Players and coaches from both sides surrounded Lucas as UCLA’s medical support staff shoved their way through, promptly trying to access their fallen quarterback hero.
I shot out of bed, pacing, eyes pinned to my iPad in hand, mind and conscience besieged with a squadron of guilt-ridden should-haves.
Should have been there.
Should have been in the stands.
Should have been in Los Angeles chasing,fighting forLucas instead of in New York chasing some stupid dream like a kid chases her shadow.
Why isn’t he moving?
Acting on autopilot, I set my iPad onto the bed, then plucked my cell phone off the nightstand beside it. Hands shaking, I fired off a group text to Sage and Chloe.
Me: What’s happening!?
Sage: Um…
Chloe: Can’t see. Everyone is surrounding him. But, it doesn’t look good. We heard the collision from where we’re sitting in the stands.
Chloe followed her text with a handful of crying-face emojis just as my heart collapsed.
Me: I’m coming home.
The world,and everything in it, moves at a snail’s pace when you’re trying to get somewhere.
Ubers.
Lines at the airport.
Airplanes.
Five hours into my flight back to Los Angeles and I swear the pilot must have taken us on a scenic route up to the moon, around the sun, past Timbuktu, and everywhere in between.
Leg bouncing, I eagerly awaited news from Sage and Chloe. Thanks to airplane Wi-Fi, their sporadic information drops kept me mildly sane, although their last major update—sent several hours ago—triggered a surge of anxiety.
Lucas had suffered a grade three, maybe even a grade four, concussion.
Turning to Google for insight on different concussion grades and what they meant only intensified the already tsunami-like waves of panic coursing through me. And from what I’d discovered on reputable medical sites, concussions of any magnitude could lead to brain damage.
“More ginger ale?”
The flight attendant’s chirpy voice came out of nowhere, causing me to squeal.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you, hon,” she assured, sympathy framing her face. “We’re just doing our last rounds of service.”
Flustered, I set my phone onto the tray table, nodding in acceptance of her offer. “How long before we land?”
“About forty-five minutes.” Her eyes combed over my face. “You should rest, seeing how you’ve been awake since we left New York. Everyone usually sleeps during a red-eye.” She opened a can of soda, its hiss echoing through the mostly empty flight. “Here you go,” she said as she set it down beside my phone on the tray table. “I’ll be back in a bit to collect your trash.”
Bubbles tickled my throat as I sipped the cold drink, downing it as though I were some parched wanderer, stranded in the desert without a droplet of water.
Setting the cup onto the tray, I lifted the window shade, my gaze adjusting to bright rays of sunlight cascading above a sea of puffy clouds. Nearly 5 a.m.—I’d spent the majority of the flight texting, reading,worryingwhen I should have been sleeping like the flight attendant said. My whole body ached with concern. I needed to see Lucas, needed to know that he was okay. Needed to find the courage to tell him it was impossible to fall out of love with him.
“Letme help you with your bag.” An Uber driver wearing dark shades and a USC T-shirt hopped out of the car, circling around it to pull my luggage from the opened trunk.
Arriving at UCLA Medical Center just after 7 a.m., I had no clue where to go. Sage and Chloe were unreachable, likely fast asleep, and my parents, who were close friends with Lucas’s, barely knew which floor he was on.
Suitcase in tow, I shuffled through the glass sliding doors, nervous tension whirling in my belly like a hurricane. Menacing thoughts, god-forbidding scenarios—was he badly injured, sedated, unconscious—had me in knots; tears I’d been able to hold back were dying to burst free as I charged, chin up, toward the elevators.
