14
Notes
Yes, you’re getting two chapters this week. I am tired of all of you yelling at me over the fact that I hurt Milo. It’s football. Players get hurt. This entire story is only happening because a player got hurt. But don’t worry, I’m nicer to our boys than the real world is. Mostly because I have no idea what actually goes into players getting over injuries. Otherwise, I might have been mean just for the angst of it.
Also, if any of you know medical stuff and any of this is wrong, no it isn’t. Damn it Jim, I’m a writer, not a doctor!
Milo
The sounds of the stadium faded to background noise as I started to close the distance between me and the end zone. I could taste the team’s victory, and I knew why we were winning. It was all because of me and Rowan, obviously. We’d discovered the secret to winning football games: amazing sex. We clearly had magic dicks.
My heart pounded in my chest as I barreled toward the end zone.
I didn’t even see him coming. I was too focused on my destination: the goal post at the other end of the field. All that existed was me, the field, the ball I was clutching to my chest, and the goal post.
And then I was knocked off my feet.
The air punched from my throat as I hit the turf. Pain shot through my back, and then I felt something worse. My knee. My knee felt like it was on fire. Stars danced in my vision and then faded. Everything faded.
When I opened my eyes again, I was surrounded by blurred faces. Another blink, and there were medics. Another blink, and I was being touched and talked at and examined. The stadium was quieter than I’d ever heard it. Was that all because of me? Was I seriously injured? Oh god, how had it looked to the audience? How had it looked toRowan?
Coach Cal joined the huddle, and one of the medics stood up and walked over to him. It was quiet enough that I could make out a few words. Words likekneeandhospitalandpossible concussion. My breath caught in my throat, and I tried to push myself up. I could walk. Except I couldn’t. The moment I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my head swam and my stomach twisted.
A hand guided me back onto the turf, and I was stuck waiting until the cart came out.
Strong hands helped me up and loaded me into the cart, propping me up against the back in a sitting position. I saw my face on one of the large screens around the arena and forced a smile onto my face. It didn’t matter how much pain I was in. It didn’t matter that I felt nauseous. The fans depended on me being happy-go-lucky Milo Tobitt. They needed to see that getting hit was not enough to knock a smile off my face.
Rowan was probably watching too. I needed him to know I was okay.
I lifted my hand in a clumsy wave as the cart made its slow progression across the field and toward the tunnel. The crowd began to clap, chant my name, all of it. When we passed the Youngstown Crows, they were all standing on the sidelines holding their helmets in a show of respect. I offered them a smile, too. I didn’t want the guy who hit me to blame himself, to think that he was at fault for a tackle that had gone wrong. His job was to stop me, and he’d done that. Just… with a little too much enthusiasm.
The smile didn’t slip from my face until the cart was away from all the cameras.
Only then did tears sting my eyes.
“You okay, kid?” one of the medics, a woman with hair so gray it was almost white pulled into a severe bun, asked.
“Hurts,” I winced out.
“I know.” There was something in her cadence that made me think of Aunt Ethel.
Oh god, had she watched this at home? Did she see me get hurt and taken off the field in a cart? I needed my phone. “My aunt… I need—”
“Someone from the team will call your emergency contacts to meet us at the hospital. Is that your aunt?” I nodded. “She’ll be informed.”
I wanted to ask about Rowan, but I couldn’t. He would be told what was happening with the rest of the team. He wasn’t going to be kept in the dark. Someone from the team would bring me my phone. Probably. Should I ask?
I should ask.
I didn’t get a chance to ask. A member of our social media team came running toward the cart, holding a bag I knew too well. It was the one I carried into the stadium that day, filled with snacks and drinks, my phone and charger, clean underwear and socks for after the game, all the things I knew I’d need in order to have a successful game. She handed me the bag, and we made a quick video, one where I was smiling again and assuring fans that I wasa-okay. It would be loaded onto the team’s socials along with all the other game updates.
A few minutes later, I was loaded out of the cart and onto a stretcher for my ambulance ride to the local hospital.
I was grateful for my phone when I got there and got stuck in some room in a backless hospital gown. It didn’t matter that it hurt my head. It gave me something to do to kill time. I checked on the score of the game, and the team was not doing great after I left. There was a video posted online by some Crows fan that showed Rowan missing what should have been an easy block and the Crows scoring. I knew it was my fault. He was distracted. Theteamwas distracted.
I sent a text to Aunt Ethel to let her know I was okay and that she didn’t have to rush over to the hospital. She sent me back a middle finger emoji, and I regretted ever teaching her that one. I had a feeling she’d find her way there before I even found out what all was wrong with me and how long it would be until I got back onto the field.
It took over an hour before I was wheeled out of my little curtained off room for examinations. By that point, my head was aching, but the painkillers they’d given me for my knee had taken the edge off there. The balance between the two pains was at least tolerable. I could answer the boring questions the doctors asked me, follow their simple instructions, and make the whole thing as easy as possible. I was then taken back to that little room to wait for someone to tell me what was going on.
