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“Don’t fuck up your career while you’re angry. Promise me.”
He was a good friend to both of us, and I valued his advice. “I promise. I just want to make sure Mikey’s okay.”
“Then call him. Tell him you love him and you’ll call him back after the game to talk about it. Then go out there and kick ass, alright?”
I wasn’t going to tell Mikey I loved him for the first time over the phone. After our strange final night together, his sneaking out the next morning to catch his flight, and his lack of availability to even talk on the phone this week, I had no idea how he was feeling about us. Not knowing had me completely fucked-up. And now this.
“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate it.”
“Good luck.”
After the call, I headed toward my locker to stash my bag and peel off my jacket. Everyone I passed cheered or thumped me on the back to tell me how happy they were to have me back in the starting line. I smiled and nodded, murmuring my thanks until I got to the bench in front of my locker. I pulled out my phone and saw the text from Mikey to call him after the game.
Thank god. I didn’t want to wait. I dialed Mikey’s number as my heart thumped nervously, and Markus shot me another pissy look from across the locker room where he was talking to Antone.
“Michael Vining,” Mikey said breathlessly when he picked up. I could hear wind and people talking, so I assumed he was outside or maybe in the car.
“Hey, baby,” I said, closing my eyes to drink in the sound of his familiar voice. I missed him terribly.
“Tiller?” Mikey sounded surprised. “I thought you had a game. What time is it?”
“I’m in the locker room, but I wanted to catch you really quick before I dressed out. God, it’s so good to hear your voice. How’s your trip so far?” I wasn’t sure why I was starting with a stupid question, but it just popped out. Maybe I needed another minute to get the balls to ask him about his dad.
Mikey hesitated. “Good. I’m on my way to give…” The rest of his words were muffled. I stuck a finger in my other ear to block out the noise from the guys around me.
“What? I didn’t hear that last part.”
“Sorry, was asking Truman to wait a minute. I’m just dropping—” The sudden sound of a car honk followed by screeching tires came through the line. It was followed by a gasp and Mikey’s scream, the loud clatter of the phone hitting the pavement, and then muffled shouts and unidentifiable noises.
“Mikey!” I yelled into the phone. “Mikey, what happened?” The locker room around me went silent as I stood from my bench. It was a car crash, obvious from the horrible noises. “Mikey!”
“Tiller?” His voice sounded weak and faraway. I could barely hear him. “Call 911. Near… near… spice shop…”
Peevy’s hand was on my shoulder, and his face was creased with worry. “What can I do?” he whispered.
My voice was thick with shock. “Find a number for 911 in Aster Valley, Colorado. I don’t know how, but call them and…” My brain scrambled to think of what the name of Truman’s shop was. “The Honeyed Lemon shop on the main street there.”
Peevy immediately pulled out his phone, and I realized several other players were doing the same. I hoped they were trying to help rather than gossiping.
“Mikey?” I begged into the phone. “Are you hurt? Tell me you’re okay.”
All I could hear were the sounds of people shouting, muffled noises of people possibly trying to help, and other unidentifiable commotion. I kept my eyes closed as if that would help me hear better, but the only distinct voice I could hear was my own ragged one begging Mikey to answer me.
At one point, I thought I heard the sound of sirens. It was quickly followed by a more authoritative voice I hoped like hell was a cop or EMT. Part of me wanted to shout into the phone, demanding answers, but the rational part of me knew to stay quiet and let them do whatever needed doing.
Someone’s strong hands guided me back down to the bench where I sat numbly and waited. People moved around me in the locker room, getting into uniform and talking quietly among themselves. Someone asked someone else if they should tell Coach, and Markus and Peevy both hissed a “no” before Markus suggested moving me to a separate room.
Derek Mopellei squatted in front of me and reached up to quickly thumb tears off my face I didn’t even know had fallen. “He’s going to be okay,” he said in his calm manner. “Deep breath.”
Finally, after an impossibly long time of listening to what was now clearly emergency response personnel, someone picked up the phone. “Hello?”
