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And it looks like— Yeah, they’re removing him. Getting him on a stretcher. I’m hearing, it looks like a potential concussion. A terrible accident, just really?—
I sprang up and ran out of there with no plan in mind. All I knew was Spencer, my Spencer was hurt.
CHAPTER 13
SPENCER
It took me a second to know I was hurt. Or several seconds. A minute. An hour.
I was moving one minute, up on my feet. Driving hard for the goal, and then… then I wasn’t. My legs were still moving, but nothing else was. A great weight was on me, crushing my chest. A pain in my leg, like a knife to my quad. Spreading heat — blood? Had I somehow been stabbed?
My perception broke up into splinters and fragments. Wisps of reality I couldn’t hold onto. I had to get out of here, back to my game. Back on my feet. It would all be okay. I just needed, just needed…
I raised myself on one elbow. My head throbbed and spun. My stomach did a slow roll and I tasted bile.
“Don’t try to move.”
Who was talking? I couldn’t see right. Sweat in my eyes. “Towel, need a towel.”
“That’s fine, we’ve got you.”
I squinted to see, but time skipped ahead. I was moving, or the ceiling was, sliding by fast. Specks of white sailed above me, doves in the rafters. I tried to reach for them, but they dissolved into light. Somewhere, a whistle blew, and the game, yeah, the game…
Sirens were screaming, and I opened my eyes. Someone was killing me. Smothering me with a pillow. I jerked back, got my hands up, but my head was all fuzzy.
“Just oxygen,” said someone, their voice far away. “It’s okay, breathe deep. Count to five in your head.”
I tried to count, but my brain wouldn’t number. My count wouldn’t… head. My five wouldn’t summer?
“You’re safe,” came that voice. “Focus on me.”
Was this, was I having a panic attack? It felt more like dying. Hadn’t I been stabbed?
Am I dying? I said, but no words came out.
Next thing I knew, I was in a white room, counting the trembling dots on the ceiling. Were those dots supposed to wobble like frogspawn? I laughed, and I wondered if I was on drugs. I heard fabric ripping, felt cold on my leg. Someone leaned in, their form all fuzzy. I thought of Izzy, but it wasn’t her. This was someone different, wide-set, fair-haired. She smelled of disinfectant, and I tried not to breathe.
“Keep breathing,” she said. “It’ll help you stay calm.”
I breathed deep through my nose and let it out through my teeth, then I did it again. And again. And again. Some of the static cleared from my vision. I blinked, tried to focus, and cleared my parched throat.
“What happened? What’s wrong with me?”
“Do you know where you are?”
I peered to either side of me, my vision clearing. “A hospital,” I said. “My leg, am I?—”
“What’s your name, first, middle, and last?”
“Spencer Andrew Nash.”
The doctor glanced behind her, maybe checking my chart. “What’s today’s date?”
I frowned. “April twelfth. Did somebody stab me?”
“In a sense,” said the doctor. “You took a blade to your thigh, under your padding. You’re going to need stitches.”
“Stitches… shit…” My focus was slipping, a fresh wave of panic. I fought it back, sucking deep breaths. The doctor was waving her hand in my face.
