"You mean your Dad's money?"
I nod. Carrie's insight is clear. "Yeah. My entire life, I could go all out, knowing that if I fu— I screwed up, I’d have a bail out. In some ways, I'm surprised I didn't screw up more often, just in order to get his attention. But now . . . now, there's no safety net, not even his money. I'm going to have to back myself, and it’s a new feeling.”
I chuckle and open an eye to look up at Carrie, whose eyes are so full of understanding, I feel something move in my chest. "I guess you do understand. You've been backing yourself your entire time here. How have you done it?"
"By being scared almost all the time," Carrie says, leaning down and kissing my cheek. "But by doing it anyway. I was scared about loving you. I was scared that I was opening myself to a whole realm of heartbreak. I was scared when I told you no outside the stadium. But I did it anyway."
"You did," I whisper, smiling. "And that worked out well, hasn't it?"
"Because you got over being scared of yourself," Carrie reassures me. "You backed yourself then, and I'm backing you now. Now relax, and let me get your muscles as loose as they need to be before we get ready for bed."
"Hmm, I like getting ready for bed with you. Too bad we're going to have to restrain ourselves for a few days around the Pro Day."
"Oh, I'll still be here for you," Carrie reassures me as her fingers find the tired muscles of my hamstrings and begin to knead them gently. "Maybe we can't be as frisky as normal, but I’m here for you."
I relax, letting go at least for the moment, knowing that Carrie is here for me. Her hands never tire, and when she has me turn over, I pull her to me, ignoring the rest of the massage. "I didn't do anything for my chest or arms today. I think we can skip that," I say softly as I kiss her. “How about we work up an appetite before dinner?"
There are a lot of scouts in attendance, which I guess helps some with my nervousness. After all, if they didn't think I was worth the time, they wouldn't still be sticking around, right?
Tyler's getting ready to run his three-cone drill again, after we've done our forty-yard dashes. Tyler ran a better time at the Combine, but he still has a decent 4.9-second time today, decent enough for a quarterback. His big test would come later as he goes through his throwing drills.
My forty was a personal best, 4.67, a very good time for a tight end, and I'm up next for the three-cone drill, something the scouts look at more for a tight end than the straight forty.
Tyler finishes his drill and goes off to warm up for the throwing drill while I square myself on the first cone. The lateral shuffle is important, and I explode as fast as I can, my feet remembering without me even thinking about the hundreds, if not thousands, of reps that Carrie and I had done since my surgery. With my arm limited, we'd spent a lot of time running.
"Six point seven five seconds!" Coach Thibs, who's acting as the timekeeper, calls out as I cross the final cone. It's all laser timed. Western doesn't want there to be any doubt about the validity of our times, and I'm happy. That's a good running back time, let alone a tight end.
I grab my water bottle and go to the side, where Carrie is smiling and has a towel for me. "Nice. Time for the heavy stuff, then you've got routes. You're nailing it."
"Yeah, but the hard stuff's next."
Carrie pats my chest and shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. Remember, I'll be there the whole time. In fact, I talked Coach T into letting me be your spotter for the bench test."
"I hope you wore your panties then. I don't want to be distracted," I tease, and she slaps my chest harder, blushing. We go into the concourse of the stadium, where the bench is set up for the convenience of the scouts. I go over and do a few reps to warm up, getting the motion down, and roll up, ready to go.
"Okay, you can lift off. Time starts when the bar descends for the first time," Coach Taylor, who's scoring and running this event, says. Carrie gets onto the spotter's platform and helps me set the bar up in my hands, giving me a confident nod as we get the bar into position. I'm locked, and I start.
I've worked the bench a lot over the past few weeks, and I focus on making each rep perfect, lifting and lowering the 225 pounds exactly to form. The burn starts right about rep twelve, the fire spreading up my triceps from my elbows to my shoulders, and then across my chest. I'm trying to use my back even to help squeeze the bar and pin my elbows, trying to keep it as tight as possible, and forget about the count. Carrie's looking into my eyes, her brown gaze letting me set aside the pain for a moment, and I squeeze out three more before the bar pauses, and she catches it, guiding it into the safety catches.