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Everyone from our school was cheering and clapping, the lads on the team were hugging each other in celebration, but Johnny was still slumped facedown behind the try line.
Hughie, along with several players from Royce College, knelt beside him. One of them was waving his hand at the coaches on the sideline. Another one was roaring at the referee. Hughie was calling for Coach Mulcahy.
“Claire,” I repeated, panicked. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know!” she strangled out, sounding equally panicked now.
A swarm of black-and-white jerseys came running in their direction then, flocking their captain.
I jumped up, my feet moving of their own accord, and pushed through the crowd.
“Is he dead?” I screamed, hand still entwined in Claire’s, who was following close behind me. “Oh my god, Claire, is he dead?”
“No, no, no,” she kept repeating, but she didn’t sound sure.
“Claire!”
“I don’t know, Shannon,” she cried out.
We didn’t make it far, only getting to the edge of the pitch before being swallowed up in the throngs of other students. Jumping, I tried to see above their shoulders, but I was too short. Thinking fast I dropped to my knees and peeked between their legs.
Johnny was still on the ground.
Facedown. Unmoving.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two men in yellow bibs run onto the pitch with a stretcher in tow.
Time seemed to stand still then, as I watched them kneel beside Johnny and set to work on moving him onto the stretcher.
The screaming and cheering had turned to hushed whispers as everyone watched on.
My heart, which seemed to have been on pause in my chest for the last few minutes, slammed wildly against my rib cage when Johnny slowly sat up.
His eyes were open, his chest was moving, and though he looked like he was in a great deal of pain, he was alive. He was shaking his head and pushing away all offers of being lifted onto the stretcher.
I couldn’t hear what was being said, but his lips were moving at a rapid rate as he continued to shake his head and bark something to the medics. Finally, the men gave up on trying to help him and backed away.
The crowd, both Tommen supporters and Royce, began to clap as Johnny eventually got to his feet. His arms were slung over the shoulders of Hughie and Gibsie, and his head was bowed, as he limped off the pitch.
As they practically carried him off the pitch.
For a moment, I just knelt there, on my hands and knees in the muddy grass and breathed, allowing the tsunami of relief to wash over me as I watched him go.
I didn’t understand my reaction and I didn’t care.
He was okay. He was alright.
And I could finally breathe again.
62Time’s Up, Lad
JOHNNY
“This stops, Johnny!” Gibsie hissed in my ear as he helped me out of the shower and onto the fold-up bed I’d spent the previous hour being poked, prodded, and stitched up on by the emergency doctor on the scene.
“Can you keep your goddamn voice down?” I hissed, glancing at the door that separated us from the rest of the team. “I don’t want anyone knowing.”
“Too fucking late for that,” Gibsie snapped. “You left a trail of blood from the clubhouse to the pitch.”
