Jamie struggles to her feet. It’s evident that she wants to stand up quickly, but her belly is weighing her down and screwing up her center of gravity.
“It’s that miserablefuckTamatoa!” she says. “He speared him! I’ve never seen a hit that dirty.”
Like ping-pong, your eyes dart back to the TV, to the instant replay that you know is coming.
Julian Tamatoa is something of a nemesis to Kai. He’s the Terriers’ left tackle, but, before that, he played for the Buffalo Blues and, thanks to divisional rules, saw Kai on the field twice a year. For Tamatoa, the rivalry never really died with his move to the South conference. He’s a big guy with shit-stirring tendencies, and he likes to try and ruffle Kai’s famous reserve.
On screen, the Terriers line up at the Cyclones’ 32 and snap the ball. Tampa’s quarterback—Hardy?Harris—scans the field. He’s got a pretty good pocket; he’s got time to read his options. Kai is one of the guys struggling to get to him. The QB throws the ball, but the spiral is lower than it probably should be. Kai gets his hands up and tips the ball with his fingers. It pops up in the air.
The next part plays out in agonizing slow-motion: Kai plants himself, arms up for the catch. His eyes are spotting the ball, andhe’s looking up, face to the sky. Tamatoa takes note of what’s about to happen—Kai catching the ball and possibly running it back for a pick-six—and wheels hard in Kai’s direction. It doesn’t make aerodynamic sense for a guy that heavy to run so fast, but it happens. Kai has no sooner caught the ball and tucked it into his arms that Tamatoa drops his head and points his huge body like a dagger. The crown of his helmet catches Kai under the chin. The ball goes flying. Kai crumples to the ground. Doesn’t get up.
You may not be an NFA fan from way back like some of the other players’ significant others, but you know a blatant foul when you see it.
The voice of an announcer, which has, until this moment, been a droning buzz lower than the level of your conscious attention, breaks through the ringing in your ears.
“That’s a bad hit, Jim. We hate to see it. I think that was a mistake, showing that replay. Very graphic stuff. We’ll take a break for messages from your local station while Reinhart gets looked after.”
Reality roars back at you like a wave. “I need to get to the field,” you announce to the room at large.
Jamie shakes her head. “You can’t. Association rules say that you can’t get on the field unless you are authorized.”
“How can I see him?” you ask anxiously.
Another woman—you think it’s the center’s wife—speaks up. “Sometimes you can get to them in the athletic trainer’s room, if the next stop is going to be the hospital. That’s where they’ll cart him after they assess him.”
The wordshospitalandcartsend your heart crashing to your feet like a lead balloon. “You think he’s going to the hospital?”
A couple of the women nod sagely with the assurance of people who have seen this before. “He’s out cold, Ster,” Jamie says gently. “Just pray that it’s a bad concussion.”
By your sides, your hands have started to shake. You feel both hot and cold at the same time.
“As opposed to what?” you ask flatly.
Jamie cradles her bump. You’ve seen pregnant women do it all the time, and you’ve seen Jamie make the gesture plenty since she announced her pregnancy, but there’s something disconcerting about how she does it now. Like the baby inside her is shielding her, instead of the other way around. Instantly, the thready feeling in your veins changes to queasiness. Is Jamie afraid? Is it of you? Are you being scary?
She doesn’t answer.
You can’t help yourself. “As opposed towhat?” you repeat.
That same woman, the center’s wife, takes pity on you and turns around in her chair. “A hit under the chin like that can break someone’s neck.”
Jamie turns towards sharply. “For real, Shonda?”
You aren’t listening anymore. Not to Shonda’s affronted rebuttal, not to Jamie’s consoling words aimed at you. Somehow, you make it down the short set of stairs to the front viewing area of the suite. Mindless of the person who will have to clean the handprints later—something you’d normally always be aware of—you press your palms and forehead to the glass.
Down on the field, you can barely see Kai’s big body for the army of medics and coaches surrounding him. From way up here, they look like so many insects on the big, green expanse of the field. Kai’s feet, still in their cleats with the laces tied neatly, are the only thing sticking out. His ankles are still. Just to the side of his head, mindful to stay out of the way, Sandy has taken a knee, his ashen face pointed to the ground and his helmet resting on the grass. Several other Cyclones have done the same. On the sidelines, Tamatoa is yelling at two referees, his arms wheeling wildly in protest.
“Wake up,” you murmur to the glass, your breath fogging the pane. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this.”
It takes a long time. The minutes stretch endlessly, your body numb and your ears deaf to anything except the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. Below, they are cutting off Kai’s jersey with scissors and gently removing his helmet.
“His eyes are open!” Jamie announces. You have no idea how she knows that (maybe they showed it on TV?), but you are choosing to trust her. Vainly, you wish for someone to move aside so that you can lay eyes on Kai. You only get glimpses between officials’ legs. Nothing that reassures you.
Someone rolls a wheeled stretcher onto the field. When you finally—finally!—see him, your head reels. His head and shoulders are immobilized against a backboard, his neck in a brace. There is oxygen tubing in his nose. It takes three guys to get him onto the stretcher without danger, all tying down straps and fastening new ones. His broad chest seems to heave as if he’s pulling deep breaths. His buzzed scalp is bare.
Kai’s upper arms are strapped down, but he raises his elbow fractionally and gives the crowd a weak thumbs-up as he isbeing wheeled off. His hand rises ineffectively towards his face, like he’s trying to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Through the window, you can hear the muted roar of the fans cheering for him. Every one of them seems to be on their feet, the Cyclones and Terriers fans alike. Two minutes later, as if nothing happened, the players and the coaches and the refs start resetting to continue the game. The Terriers have a 15-yard penalty, and there’s an announcement that Tamatoa is being warned—another unsportsmanlike conduct penalty, and he’ll be ejected.
“That should have been an ejection by itself!” Jamie protests.
