Tackled: Blitzed, #3

By Amy Jarecki

I'm not looking for a woman, not after I humiliated myself on national TV. But she appears all the same. The woman I've been waiting for my entire life. A woman who possesses the power to reach my lost soul and reassemble its fragments.

 

But she makes it clear she wants nothing to do with me. I understand, God, do I understand. After all, who wants to hook up with a man like me?

 

With her rejection, I head toward my doubtful future, thinking our paths will never again cross. When I find out I'm wrong, I know enough not to blow this gift. I'm going to do everything in my power to prove I'm worthy. Do everything to make her realize she's mine. Forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Jarecki
• Release date: Sep 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798224546176

Book preview

Dedication

It takes an act of herculean courage to commit to overcoming an addiction. Some willingly don their armor and march into battle. Many skirt around the issue until they have nowhere else to turn. The most unfortunate of all can never face the truth and live in a world of self-loathing. Addiction doesn’t just affect the addicted, it destroys entire families, circles of friends, employment, and work relationships.

This book is dedicated to everyone who has in some way been victimized by this awful disease. For those who provide help, for those who suffer, for those who give us hope. You are not alone.

Chapter One

Jeb

I SWEAR I’M GOING TO die.

After my abysmal performance, I doubt I have a friend who’ll mourn my death. If any sorry bastard bothers to write my epitaph, it’ll read: Here lies a man with supreme talent who obliterated his future in four fifteen-minute quarters.

I guess it doesn’t come as a surprise for me to admit January first has been the worst, most humiliating day in my pathetic life. Even more pitiful, I’m so fucked up, I don’t give a shit.

Me.

The one and only Jeb Jones.

Quarterback for the So Cal Titans. Man on a mission to be drafted into the NFL. Except somewhere during my obsessive drive to become the best college QB America has ever seen, I lost sight of the only meaningful goal I’d ever set for myself.

Now I’m a nobody. FUBAR. I’ve been reduced to a writhing ball of pain, curled in a fetal position, shaking from head to toe, the thirst clawing at my throat with the talons of a hundred demons. Only one thing controls me, and it isn’t football.

I’m pretty sure I received at a cracked rib from the hit I took from Utah’s three hundred-pound defensive tackle, but the stabbing pain attacking me with every breath is nothing compared to the tremors, the racing of my heart, and the overwhelming craving for a drink—just a sip. A beer, maybe? A swig of anything with booze it. Hell, isopropyl alcohol would do the trick.

I’m locked down in the hospital’s psycho ward on a seventy-two hour hold because Coach Michaels convinced these assholes I’m suicidal. Well, maybe I am because right now I could down a liter of vodka and still crave more. But I doubt that’s the reason the bastard put me in here. I also suspect he doesn’t give a shit about my welfare unless it relates to football. He made his opinion of me clear: I’m a worthless motherfucker.

I’m Worthless.

I might have partied a little too hard on New Year’s Eve. My memory wanes, but I could have popped a pill or two. Problem was we had a bowl game at noon the next day.

A familiar voice resounds from the hallway, the tiled floor acting as a loudspeaker cranked up to a hundred decibels. He’s in pain? bellows my coach. Yeah, I’d recognize his deep bass anywhere, though I’m surprised the man’s here.

He’s detoxing, a female replies. Though she’s quieter, the sound still rattles my brain. It was touch-and-go there for a while.

Oh, really? I’ll give him touch-and-go!

To the woman’s protests, the door opens, flooding my room with bright light, and making me heave.

Again.

I’ve heaved so much, my stomach is about to spew through my esophagus.

Can you hear me, boy? Coach Michaels shouts.

Clutching my sides, I cringe. Too loud.

Loud, did you say? Good, because I’m only going to repeat this once—you’re out! Off the team. I’m giving your scholarship to a new recruit. On top of that, I’ve already recommended your expulsion from So Cal.

I’m so trashed, I’m unable to lift my head off the mattress and he chooses this moment to pull his shit? He can’t do this to me. No! I shout, the single word ripping from my throat while a wave of violent shivers wracks my body.

There’s only one hope for you now—the transfer portal, Coach continues to rant. I don’t give it much of a chance, because if it were up to me, I’d let your sorry ass wallow in your own vomit.

