Daddy's Game by Normandie Alleman Page B

pain tolerance. It was something he and Charles talked about all the time.
    The air in the box had grown thin and the silence was interspersed with a few whispers. Then James picked up a remote control and turned up the volume so they could hear the announcers who were calling the game.
    “Matt, it looks like a knee. See how the knee appears to buckle here.”
    Then they ran a tape in slow motion that showed Natron stretching out to catch the ball in the air, then pulling into his chest. As he came down with the ball, his hips rotated as he prepared to make the cut toward the end zone, and at that very instant a defender came in and tackled him hard at the knee. As they showed the grisly replay over and over again, it was easy to see Natron’s left knee bend in a way that knees are not supposed to bend.
    Several people gasped and groans were heard over the broadcast.
    “That’s gotta hurt, Steve. You hate to see that happen,” the broadcaster said.
    “You’re right, Matt. First game back, the defending Conference Champions, he’s got one touchdown on the day and they may be about to lose Natron Dakers.”
    “And that’s going to hurt them.”
    The tape of the injury played over and over again until Carmen finally had to look away. Swallowing hard, she walked over to the window to see what was happening on the field and a sinking feeling overtook her as she watched Natron leave the field on a cart.

Chapter Eleven
     
     
    Natron stretched his arms out in front of him, his fingers clasped the football, and he pulled it in. His cleats pressed into the turf, planting his left leg and he turned toward the end zone, all of it happening in a nanosecond. But before he could make the cut, the opposing team’s cornerback ploughed into him and buckled his knee sideways.
    Natron heard a snap and felt his knee go in a direction that was foreign to him. A stabbing pain gripped his left leg and he fell to the ground. Crumpled on the field, he tried to catch his breath. He rolled around, holding his knee at a ninety-degree ankle, but every time he changed position, a shooting pain exploded in his leg.
    Right away the Vipers’ training staff surrounded him, forming a circle with him at the center, shielding him from the voyeuristic cameras of the media. After answering a number of their questions and trying various movements, Natron realized he was unable to stand. Once that was ascertained, the training staff sent for the cart, a stretcher on wheels.
    Dazed, Natron replayed what had just happened over and over again in his mind. Had he torn his ACL? Was that what he’d heard breaking? Whatever it was, it was something bad. Healthy most of his career, Natron had never had an injury sideline him before. At most he’d dealt with cramps and the occasional pulled muscle. But everything about this situation told him this injury would prove to be more serious.
    While waiting for the cart to take him to the locker room, he started telling himself he’d only pulled a tendon. With a few ice packs and rehabbing, he could be back in time for their game against the Lions in two weeks.
    The trainers tried to get him to straighten his leg, but each time he did, it caused him excruciating pain. Normally he would have had more of an awareness of the cameras and tried to control his reactions, but he was in such misery that he didn’t care.
    He winced when they helped him onto the cart. One of the trainers rode in the back with him to stabilize his throbbing leg. Reminding himself to be tough, Natron bit back the profanity that threatened to spew from his lips. Instead, he waved and smiled at the fans through gritted teeth. Rising to their feet, the crowd responded with a rousing cheer and he inhaled their adulation and support.
    Upon entering the tunnel, Natron attempted to bend his leg, but the trainer stopped him, saying, “Keep it like this for now. We’ll have an x-ray in a minute and an MRI at the hospital if necessary.”
    Natron