Tim woke up, rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, then stretched his arms and legs. Immediately, his hamstring cramped; he grabbed for his leg and whelped in pain. After the cramp subsided, he sat up, with yesterday's headache sill pounding the front of his skull.
"Fuck," he said aloud, before he got up, put some clothes on, and plodded his 6-2, 230 pound body down the stairs into the kitchen.
The small kitchen was illuminated by a dull, yellowish overhead lamp. Sarah was at the stove cooking a bunch of scrambled eggs. "Here's your coffee, hun," she said, handing Tim a large mug of black coffee. "Breakfast will be ready in a few. How you feeling this morning?"
"This headache is killing me and my back is sore, from that hit I took. And my left knee, the one that's been giving me trouble, it's messed up still. The trainer's gonna have to look at that again. Can you get me some water and about five Advil."
When Sarah came back with the Advil and water, Tim added without much energy "Thanks, Sarah. Why's it so cold in here?"
Sarah plopped Tim's plate of food in front of him on the beat up formica table and replied "The heat's out again. Hopefully you can figure out what's wrong with the furnace, or we're going to have to call the repair guy. The washing machine is acting up too, it keeps stopping during the spin cycle, so the clothes come out all wet."
Hunched over his breakfast, Tim spoke and ate simultaneously as best he could. "Fucking Monday's... Okay, I'll look at the furnace after breakfast and this coffee kicks in. We might just have to replace the washing machine. Maybe I can get a used one at the thrift store." And after a pause to wash down a mouthful of eggs with a swig of coffee, he continued with a sigh. "I've been playing for the Lions for what, seven seasons now? My stats are third best in the league... and we still have to live in this shit hole? What are we gong to do Sarah?"
Sarah put her hands on Tim's shoulders and said "I don't know Tim. Maybe you're going to have to get a second job."
"A second job?" Tim said loudly. "How can I work a second job? I come home after the games and practices all beat up. I probably got another damn concussion yesterday. Did you see that hit? And no fucking call from the ref? Fuck that. And what kinda job am I gonna get, Sarah?"
Sarah massaged Tim's shoulders and tried to comfort him. "I don't know, Tim. I know it's hard. You do the best you can for us, Baby, but we're just not making it. By the way, the dentist says Joey's probably going to need braces eventually. I know what you think Tim, but maybe you need to stop playing. Go to school or something."
"Go to school? How are we going to afford that! The kid needs braces now, and we can't even keep the damn furnace working. Playing football is what I love! I just can't see myself stopping, Sarah. This is all I know how to do," Tim said, slumping over the table with his head in his hands.
Sarah started to speak, but Tim interrupted her. "Why couldn't I have been a teacher or something? They make a ton of money, without having to get all banged up. And the bastards get to go to school on scholarships, and get all kinds of endorsement money. Did you see the car that Joey's teacher drives? A damn eBentley! I bet he didn't even pay for it, they probably just gave it to him. Because he teaches fifth graders. It doesn't make any fucking sense."