I push myself up, but a stab of unbearable pain sends me collapsing to the mattress. You can’t! I try to shout, but my plea sounds pitiful and shaky like I’m some sort of worthless addict. Fuck. It must have been the pills that made me this bad. As soon as I can stand on my feet, I’ll face him. Goddammit, I’ll beg if I have to. Please! I manage to croak.

Coach sneers with a sarcastic laugh. Look at yourself, you pathetic piece of shit. You had talent—were good enough to see your image in the NFL Hall of Fame. But now you don’t have what it takes to mop the floor at the local high school!

Trying not to drool, I curl tighter into a ball. The asshole is right. Somehow, I’ve become a sorry-assed bastard just like my old man. If only the hospital staff would have left me to die I wouldn’t be here to deal with the pain, to face the fact that I’ve hit rock bottom of an abyss of hell. Kicked off the team? What is there to live for now?

No-fucking-thing.

Coach leans over the bed, moving his mouth above my ear. I only have one thing to say, ass-wipe. The man’s hot breath skims my cheek, bringing on a shudder. "I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that you will never embarrass me or my team again. I will not tolerate a shit-bag douche quarterback on my team!"

I grit my teeth and clench every muscle in my body. He hates me but I hate myself more. I won’t. I’ll never have another drink. Just don’t boot me out.

As the empty promise spews from my lips, a wave of heaves hits me. I gulp back the bile and look into Coach’s eyes. Damn. There’s only one person who’s ever glared at me with so much malice, and it wasn’t this man. I respect Coach Michaels and will say anything to earn back his trust just as soon as I can stand.

There’s no hope for you now, Jones. Unless you manage to abstain from booze and get your ass into another program. Sober! Do you remember what that word means?

I nod, even though inside I’m shuddering, craving a shot.

By the looks of you, you have no idea, he growls, his voice filled with disgust.

Coach paces the linoleum tiles, the squeaking of his tennis shoes almost unbearable, screeching in my ears with the irritation of a dentist’s drill. The man pounds his fist on the hospital table hard enough to make the pitcher of water crash to the floor. You worthless fool, if you ever want to play ball again in your miserable life, you’re going to have to do it sober!

He marches to the door and grabs the handle. Any questions?

Sober? I doubt I’ve completely dried out in four years. The idea sends a clammy chill across my skin as I watch him out of the eye not presently pressed into the mattress. If you didn’t bring me a beer, then just kill me now.

Unable to wrap my mind around anything beyond my next drink, I keep my reply to myself.

Unbelievable.

After the shit my ex-coach just dished out, I still just want to get lit. How the fuck did I end up here?

I’VE HAD THREE DAYS to stew. The worst of my detoxing happened in the first twenty-four hours. Then, I could only focus on the pain.

Now, aside from finding the nearest bar, my thoughts are of the team. Shit, man, they’re all I have. But I need a drink so bad, I can’t concentrate, so I keep it simple and home in on two things nearly as important as getting a fix. I have to play ball. I need my scholarship, too.

After I shower, I dress in the same clothes I wore the night before the Championship Bowl—jeans and a retro Grateful Dead t-shirt. I had planned to wear black pants, a black button-up shirt, and black sportscoat but I was too hungover to change. I mean, no one shows up to any bowl game wearing clothes they’d slept in. There’s too many cameras, too many scouts watching.

Except I’d fucked up.

Now that my seventy-two-hour hold is over, I’m going straight to Coach’s office to talk this thing through. I’ll man-up, look him in the eyes, and tell him I’ve learned my lesson once and for all.

As I reach for the handle, the door opens. Good morning, Mr. Jones. I’m Mrs. Fisher from the dean’s office at Southern California University.

Uh... I look over her shoulder to see if Coach Michaels is with her. He’s not. I was just heading over there now that Coach has had some time to cool off.

She rubs the back of her neck and cringes. Yes, about that. We need to talk, she says, gesturing out the door. The hospital has been kind enough to let us borrow one of their offices.

All right, I agree, following her. I figured he’d come to his senses and realize how much the team needs me next year. God, even though I spoke the truth, I sound like a dick.

