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Oh, fuck.
“I can’t go there!” he moans.
“Yeah you can, Ez. You can go to the hospital. Because I'm going to go with you."
His teeth are chattering again. He’s breathing fast. He whimpers, "I don't want to."
“I know. I’m so sorry.” Tears are streaming down his face as he blinks up at me. I realize his hair's sweat-pasted to his forehead. Someone must have pulled his helmet off before I got here. I’m reaching for his forehead when a woman shouts, “We’re on the move!”
I put my hand on his arm as they start pushing his stretcher. Its wheels bump over the grass, and he’s gritting his teeth, looking like he might pass out from pain.
“You’re doing so good, Ez. Keep hanging in there.”
Ezra’s losing his shit, but he's being quiet about it. I can see the skin around his collarbone tug inward like he's struggling to breathe. He looks down at himself with eyes peeled wide, and I notice there’s a sheet over his legs.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, leaning down. “I’m with you.”
The announcer booms over the speaker system. There's so much whistling and cheering as we reach the tunnel that it makes me feel disoriented. Then we're moving faster into the cement tunnel. More people jog toward us—looks like different paramedics.
"Mills?” Ezra’s hand finds mine, gripping so hard. “I CAN’T GO."
"Yeah you can, Ez. You can do this. I swear. You’re so fucking brave. I'm gonna be sure it's all okay. I’ve got you."
He pulls our joined hands to his chest. "You promise?"
“Oh yeah. I fucking promise you that, baby.”
There's commotion as the new EMTs take over. The offensive coach seems to appear out of nowhere, telling Ez he'll be at the hospital after the game. Ezra nods and whispers “thank you” as the last few people from the field leave.
Everything from there on is a whirlwind. Lots of questions for Ez, and he doesn’t like it; I can tell because his hand grips mine so hard it hurts. The EMTs wheel him through another cement corridor, past a chain-link gate, and they load Ez into an ambulance.
“I have to go,” I tell them, and they let me up. I end up in a chair about two feet from his waist, forced to buckle in so he can’t even see me due to how he’s lying on his back with EMTs around him. The ambulance starts moving, and they turn on the sirens. I can tell he’s trying to be calm, but as they start an IV, he grasps the stretcher’s edge and starts to breathe hard.
“I’m right here, Ez. When we get out, I’m gonna be right there beside you.”
The two EMTs are flitting all around him, and I feel so fucking helpless, so I just keep talking to him, even as one of them comes between the two of us. Finally the woman moves. Things settle down a little, and he reaches toward me. He’s strapped to the stretcher, now wearing an oxygen mask.
I lean forward and stroke his knuckles. “I love you, my angel.”
At his feet, they’re doing something. He looks fucking scared and pained. I hate it so much. I want to unbuckle, get close so I can whisper to him, stroke his hair, but then the ambulance is turning sharply. Then the ambulance is stopping.
The rear doors swing open, and they lift his stretcher out. I climb down as they pop out the stretcher's wheeled legs. I try to get beside him as they rush him through some automatic doors, but I can't quite get into his line of sight. The EMTs are moving quickly down a hallway with white walls and waxy floors and cool air that reminds me I’m sweating.
I feel sick with shock about this—that this happened to him.
The hall dead-ends into a large room I don’t get a chance to see before an EMT is pulling a blue curtain back. They wheel Ezra into a triage space. One of them says, "Good luck, Mr. Masters. You played a great game."
I notice his face—pale and wide-eyed.
Before they’re out of sight, a woman in a white coat steps into the curtained space. I guess it’s the white coat and the hospital curtains that set him off. It happens so fast. One second, Ezra’s on his back, his jaw clenched and his eyes looking so desperate that my chest aches for him.
Then he’s up. He’s trying to get off the bed—but almost as soon as he moves, he starts howling. All at once, the doctor’s shouting, and more people burst in through the curtains. Blood is blooming on the sheet over his leg as people try to hold him down and Ezra tries to fight them.
I feel all the heat drain from my body. My hands are shaking, and I’m flushing, and I don’t know what to do. He’s fucking bellowing as people work on his leg. He’s shouting for me, and I don’t know what to do!
