Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

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sexy
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Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

Unread post by sexy » 06 Aug 2017 16:35

Bulletproof is the predecessor to this book and is complete. This book is not a stand alone - it is a sequel.

Trailer by mtia13!

All Rights Reserved 24

Copyright: 'Fractured' including all chapter, prologues, epilogues, and associated content is COPYRIGHTED. All rights reserved by the owner and creator of this work, Ellie (Tahlie Purvis) and any unauthorized copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution, or selling of this work constitutes as an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of copyright is punishable by law.

Description:

Tyler Madden is one of the most sought after football players in America. He's played for the NFL for three years and when he's at the peak of his career...disaster strikes. Now Tyler is trying to cope with an injury that has halted his career in it's steps. With football being the only thing keeping him together, Tyler doesn't know where to go next with the sudden anxiety he gets from stepping onto a football field. 59

Francesca Howard is one of the most sought after Art Therapists in America. Her unique methods have helped people overcome many different personal problems by getting them to create artwork. Her career is rising dramatically and she's finally making a name for herself. But one client brings her the publicity that could make her business big. She's told that an NFL player is coming in with not much of a grasp on his real problem. Thinking nothing of it, Francesca accepts the client and a schedule is drawn up for them. 24

But neither of them expected to walk into a room and come face-to-face with their High School Sweetheart that they hadn't seen in seven years.

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sexy
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Re: Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

Unread post by sexy » 06 Aug 2017 16:35

To every single one of my readers - past, present and future - this is for you. 93

+++

Prologue: Tyler 1

Three years, two months and nine days.

That's how long I have been playing for the NFL. I have dedicated three long years to a job that I love and thrive in. Three long years that were shoved away with one sickening crack and a flare of pain. 1

It's a small game – not one of our most important – and the amount of people in the crowd is significantly lower. But that doesn't stop them from jumping to their feet as my team and I run out from the locker rooms. The sharp beam of light contrasts from the darkness of the locker room so vividly that my eyes burn as I look up into the sky.

Everyone is on their feet. Their screams and cries of support sear through me. Each chant, yell and shout become the fuel I need to run out onto the field. My team is beside me, each one of them relishing in the adrenaline.

It's like a high for me.

It's an addiction, much different from when I was in High School and needed a set of drugs to make me feel this type of euphoria. This was a natural high. My heart skips a beat and my throat closes up. My eyes go wide and my hands shake at my sides. It's a feeling similar to panic but instead of cowering away from it, I grow and shower myself in it.

Our manager is standing to the side of the field and all of us run over to him. Only one of my ears is listening to the talk he's giving us. The other is listening out to the continuous cries and chants. A smile curves at my lips and I look up at our manager who steps back and turns away.

My heart beats quickly at such a fast pace that my body starts swaying discreetly to make some sort of movement to blow off the energy running around inside me. My helmet hangs limply under my arm at my side and I nod to the rest of my team as we come together in a huddle.

We separate and walk out to our positions. The screams are louder and the euphoria sets deeply into me. This is what I live for – the high of a situation like this. It was the feeling of being depended on – of feeling wanted.

I lift my helmet up and slip it over my head, buckling it in securely. I wait for the cue to run, to kick my leg back and surge forward. My feet are moving up and down from the rush of energy coursing through me and my breaths are coming out quick and short.

The whistle goes and off a natural reflex, I run forward, the tip of my foot lifting me up.

Everything else becomes silent. I can hear my ragged breath that's confined within the helmet and I hear the faint cries of the audience but I don't hear anything else. My eyes are locked on a goal and my legs are forcing me there. Everything else is secondary – everyone else is secondary.

I turn my body as I run, looking over to where the ball is. I lift up on my toes and my arm reaches up into the air. I guess that's the problem. Everything else is secondary. My primary thought is the ball – where the ball is and how I am supposed to get the ball. All else is blowing away in the harsh, cold wind.