Mrs. Fisher doesn’t reply as she leads me to a tiny room that’s about as big as a coat closet. One desk, a chair on either side, white walls. The only art is a poster of the vascular system. There’s a manila folder on the desk. The tab has my name on it.

The woman moves to the chair behind the desk and nods to the seat across. We’ve had to pull a lot of strings in a very short period of time, but I think you’ll find our solution is for the best.

Solution? I let out a pent-up breath as I sit. Thank God, they’ve realized they can’t get through the next football season without me. Good. When does spring training start? I ask.

Mrs. Fisher folds her hands on top of the folder. Didn’t Coach Michaels make it clear?

Something isn’t right. This woman is way too serious. She hasn’t even cracked a smile. Maybe I need to win her approval before I can shoot out of here so I give her one of my lady-killer winks. You mean that bull about kicking me off the team?

Yes.

I shrug, my pits stinging with sweat, yet I stare her down like I would a two-hundred-fifty-pound linebacker. Yeah, but he wasn’t serious. Sure, he meant what he said at the time, but he’s a coach. It’s his job to chew my ass.

I’m afraid he was very serious. You arrived at the Championship Bowl in a state of gross intoxication, which is entirely unacceptable. Mrs. Fisher shifts her gaze to the poster of the vascular system. In fact, after reviewing your academic performance, it is Southern California University’s decision to expel you. Permanently.

What the fuck?

Nobody ever said anything about my grades before. I mean they’re not all As or even close, but I’ve more or less passed all my classes. Who the fuck cares? My academic performance isn’t the problem here. Goddamn, this is a nightmare!

I push to my feet and grind my knuckles into the desk, leaning forward while blood flashes up the back of my neck and burns as if someone’s holding a welding torch to it. She’s not my coach, and she doesn’t have a clue about how much blood and sweat I’ve left on the field to earn my place on the team. "Expel me? You can’t do that! I am the team. I am the face of the Titans."

She shoves back in her chair, gripping her armrests, fear reflected in her eyes. Sit down now, Mr. Jones.

Fuming, I slam my fist on the desk and drop to my ass. There’s no way I’d ever threaten a woman, but she’d pissed me off. She glares at me and doesn’t say another word until I cross my arms and blow out a long breath.

"Perhaps you were the face of the Titans, but no longer. She nods with a weak smile. We have a proposition for you to consider."

Unless she says I’ll be the starting quarterback come fall, there isn’t much to discuss.

After consulting with your doctors, it is the university’s decision to foot the bill to send you to rehab.

Has this woman lost her fucking mind?

Rehab? I ask like she’s a clueless moron. I don’t need rehab. I need to play ball.

On the topic of football, we do agree, Mr. Jones, but—

I jab my fist into my palm. Then why the hell are you talking about rehab? Is it my grades? I’ll study harder. I’ll get a tutor. I’ll stay off the sauce—

No, no, no. The woman slices her hand through the air. "If you would please allow me to explain. First of all, after your performance at the Championship Bowl, you have zero chance of ever returning to Southern California University. However, your doctors as well as experts at the school believe that the NCAA puts too much strain on college athletes. In addition, it has been proven time and time again that an alcoholic with the right motivation can recover from his or her disease by attending a three-month in-patient rehabilitation. The college experts believe that you can benefit from an intensive and extended time of self-reflection and sobriety."

What? I shout, my temples throbbing. "I’m not an addict, and I’m not going to some stupid freak farm for losers! You owe me. I’m Jeb Jones—fuckin’ So Cal has brought in millions of dollars because of my talent. Because I put my body on the line every single Saturday!"

Mrs. Fisher’s face turns red while her lips press into a thin line. She knows I’m right, so why are they messing with me? I swear, the doctor was against me the day they wheeled me into this shit hole.

I’m afraid you are out of options, she says, pushing the folder my way. This is a letter of consent. I suggest you sign it.

I grip the seat of my plastic chair, telling myself not to pick it up and slam it through the wall. No matter how much I want to explode, I have to stay cool and make her see reason. I’m not signing anything, I say, keeping my voice low and even If Coach Michaels doesn’t want me, I’ll enter the transfer portal and I’ll be picked up in five minutes.

