More awake now, I finally notice the heaviness in my limbs, how dry my mouth is, and the dull ache sitting behind my eyes that pulses every time I blink. I turn my head to find the call button so I can beg a nurse for water—when I see someone folded into the chair beside my bed. At first, I think it is Sandra, but upon closer look, I realise the figure is entirely too broad and too male. But why? He’s asleep, curled awkwardly with a thinhospital blanket draped over his shoulders, his head tilted at an angle that will ruin his neck later.
“Roland?” I croak, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed gravel.
He doesn’t react, so I reach over and tap his arm, thankful that the hand closest to him is not the one currently attached to the IV drip. This time his eyes snap open and he blinks rapidly, rubbing the back of his hand across his face before sitting upright.
“You’re awake. Thank God.” He says, leaning closer to peer at me.
I am so confused right now that I don’t even know where to start my questions.
“Yeah,” I reply. “What time is it?”
“It’s midday.” He smooths my blanket.
My brain struggles to catch up. “I’ve been here for a day?”
“The most important thing is that you’re okay,” he says quickly. There’s something odd in his tone now. I study his face, trying to place it. Roland has always been easy for me to read, which is why this version of him unsettles me. “Let me find your doctor and let her know you’re awake,” he adds, already half turning towards the door.
I nod as he leaves, but my mind is doing some horrible gymnastics.Why is he here?Did I do something catastrophic on the pitch that I can’t remember? Sweat prickles across my forehead, and my hand trembles as Roland comes back with the doctor.
“Hi, Austin. I’m Doctor Clarke,” she greets me. “It’s good to see you finally joining us again.”
“Roland said I was out for a day,” I say, my voice still slightly rough. “Should I be worried?”
She shakes her head but keeps her tone calm. “We ran a few tests, and everything came back normal. Your heart rhythmis stable, your oxygen levels were perfect all night, your blood-work also looks healthy; both the CT scan and MRI showed no structural problems with your brain.”
I stare at her, because even though she says I’m fine, I’m not convinced. “Then why was I unconscious for twenty-four hours?”
“There are a few possible explanations,” she replies, scrolling through her tablet. “The most common in situations like yours is something we call vasovagal syncope. Essentially, your nervous system overreacts to a sudden trigger and what follows is that your heart rate and blood pressure drop very quickly and results in you fainting.”
I exhale a humourless laugh. “So, I just passed out?”
“Not quite that simple,” she corrects gently. “High-level competition puts enormous stress on the nervous system because adrenaline, emotional pressure, physical impact are all happening simultaneously, and when those systems overload, the body responds by shutting things down temporarily.”
I glance towards the window, recalling how I’ve been working out and training more than usual these past months.
“Regardless,” she continues, tapping her tablet, “we monitored you overnight to make sure nothing more serious developed. There was no swelling, no abnormal brain activity, no cardiac issues. Everything remained stable.”
I let out a slow breath and nod. “Thank you. When can I go home?”
“We will process your discharge soon, just take it easy when you get home,” she says and leaves.
I turn to Roland, but before I can say anything, he speaks first. “We can’t talk here.”
My head starts spinning again. His presence here does not make sense. Roland basically rejected me, giving me the whole ‘we can’t be seen together’ excuse. So why would he be here now?
About two hours later, I’m finally cleared to go home. Roland insists I wear the face cap he gives me and helps me settle into a wheelchair, wheeling me out through the hospital’s back entrance down to the underground parking lot.
“Roland, am I wanted for crime?” I ask nervously.
He just shakes his head, and I feel my worry spike even more. Not knowing things drives me up the wall, and I especially hate not knowing how he fits into the situation I’m in. I use this ride to reply to Coach’s text, letting him know I’m okay and that I’ll come see him once I feel up to it. Even though I’ve been sleeping for twenty-four hours, I still feel weak, so after another failed attempt to get Roland to talk and he mimics zipping his mouth, I rest my eyes.
I wake when Roland taps me, whispering that we’ve arrived. Only I don’t know whose house this is. He leaps out of the car and opens the door for me.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“I got it under my cousin’s name because reporters are camped at my house, and I assume it’ll be the same at your place,” he tells me.
My confusion mounts, but I know better than to ask any questions yet. So, I sigh and shuffle after him towards the door, still fatigued and just wanting to collapse somewhere and relax.