My focus is so set and so acute that I don't see the person running towards me from the right. I don't see the looks on everyone's faces. I don't hear the screams. I don't hear the footsteps trudging towards me.

I see the ball. That is all I see in this moment. The ball and that it's coming towards me, spiralling quickly. And as the ball is seconds from my hands, feet away from my fingertips – I am hurtled to the side.

A body crashes into me, knocking my own body unexpectedly off kilter.

I'm used to this – I get tackled all the time and so I think nothing of it but irritation.

That's until I hear it.

The rest of the noises in the open stadium are white noise – blank and unheard. But there was one noise that I can hear so clearly that it's embedded into my mind...into my skin. I fall to the side and hear a sickening crack as I land. There is no pain at first, just the resounding crack that confuses me. 2

And then suddenly, I'm a teenager again. I'm a lost kid standing in the middle of an underground fighting ring. I'm a cocky, arrogant boy who thinks that he can win. Until a fist hits my face so hard that the crack that comes from my nose carries through the whole room just like the crack is carrying through the stadium right now.

There was no pain at first when I stood in that fighting ring. There was the confusion, then the irritation...and then the blood. I can almost feel it now, dripping from my nose and onto my lips. The pain came later and when it did...it burned.

My teenage-self lost the arrogance immediately. The only thing on my mind was the pain and the sound of that crack that haunted me. I never thought I would hear my body crack that loudly ever again. But here I was – feeling every emotion that I had as a teenager.

And as I stood in the middle of that ring, with blood dripping down my nose, I fell down to my knees. My bones hit the ground hard and I swayed to the side, falling to the floor.

So that's what I do now. I fall to the side, hearing the crack and waiting for the pain. And just as quickly as it had in that ring – the euphoria of the moment vanishes and is lost within the wind that ruffles my frozen body. 3

© All Rights Reserved 2017 Tahlie Purvis

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sexy
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Re: Fractured (Bulletproof sequel)

Unread post by sexy » 06 Aug 2017 16:36

Disclaimer: I ain't a doctor and google can only save me so much. 1

1. Tyler

My dad sits down in front of me, his leg shaking under the table as he wrings his fingers together. The silence drags on unwillingly and I press my gaze down to the wooden table and focus in on one little piece of wood that's sticking out of the smooth finish.

"An art therapist, huh?" My dad asks, trying to make small talk.

I give him a nod, my eyes glaring into the little piece of wood that will eventually end up becoming a splinter in someone's hand.

"It could help." My dad's voice takes a different tone and I look up at him with tired eyes.

"It won't get me back on the field." I say.

"You know that we're just trying to help you, Tyler," Dad sighs. "This therapy could really work. It's different from the other's we've tried-"

"It won't get me back on the field," I repeat, gaze locked firmly on his and my dad shakes his head, pulling his hands apart.

"You need to let someone in," he pleads.

"I'm fine." I clench my teeth through the lie. "I just need to get back on the field."

"Tyler!" My dad snaps suddenly. "You can't get back on the damn field! It'll take months for this injury to become stable and even longer before you can get back onto the League. Hell, that's if they even accept you back!"

"I'm not just going to give up!" I cry out with frustration.

"You need to rest." My dad glares at me. "And get better. And getting better is going to this therapist-"

"What would you know?" I ask coldly. "You didn't fuck up your spine." 14

My dad becomes silent.

I let out a breath of air and look away from him, pressing my hand down on the table. I feel the back brace digging into my skin through my shirt every time I shift to the side. It's an irritating and uncomfortable feeling that only reminds me of what I've lost, and what I'm losing.

My dad clears his throat and I brush my hair out of my face, careful to not stretch too quickly.

"I'm sorry," he says and I nod. "This is new for all of us."

I bite back the comment I want to throw back at him so badly - to show him that there is nothing similar about our situations at this point. But I hold my tongue and my eyes flicker back down to the table where they latch onto the little piece of wood.

