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Oliver nodded his head, ready to put it all out there. He was ready to prove to his team and his family he’d made the right choice in careers.
The quarterback started calling out audibles, positions were shifted on the line, Oliver swapped out twice, ready for them to get to the play that he was determined to get a first down.
The ball was hiked; Oliver blocked, then turned and ran while the quarterback pitched it to the running back, the running back faking a run, then looking deep and seeing Oliver open, throwing.
It was higher than they’d practiced, Oliver jumped in the air, snagging the ball, tucked it under his left arm, and started to run. A player was coming and he put his right hand out; a good stiff arm always got his blood pumping, getting him a few more yards.
The goal line was in sight. He’d gotten the first down, but he was going for the score.He tucked his head, ready to turn up the steam, the end zone within reach, diving to get the ball over it. He never saw the man coming from the left, head down, leading with his helmet, which was an illegal move. The defender didn’t care; he launched himself at Oliver. Helmet-to-helmet contact and everything went black. He didn’t even feel himself falling to the turfor know if he scored or not. It was lights out.
Sound ushered in the first awareness that he was somewhere in place and time. Laughter coming from a distant place, annoying, intrusive, and then talking, a familiar voice with a lilt to the end of a word, it was someone asking a question. His mother.
Another familiar voice answering spoke close to his ear, a sweet voice, a tender voice saying, “His vital signs are stable. He just had the bejesus knocked out of him.”
It belonged to Wendy Adams. Struggling to open his eyes, he opened his mouth instead, a weak, “I’m okay,” sneaking out.
“Sweetheart,” Clare said. “Charlie, everyone, look! Oliver’s waking up.”
More mumbling of voices, the next attempt to open his eyes took every bit of strength he had, every bit of concentration. Surrounding the bed stood his beloved family, his beautiful mother at the left, with tearstained cheeks, holding his hand. Then a grim-looking Joanne, concerned but accusatory.
Next to her, the Saint lineup, from his father, Charlie, to his uncle John, followed by a crying Uncle Big Mike and his wife, Aunt Roberta, and two cousins and their wives.
“Hi, Uncle Mike,” Oliver said, lifting his hand to wave, compelling everyone around the bed to sayAw.
Mike, the patriarch of the family, made his way, not easily due to his hulking size, to the head of the bed and bent over the railing to hug and kiss his nephew. “You gave us a scare, buddy. Don’t do that again.”
“I’ll probably get fired,” Oliver said, his head lolling on the pillow.
“No way,” the group chorused.
“That play was amazing,” Charlie said, and the others echoedyes.
“I don’t see how.”
“You got blasted in the end zone. You scored the winning touchdown. You were running toward the end zone, and you dove to get the ball over it, and then the guy comes from your left and hits you helmet to helmet when you were diving through the air.”
The family cheered for him. Dazed from more than just a concussion, Oliver couldn’t believe it.
“Okay, maybe I won’t get fired,” he muttered as his visitors laughed.
“It’s all over the internet,” Wendy said softly.
The voice touched his heart. Last but not least, at his right, Wendy Adams. She wasn’t in scrubs though; she wore a black sweater and a string of pearls he’d later remember she called her good-luck pearls. He’d invited her to the game and was sure the introduction to Joanne had not been cordial. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Joanne at his left, quietly seething. She’d save face, saving her wrath for later, when they were alone.
The neurologist, followed by his team, along with Coach Clark, entered the room.
“We’ll leave,” Clare said.
“You don’t have to,” the doctor said, “unless Oliver here wants privacy.”
“Is it bad?”
“Well, some is, some isn’t.”
“No, go ahead,” he replied, still high on the touchdown.
Nothing anyone could say to him now could squash the high he was on, not even the stink eye from Joanne.
“You’ve had a small brain bleed,” he said. “It’s classified as a traumatic brain injury.”