Will you? After America watched you vomit on the sidelines at the ‘grandaddy of them all?’ Mrs. Fisher smirks, staring at me with contempt in her eyes. You threw seven interceptions. You dropped a perfect hike that resulted in a touchdown for the other team.

I grind my molars, wishing she were a man so I could bury my fist in her face. Yes, I admit I wasn’t all there. But it was only one game. I’m the man who led the Titans to the Championship Bowl. Why couldn’t they recognize the positive stuff?

She drills her finger onto the folder. We also interviewed a number of team members who testified that you take shots before all games and practices.

Now I was ready to bust some heads. One of my bros was a narc? I could hold my liquor—could have a shot or two before a game and nobody knew. Booze always amps up my courage. Not about to take her bull, I thump my chest. I perform better after a couple shots. I don’t hesitate when I’m lit. I don’t have to think, I just do and that’s when I’m at my best. If I’m not drinking, I start thinking and fuck up every time.

Ms. Fisher clears her throat, looking uncomfortable. Maybe you believe drinking helps, but you’ve clearly crossed the line from recreational alcohol use into addiction. Again, she nudges the folder my way. "Look, when you do decide to enter the transfer portal, Coach Michaels will not give you a reference unless you complete this program. It’s only a short bit of time off, and every expert with whom we have consulted insists that a solid three-month stint in rehab is the ticket to get you back on track. Furthermore, if you don’t sign, the university will wash their hands of you. Face it, Mr. Jones. When fall semester starts, you’ll be a redshirt senior. You have but one year to prove yourself and the only way you’ll ever get picked up by another Division One school is to follow our plan."

Chapter Two

Harper

NELSON RECOVERY INSTITUTE, January 7th

I spin my chair in a circle while texting my roomies, Peggy and Larissa: I can’t believe they gave me my own office!

As was typical, Peggy fires back with her lightning-fast thumbs: Lucky!

Larissa doesn’t respond, but I’ll hear from her before the end of the day. Peggy is totally spontaneous and a party girl. I bridge the gap between my two friends, I’m mostly focused but spontaneous when the time is right. Both Peggy and I are extroverts, while Larissa is a self-proclaimed introvert. She takes the word realistic to new levels, even though she says she’s simply grounded, but I think she’s dug herself a subterranean bunker. Nonetheless, she is one hell of a friend and I admire her ability to ignore all the social pressures at Madison U and hit the dean’s list every semester.

My phone dings and I laugh out loud when Larissa’s name comes up: Why does an intern stepping in as an athletic coordinator need an office? Yes, I agree with P – you’re lucky.

I text back: Not complaining. Besides, I have to develop personal training programs for twenty people.

Peggy: Then WTF are you doing on your phone?

Larissa: Ditto.

They’re right. I set my cell phone down and stare at the empty, newly assigned Nelson Recovery email box on my laptop. I guess the first thing I need to do is meet the people with whom I’ll be developing fitness programs. Tom, the Treatment Director, said the counselors would send me patients one at a time. Honestly, this morning, he seemed to be in a hurry and had given me very little information aside from my sign-on for the computer which also got me into the email system.

Thus far, all I know is the Nelson Recovery Institute hired me as an intern to cover for Janet East while she is on maternity leave. I was supposed to receive a week of training with Janet herself, but when I arrived, Tom informed me she had gone into labor early and I was going to have to wing it.

The twenty patients in question were only the ones who’d arrived since Janet left two weeks ago. Evidently, new people arrive almost daily at this sixty-three-bed facility.

Anyway, Tom told me to dive in and assess each patient’s current fitness levels and set up individualized exercise regimes—nothing too strenuous, given that they all are recovering from various types of substance abuse. As an athletic training major, this is the type of experience I need to get into the master’s degree program and eventually land my dream job. Well, at least it coordinates nicely with the work I’m already doing with the Madison U football team.

One more year and I’ll have my bachelor’s. I can’t believe how fast time is flying.

Peggy was so right when she’d called me lucky. This internship basically fell into my lap, the timing perfect. I mean, I was literally in my professor’s office when he got the notice about the job. I immediately volunteered and rearranged my schedule. Not only was football season over, I was able to enroll in all online classes this semester.

I tap my fingers on