Play Me Like Your Favorite Song

Chapter 1

Carson

The California Wolves' facility always seems to glow with its sleek lines and gold-trimmed windows. Seven years I've walked these halls, but today each step sends daggers through my shoulder. The pain's different from the usual post-game aches. That hit I took hasn't let me forget how hard I got sacked. Hopefully the scans came back and say it's just tweaked. But something inside my aging gut tells me it's more than that.

"Coach wants to see you," Marshall, our assistant trainer, catches me in the corridor. His expression's too careful, too neutral.

The hall feels lonelier than usual as I make my way to Coach Malkovich's office. The game replay loops in my head—that defensive end breaking through our line, my body hitting the turf. Wrong angle. Wrong everything. Seven seasons as starting quarterback, and I've never dreaded a post-game meeting like this. The way my steps echo against the polished floor sounds different today, hollow somehow, like they're counting down steps to something I'm not ready to face.

"Come in, Carson." Coach's voice carries through the open door.

I ease into the chair across from his desk, my shoulder protesting every movement. The office walls showcase our team's history of photos of past victories, championship trophies gleaming and multiple team photos with scattered newspaper clippings. My eyes fix on last season's divisional title photo.

"Got your preliminary results." Coach taps a folder on his desk. "It's not good, son."

"Just tell me how many games I need to sit out." The words taste like ash. "Two, maybe three weeks?"

He shakes his head. "Torn rotator cuff. Complete tear."

The room tilts. "There's gotta be another way. Maybe—"

"At twenty-nine? Surgery's risky. Best case scenario is intensive physical therapy, but Carson..." He leans forward, his eyes heavy with something I don't want to see. "You need to consider your options here."

"Options?" My laugh comes out harsh. "I'm not done, Coach. This team needs me."

"The team needs you healthy. Right now, you're not. Physical therapy might—might—get you back in the game. But we're looking at months, not weeks."

The championship photo catches my eye again, taunting me from its place on Coach's office wall. There I am, holding up the trophy, immortalized in my moment of glory, surrounded by my teammates with their gold and black uniforms gleaming under the stadium lights. Now I can barely lift my arm above my head without feeling like someone's driving a knife through my shoulder.

"So what's it gonna be?" Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts, gruff but caring in that way he's always had. "You ready to work for it?"

My fingers dig into the leather armrests until my knuckles turn white. His office smells of old playbooks and stale coffee fills my lungs as I take a steadying breath. I know there's only one answer. "Work for it? Coach, you know me. I'll do whatever it takes. Hell, I'll live in the therapy room if that's what gets me back on the field."

"Good, because I've got someone in mind. Best therapist I know—not on our payroll, but worth every penny. Been working miracles with athletes for years from what I hear."

"We've got a whole medical team here—" I start to protest, not wanting special treatment that might raise eyebrows in the locker room. I don’t need the guys thinking I'm getting preferential care or that's it's so bad that someone might be able to slide in and take my place.

"This is different." Coach stands, pacing behind his desk with that determined stride I've seen a thousand times before games. His championship ring catches the light as he moves. "Called in a favor with an old friend who runs a clinic. He owes me, and you're worth calling it in for. Trust me on this one, Carson—when have I ever steered you wrong?"

The pain pulses through my shoulder, matching my heartbeat. "Never. When do I go?"

"Meeting's being set up. Listen, Carson..." He stops, hands flat on his desk. "Seven years you've given this team everything. You've earned this shot. But—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than intended.

"You need to hear this. We're going to try everything, starting with this therapy. But you also need to be realistic about—"

"About what? That this could be it?" My good hand rubs the back of my neck raw as it always does during moments of stress that I can't control. "I get it."

"Stay optimistic. That's all I'm saying. We need you back, but we need you whole."

I nod, but my mind's already back on that field. The hit. The crack. That sound—like a branch snapping in half, except it was me breaking. The memory makes my stomach turn.

The coach keeps talking about recovery times and protocols, but I barely hear him. I know what a career-ending injury feels like now. Turns out it sounds like a gunshot and feels like your future splitting in two.

I stare at the polished surface of Coach's desk, my reflection distorted in the wood. Seven years of blood and sweat, of pushing through injuries that would've benched lesser men, and this is what it comes down to? Some specialist who might—might—get me back in the game?

"You understand what I'm saying, Carson?" Coach's voice cuts through my spiral, sharp and demanding like he's calling a play from the sidelines.

"Crystal clear." The words taste bitter, like defeat and morning-after aspirin. My fingertips dig into the tension in my neck that's been building there since that fateful play. "Not like I have much choice, right?"

Coach sits back down in his chair, it creaking under his weight. The sound reminds me of old stadium seats, of better days. "Listen, I want you to know the other side of this. I'm not saying to accept it, just to be aware of it. But you know that there's always a choice in these situations."

"Is there?" A humorless laugh escapes me, echoing off the walls of his office like a mockery. "Either I do this therapy, or I'm done. That's not a choice, that's a corner you're backing me into." Seven years of my life, countless victories, and now it all hangs by a thread thinner than the ones they'll use to stitch me back together.

"Nobody's backing you anywhere. This is me throwing you a lifeline."

My good hand clenches into a fist, knuckles white with frustration. The pain in my shoulder throbs in time with my pulse, a constant reminder of everything I stand to lose. Each beat feels like another second ticking away from my career clock. "Some lifeline." The words come out as rough as sandpaper, scraping roughly at my pride.

"You think any other team's gonna take a chance on a quarterback with a bum shoulder?" His words hit exactly where they're meant to, piercing through the armor of denial I've built around myself. "This isn't just about getting back in the game. This is about your future."

Everything feels heavy in that moment—the injury, the uncertainty, the years I've given to this sport—settles heavily on me. Seven seasons of blood and sweat, of perfect spirals and game-winning drives, reduced to this moment. I push myself up from the chair, fighting to keep my face neutral even as my shoulder screams in protest. "Thanks, Coach. I appreciate the... opportunity." The word feel as if I'm admitting defeat and makes me close to dry heaving.

"Keep your phone close. My friend should call back today about getting you in." He stands too, his expression softening in that way that makes me feel like a rookie all over again. "We're not giving up on you, Carson. Don't give up on yourself." I can hear what he's not saying: that this might be my last shot, that the clock's running down, and I'm out of timeouts.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As I turn to leave, my eyes catch that championship photo one last time. The guy in that picture seems like a stranger now—confident, unbreakable. What I wouldn't give to go back to that moment, before everything changed.