I hear him stand up and his body moves in the corner of my eye. He tucks the chair in awkwardly and glances around my apartment. I know that he feels awkward when he comes here - out of place. My parent's house is big and filled with expensive riches but still felt like a home.

My parent's house is a building that came from love and family.

Mine is a building that came from money.

"At the end of the day," Dad says as he grips the top of the chair and looks down at me, "it's your choice. I can't force you into a decision. But...just think it through, okay? You haven't been yourself lately."

My dad turns around but the bitter part that is still swelling inside of me since the accident starts to come through and it wants the last word.

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"Can you blame me?" I murmur, the words gentle but the sharpness to them isn't missed by my father.

He halts slightly before his shoulders sag and walks out the front door.

My eyes follow a path back to the table and I can even feel the burning judgement roll off the little piece of wood.

Lifting myself up from the chair, I place my hand on my stomach to make sure my back is straight. I look around my apartment. It's expensive with large windows covering the entire expanse of the back wall which stares out at the view of Seattle. The furniture is bland and sleek. Everything is clean and cut to perfection.

I look around my apartment and see a house.

Not a home. 1

Walking over to the windows, I lean against the glass, staring down at the busy city life below. The back brace digs into the side of my body and I straighten up to relieve the discomfort. My eyes wander over to the corner of the room where a football is sitting. It's the one that I use in my spare time to practice and it's battered and bruised; however, I've always kept it. 2

But I don't move towards it and I don't dare pick it up. Instead, I just stare longingly at the ball as the weight of my situation presses down on me. I can't play football anymore. It's going to take weeks for my spine to recover and then it will take even longer for my manager to let me back in, if he even does.

I might never play football again. And the thought of that grips me so hard that I falter and I want to grip onto something - anything that could keep me up, keep me sane. But there's nothing out there to help me. My friends are gone, I'm losing my parents and the one thing that keeps me feeling wanted, that keeps me feeling alive is gone.

I've just lost my one life line. My only life line.

And I don't know what to do anymore.

***

The hospital room is bland apart from one small picture of a baby on the wall opposite me. It's unnecessary and isn't needed but it sits upon the wall anyway as if it can somehow bring life and colour back into the plain room.

I sit on the edge of the bed, back straight and legs dangling only a few centimetres off the ground. My doctor is sitting beside me on his small black chair that rolls along the ground and spins in circles which he likes to point out every five seconds.

The doctor stares down at the papers in his hands and I turn my gaze away, staring at the picture of the baby on the wall to distract myself.

"Alright." My doctor wheels his way over to me, holding a piece of paper in his hand. His face turns solemn as he looks at me and gives a small smile. "We can go through with the surgery in a month's time if you want."

My breath catches in my throat and I gulp.

"When would that be?" I ask, hands turning clammy.

"Twentieth of March." 1

I close my eyes briefly and suck in a long breath, nodding slightly. "The surgery will help right?"

"Well we need your spine to heal," the doctor says. "It's a fractured spine so there's a lot of stress accumulating at a certain point along your spinal cord. All we would be doing is putting in disks to support the spine and let it heal by itself with the added support. It's either the disks or we could do a spinal fusion."

I shake my head. "No...I'll do the disks. Please."

My doctor nods then sighs and takes his glasses off. "Tyler...this surgery will force you to take a lot of time to recover. You can't do copious amounts of exercise or wear your body down. You might not be able to play football for a long time and depending on the success of the surgery, ever."

I feel like someone has hit me in the gut.

My eyes fall away from his and I stare at the wall.

"What...what if I don't have the surgery?"

My doctor gives me a sad look. "You need the surgery, Tyler."

I sigh and brush my hands through my hair - a habit I've acquired when I get stressed. "One month?"

"One month," my doctor replies and my bloodshot eyes look down at the ground as the weight on my shoulders presses down with so much force that my back brace feels like it's nearly cutting me open.

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