Page 99 of Forbid It

The clock is counting down and it’s a mad clamber for a last second goal. Their defense is strong but we’ve kept applying the pressure. The ball rolls out of play awarding us a corner kick and cheers rise through the stadium at our opportunity to score. One of the midfielders takes his position by the flag and I hover near the goal, knowing the ball will head my way soon.

I’m so focussed on the ball as it arches through the air and my fucked up knee, that I don’t see the North Carolina player’s boot until it connects with my head.

And everything goes black.

44

CASSIE

A gasp reverberates through the crowd, as if every person in the stadium is holding their breath. Robbie’s flat on the pitch, legs spread at a funny angle, and his arms at his side like a discarded marionette. And he’s not. Moving.

Everything is still. The rapt audience. My mind. Robbie’s body. A flash of movement from the side of the pitch is the thing that finally shakes me from my immobile position. As the medics fly across the grass towards him, I start moving. I thought it was clever to buy a regular ticket, to not be anywhere near the team’s families or upper management in the box. I had hoped it would avoid any unwanted attention from the media, imagining Robbie being asked about me in his post-match interview before I had a second to explain myself, but it just means I have much further to travel now.

I barge past the crowd, unable to open my mouth to say excuse me. I’m not sure if I’m going to throw up or scream, so best to keep it shut.

My rings click on the railing as I fly down the stairs, one eye on the commotion on the pitch and the other on my feet as I jump three steps at a time in my haste. No one stops me as I run to the edge of the pitch. I’m too far away from the players’ entrance, stuck in the corner, but the ball security people are too busy staring gobsmacked at my boyfriend on the pitch.

I keep my eyes on him as I fight my way to the players’ entrance. Some of the team have formed a loose circle around Robbie and the medics, shielding him from view. I just need to get to him, I don’t know how, but I will. Even if I have to run across the pitch and duck and weave, I’ll do it.

By the time I’ve reached the coaches bench, I’m about ready to hop the fence. I test my weight on the top, ready to throw my leg over. Between the team’s feet, I can just about see the medics hovering over him. Is he moving? Is he breathing?

“Cassie.” A voice calls. Santi is standing at the edge of the pitch, crossing towards the barrier I’m half-leaning over.

“Is he okay?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

Santi shrugs as he reaches his hands out and helps me climb over. His hands clasp my forearms, comforting enough to bring tears to my eyes. He looks ashen. He was taken off for substitution, so was nowhere near the rest of the team or Robbie.

“I don’t know.”

I try to pass him, but Santi catches my arms and stops me. “Don’t. They’ll come this way I promise.”

The players surrounding Robbie keep their heads down and arms linked as they wait for the medics to move him. My hands are still gripping Santi’s biceps, and he tugs me closer, letting my head fall to his chest. The uniform is the same, but the feeling is all wrong. I came here to support Robbie, ready to apologize, bare my soul and hopefully end up wrapped up in him before the night was over. It should be Robbie’s chest that I’m buried in, not his teammate’s.

In the darkness of Santi’s chest, I can finally hear the low hum of the crowd, concerned voices mingling into a loud wave of sound that reverberates from my feet to my head.

I peek out but still can’t see anything. The guy who gave me a drink on my first day is standing next to us, a water bottle clutched in his hand.

He catches my eye. “He’ll be okay,” he tells me reassuringly.

I try to smile but it comes out wobbly, and I bury my head back in Santi’s chest. My eyes squeeze shut, tears clinging to my damp lashes as I try to block out the noise until all I hear is Santi’s voice talking over my head.

Suddenly, the crowd changes. Instead of the low murmuring of conversation, applause starts to shake the stands.

“He’s coming,” Santi tells me, rubbing a comforting hand across my spine.

I pull away the next second, eyes locked on the stretcher crossing from the field.

He’s wrapped up and horizontal, but I can see the thumbs-up he waves at the crowd, and my knees almost buckle.

I take a steadying breath and follow Santi as he tugs me down to the players’ tunnel to wait.

By the time the medics round the corner, each carrying a handle of the stretcher, I’ve forgotten that the last time I saw Robbie in person, I was ending things. The medics slide past me, but I straighten from the wall and stumble next to them.

His eyes are closed, blood and redness blemishing his temple. His neck is in a brace, but his solid chest is moving up and down in steady breaths.

“Robbie?”

He blinks one eye open. “‘Sandra?” His voice is bleary, like he’s been tugged too soon from a deep sleep.