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The pain that follows is so dang intense, it makes my vision burst into a kaleidoscope of indiscernible shades of reds and yellows and whites.
“Maria!”
“Oh my gosh!”
Concerned voices fill my ears, but all I can do is lie there, on the grass, cradling my left arm to my body. The discomfort is so acute, so undeniable, that I know I probably broke something.
Oh God. I’m gonna puke.
To my right side, I tilt my body, and vomit shoots out of my mouth and onto the football field.
“Ew. Gross.”
“Shut up, Chrissy! She’s hurt!” Eden scolds.
“Maria?” Emily’s worried voice is right beside me. “Are you okay?”
All I can do is shake my head when I meet her eyes. I am definitely not okay.
“I think we need—” she starts to call over her shoulder, but something stops her midsentence.
Bright-blue eyes replace Emily’s green ones so quickly it’s almost as if she vanishes in a puff of air.
“Maria? You okay?” Remington Winslow, sweaty and still wearing a football helmet, is hovering over me, his eyes etched with the kind of unease that makes tears want to flow from mine.
I swallow hard against them and try to answer, but my words come out all stutter-y. “It…it h-hurts really b-bad.”
I don’t know why I want to cry. Because it hurts? Because I feel embarrassed? Because I feel oddly thankful for the concern he’s showing me? Probably all three.
“Is it your arm?” he asks, his fingers gently assessing me for injuries.
“The left one,” I tell him through a shaky breath. “I think it’s broken.”
“We should probably call an ambulan—” the Great Disappearing Emily tries, only to get metaphorically shoved out of the way again.
“I got her,” Remy says as he tugs off his helmet and tosses it to the ground. “Maria, just keep that left arm braced to your body, okay?”
But there’s no time for me to answer before I’m being moved, up and into his arms and cradled close to his chest.
“Where are you going, Winslow?!” a husky male voice calls from somewhere in the distance.
“She’s hurt, Coach! I’m taking her to the ER!” Remy yells over his shoulder, his body already jumping into action and somehow managing to carry me like I weigh two pounds.
There are definitely irritated words that follow from his coach, but I’m too busy staring up at the enigma jogging me across the field and into the Brooklyn parking lot where his car is located to hear what’s said. Most high schools in Manhattan don’t even have football teams, but ours does. Still, because of spatial constraints, that means we have to either drive or bus it over to Aviator Field in Brooklyn every day to practice. It’s normally a pain in the ass, but then again, I don’t usually get the opportunity to ride in Remy’s car.
“It’s going to be okay. Hang tight, and I’ll get you to the ER as fast as I can,” he says gently as he carefully adjusts the passenger seat belt over my body and shuts the door.
As a matter of fact, I’ve never been in a boy’s car before. I’d expect to feel all awkward and nervous, especially since said boy is two years older than me and one of the most popular guys in school, but the pain in my arm makes it impossible for me to think about anything else.
Not even a minute later, Remy is in the driver’s seat of his totally cool forest-green hatchback Mustang and taking a right turn out of Aviator Field’s parking lot.
The pain in my arm throbs in nauseating waves, and all I can do is settle in for the ride, resting my head back against the seat and keeping my eyes firmly shut.
I can feel him shift forward and mess with the knobs near the stereo, and the soft sounds of a Van Morrison song fill my ears. “Into the Mystic.” It’s an oldie but goodie and makes me smile internally over his music choices despite the throbbing pain resonating from my arm.
When I open my eyes again enough to look at the display, I realize it’s a CD. I kind of love that he didn’t choose something that’s in the Top 40 and often played on the radio.
Man, Remington Winslow sure is a different kind of guy.
The song is a balm to my racing heart and anxious mind, and if it weren’t for the nagging discomfort in my left arm, I might even be able to relax and enjoy this momentous occasion of being in a car with a boy…alone.
“Thank you,” I eventually find the strength to tell him, and he glances at me out of his periphery.
“For what?”
“For helping me.” I state the obvious. But when a sharp pain shoots from my left elbow and into my wrist, I grimace and shut my eyes. “Pretty sure Coach Rydell is pissed off at you for it.”
