play this season I think it would be wise to rest it a little longer. Continue with the PT, slowly add more and more weight and strain to the knee before we test it with something so strenuous like hurdling over the opposing teams Cornerback."

I look at him, but say nothing. Instead I just wait for him to turn away from the images and meet my eyes. I can't stand people who don't make eye contact, especially when the words they say carry so much weight. I would have thought they would teach that in Med School, but he isn't the first doctor I've seen do this. To deliver news, but wait a second before looking at you and your reaction, like their not able to face both tasks at the same time.

"I do have a long career ahead of me, but that isn't going to matter if I don't play this season. No team will want to draft a player with a shit knee who hasn't seen the turf in a year. I have to get the touches and the yards this season," I protest.

"Tell you what, you keep up the work in PT and start the injections. Then we will revisit at the end of September, before any of the big games start in October. If and that is an if I like what I see, then that still gives you three months and the playoffs to prove yourself."

This is bullshit. I know they can give me a shot of cortisol before every game and make me feel brand fucking new. They do that shit all the time in the NFL but the fucking NCAA has strict rules against that type of treatment for players. It's the same reason I can't sign an autograph or accept more than free housing and tuition from this money hungry industry. These rules are forcing my hand. I have to play this season and be eligible for the draft. Playing in the pros isn't just a want at this point, it's a need. I have a lot more to worry about than a roof over my head and food in my stomach.

I slam the door behind me. Instead of heading right to the doors that lead to the tutoring center, I make a left to head deeper into the facility. I don't have time to deal with any more pains in my ass right now.

🏈🏈🏈

A rush of cold air hits my skin. Someone has opened the door. "Get out," I say, not even bothering to sit up.

I feel the wood creak under me as someone sits on the other end. "You got shit in your ears? There are three other steam rooms."

"Who shit in your eggs this morning?" Cal asks.

I ignore him and turn the volume up louder on my phone. It seems to work because he doesn't say anything else.

Another few minutes pass and I begin to feel the sweat run down my face and pooling on my stomach. I try to let the heat take me. An outpouring of toxins that have consumed me. Too much drinking and partying over the summer. Not enough focus on my recovery. For a second, I hope that I pass out here. I want the heat to consume me, to destroy me from the inside out. It's a self induced punishment for my lack of concentration in the off season. But then I remember that passing out from dehydration and a trip to the hospital would definitely make its way to the headlines and Coach's desk. That kind of attention would seal an even more limited amount of playing time this season.

The sound suddenly cuts. I sit up and tap the screen on my phone. The red thermometer indicating my phone has reached its boiling point displays itself on the screen. I stand and move over to the door, opening it wide enough to throw my phone outside of the sauna before retreating back to my spot.

"You ready to talk about it or do you need more time to sulk?" Cal says from his spot at the opposite corner.

"Man nine, why can't you ever just sit in silence. You always have to be up in everyone's shit."

"Believe it or not, but I thought you might need a friend. My dad told me about what Dr. Kramer said."

I grunt in response. I'm pissed that Dr. Kramer just couldn't wait to share the news. And the fact that Coach doesn't seem to think that confidentiality is a thing for me. I get that Cal is more than the quarterback to him, but it doesn't mean my life should be a fucking topic of discussion during their family dinners.

"So you know I'm fucked." I fix my eyes on his, trying to read his face. I search for any sign that that his dad gave an indication on what my future on the field holds during their little talk.

"What's the doctor's plan for you if it isn't to play in the opener?" Cal asks.

"Same shit that I have been doing. Increasing PT, adding in injections."

"Okay, that's no problem. You can do that. So what if you miss FGC." Cal shrugs. "Johnson can't hit a target two feet in front of him and he will still probably drop five on them," I exhale an amused breath. He's not wrong, their starting quarterback broke his thumb at training camp, leaving them with their backup. They would be better off just trying to get into field goal range  and letting their kicker attempt a sixty yarder on every possession.

"I need the stats, Nine," I say calling him by his jersey number, the same way I do half the guys. There are too many to learn all of their first names and I see the backs of their jersey's more than anything. So last name and number are easiest. "I played amazing last season, for sure. But what I need is to go the fuck off. I need the NFL reps and agents to see me have the season of my life so I get drafted in the first round. I need to be the guy everyone wants. "

I have to make the money for them, I think. It's not just about me. He has no idea what that's like though. Cal is dripping with privilege. He would never be in a position to need to support his family, but if he was he could just lean in to the trust fund I know he has. 

"You don't have to declare this year. You have one more year of eligibility. If you red shirt, you could have two more years left here. It's actually kind of fucked up for you to have that as your end goal. What about your team? You aren't shit unless we win out and go back to the playoffs. I would like to see you do that on your own. Nice to know our team captain thinks so highly of his team." With that, Cal stands and leaves without a second look in my direction.

I bring my towel up to my face and soak up the sweat there.  I should feel worse about it. Especially because I am a Team Captain. I should be upholding the silent oath that the team comes first. The whole there is no I in team bull shit. But fuck.