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“Slade, you suffered a bad hit. Can you hear me?” the doctor asks.
Slade barely nods his head, but any movement is a promising sign.
I want to lift Slade's head and lay it in my lap, but I can’t until we know if he suffered a neck injury.
“Let’s get a stretcher out here,” the doctor tells the two medics who ran out here with him.
“We’re going to move you, Slade. To do that, we’re going to take off your helmet to secure your neck for transportation.”
Slade barely nods again.
The doctor takes the neck brace he has and nods to Seven to take Slade’s helmet off.
I wrap my fingers gently under Slade’s neck so that Seven can access the helmet better and then I continue to hold it until the doctor has the neck brace secured.
I lay Slade’s head in my lap and gently brush my hands through his long hair as I watch the medics race out with the stretcher.
“You’re going to be ok. I’ve got you,” I tell him.
"Pen?" I hear him mutter softly.
He makes another mumbling sound for a second, and then, before I know it, they pull him out of my lap and onto the stretcher. I get up immediately, following the stretcher the entire way with my hand locked between his limp fingers until we get to the ambulance.
“I’m going with him,” I tell the paramedic.
The doctor nods at her.
“I’ll meet you there. I have to grab his medical file. I'll get a police escort. Just go!” he yells as he, turns and sprints back for the stadium building.
Slade is still a new player, and the doctor probably needs to review his file for possible medications and prior injuries.
I load into the ambulance with the two paramedics, and we take off.
I ride the entire way with my hand in his. His grip has tightened a little, but I know what it feels like to have Slade's hands on me, and I hate how weak he feels now. Can he really feel me? Does he know it's my hand in his?
The ride to the hospital feels like a blur. Before I know it, the doctor shows Slade’s detailed medical history, and they all disappear with Slade to run every test known to man.
I hear Slade's groggy voice down the ICU hall as the doctors start asking him yes and no questions. At least I know he's conscious. There's some comfort in that.
One of the nurses shows me to the reception area in the ICU.
A soap opera is playing on a small TV in the corner of the room, and two vending machines—one for snacks and one for hot beverages—sit against the wall.
Twenty minutes later, I still haven't gotten to see a nurse or a doctor, though knowing that our own doctor is with him gives me a small amount of relief. I field dozens of text messages from Hawkeyes staff and friends, all asking how he's doing. Unfortunately, my answer is the same for everything—I haven't heard yet.
I call my father to see if he or Phil have heard from our doctor yet, but they haven't.
"As soon as I hear, I'll let you know, Peanut," my father says. "Keep me up to date if you hear anything on your end."
Next, Tessa calls and puts me on speaker with the rest of the girls, and just like everyone else… I have no news. Only, that's not their only question.
"How are you holding up?" Tessa asks.
At that moment, tears started to stream down my face. I hadn't let my own emotions sink in due to the high adrenaline keeping me laser-focused on him. Now, hearing Tessa's concern for me, I can't stop the tears.
"Is there anyone else there with you? We'll leave the game and come straight there," Isla says over the speaker.
"Yeah, we can be there in thirty minutes with traffic," Autumn assures me.
