Roz Fox - Family Fortune

The whole sports world was aware that he’d emerged from dirt-poor fanning roots to end up a star in the NFL. “A melon jockey with magic hands,” was how rural Texas reporters had described his feats with a football at the consolidated high school he’d gone to. There was enough truth to it that his dad had gone out on a limb and mortgaged the farm to ensure his son got a chance to play college ball at & M. The old man enjoyed a one-year return on his sacrifice. Hell of a note.

After college, the Dallas Cowboys had snapped Cale up as relief quarterback. He sent half of his generous salary home. Then, at the peak of his second season, his folks died when their farm truck rolled. That same week, the coach tapped him to lead the team into the playoffs, replacing the regular quarterback, who’d suffered a minor injury. It was a hollow victory, but he’d buried his grief and gotten the job done.

He sat now, twisting the winner’s ring that proved it. He twisted the ring around and around on his finger as he sank under morose memories.

It wasn’t until after the final playoff game—nine years ago now—that he learned county social workers intended to split up his kid sisters and ship them to foster homes. The powers-that-be made it plain they didn’t consider him an appropriate guardian. The court claimed the right to decide, because his parents hadn’t left a will. He damned sure wasn’t going to let strangers take his sisters. He did what had to be done, which included forking over every penny he had to wage a legal battle to keep his family together. It took ten months, but the court finally let his mother’s cousin and her husband move from Illinois to work the farm and raise the three Tanner girls, ages twelve, eleven and ten. Of course he’d covered all the expenses incurred in the move from Illinois.

Settling his family problems cost him more than money. It cost him time. Too much time. Once their regular quarterback recovered, the Cowboys dumped him. After months of running the farm on promises, he finally signed with the New Orleans Sinners.

Until this accident, anyone who knew squat about football agreed that Caleb Tanner was at the top of his game. Sportscasters compared him to Montana and Elway. So no mealymouthed quacks were going to say his career was kaput.

“Just because you graduated from Harvard and Yale,” he bellowed at the departing doctors, “doesn’t make y’all God!” Fighting the fear that gnawed at his gut, Caleb grabbed an empty plastic water pitcher and heaved it across the room.

“Take it easy, Cale.” His agent placed a restraining hand on Caleb’s forearm while the last doctor ducked out.

Caleb shook Leland off. “And you...” He scowled at his agent. “What’s the holdup on my contract? I started the season in good faith.”

“Now, Cale. The money man’s dragging his feet. He wants some kind of assurance he’s not buying a pig in a poke.”

“Then assure him. You tell him I’m starting physical therapy in a couple of days. I’ll be stronger than moonshine before we play Detroit. Tell him that.” Caleb poked a forefinger into the agent’s skinny chest, forcing him to take flight, too.

His hand on the doorknob, Leland ran a skeptical eye over Caleb’s collection of wires and pulleys. “We’ve been associates a long time. I’m telling you, Cale, the chance of signing while you’re in this shape...well, it stinks. I can’t...won’t lie to the man.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Cale’s green eyes fired. “I’m gonna lick this thing.”

“Yeah. For a minute there, I thought... Hell, Cale. A lot of guys retire at thirty-one. You must have a sizable nest egg by now.”

Caleb clenched his hands. The thought of quitting the only work he knew set his heart beating so furiously he was afraid it’d fly clean out of his body. Football and farming were all he’d ever done. If he hadn’t signed the farm over to his uncle and aunt last year...

But he had. He’d deeded them the land. They deserved more for putting their lives on hold to take care of the girls. Gritting his teeth, Cale forced a smile. “Emmitt Smith knows a doc who’s first-rate at getting old bones shipshape. Have Medical Records overnight my X rays. I’m not washed up, Lee. That’s God’s honest truth.”

“Sure, buddy. But I expect we’ll have to wait for the new doc’s report before we go back to the bargaining table. ’Cause the way it stands now, unless they see their money’s buying a sound man, the bastards are saying hasta la vista.”

Stunned by the finality of the notion, Caleb watched the door close. Despair warred with terror. Then a blinding rage welled up from his sandbagged toes. He swept a hand across the surface of his table. Paperbacks, a box of tissues, magazines and a water glass flew, hitting the floor with a satisfying crash.

He regarded the mess. It hadn’t even begun to abolish his gut-deep panic.

Someone rapped on his door. Caleb chose to ignore the intrusion. Leland had probably told a nurse he was in a foul mood. Well, he was. How in hell did they expect a man to feel when he’d just been told his career was over? Dammit, it wasn’t over until he said it was over. And he didn’t think it was asking too much to keep the news of his progress—or lack thereof—quiet. At least until he’d recovered enough to prove he was sound.

The knock sounded again. Louder.

“What do you want?” he thundered when the door opened slightly and a woman, a stranger with a pale face and huge blue eyes, peeked in. She was a bitty thing. If Caleb stood, the top of her shiny dark hair wouldn’t hit him midchest. He ground his teeth. “You’ve landed in the wrong room, Pocahontas.” As the woman eased through the opening, she flipped an ebony braid as thick as his wrist over a slim shoulder, facing him head-on, keeping both hands out of sight behind her back. Hiding a needle, probably. Forsythe must have ordered a shot to calm him.

“You can take that syringe and stab it into some other poor slob’s backside.”

As she noted the debris scattered on the floor, Crystal thought at least he hadn’t disappointed her expectations. It was a shame Skipper couldn’t see his idol in the throes of a tantrum.

“I’m not a nurse.” She met the man’s stormy eyes.

“No? Then who in hell are you?”

“I’m, ah, Crystal Jardin. From WDIX-TV,” she said on a flash of brilliance. After all, what football jock didn’t roll over and salivate at the prospect of gaining a little media attention? Crystal suspected he’d offer his autograph more readily if he figured he’d get something in return. Something he’d consider more substantial than the adulation of an ailing child. But if Tanner didn’t act too arrogant, she might ask the WDIX sports director to send a reporter and a cameraman. That should make the man happy.

Busy congratulating herself on her cleverness, she was slow to realize Tanner wasn’t reacting as she’d anticipated. Instead, his brows drew together over smoking eyes and he bellowed, “Vultures. Bloodsuckers! Do I have to climb off this bed and throw you out, too?”

Then he lunged. Pulleys spun wildly, unexpectedly snapping a cord. The flying hook knocked over an infusion stand that held an empty N-drip container. The monitor mounted above his headboard flashed like a pinball machine. As he all but fell out of bed, a noisy alarm began to bleat in the entryway..

“Please stop!” she begged. “Lie still.” Football forgotten, she charged forward. The sound of crunching glass-and the strangled epitaphs coming from the man who now dangled precariously—sent her into full retreat again. “Help!” she called, with her head stuck out into the corridor. “We need a nurse!”

Two nurses tore down the hall at a dead run. Crystal’s last look at Skip’s hero, after one nurse thrust her aside, was of a man writhing in pain.