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“I need to puke,” Oliver moaned, rolling over to his side.
The doctor patted his back, noting he was shivering, too, another sign of a concussion. “Yeah, you’re taking a ride in an ambulance.”
“Is it really necessary to send him to the ER?” the coach asked.
“I think so. He’s got a serious concussion.”
They covered him with blankets, and Tom never left his side. In ten minutes, the ambulance arrived. Lying flat with his eyes closed, he heard a familiar voice.
“Oh no, not you again.”
Wendy Adams smoothed curly hair out of Oliver’s eyes as he opened them, looking up at her beautiful, concerned face. Frowning, she wound a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.
“Yeah, it’s me again,” he mumbled.
“You know, three strikes and you’re out.”
“No way,” the coach called out. “Research hasn’t proven that.”
“Research by the NFL, you mean,” she said.
“You feel okay, don’t you, buddy?”
Oliver nodded his head and then grimaced in pain.
She jotted down his vital signs and took report from Tom, all the while Coach Clark paced, worried that he would be down a player for the next game as they entered the playoffs.
“Hopefully, they’ll send you back this afternoon and we can get on with practice,” he said.
“If he was your kid, you’d be singing a different tune,” Wendy answered. “Let’s go. I mean, you called us to take him to the hospital, correct?”
“Yeah, but it’s not your business to counsel him on whether or not he should play,Nurse,” Coach Clark replied.
“Ah, yeah, it is. Let’s go,” Wendy said, pulling the stretcher alongside the table he was lying on. “We’ll help you get over.”
Wendy and the EMT moved him gently to the stretcher. She pushed it over to the waiting ambulance, seething. This was not the first time she’d accompanied Oliver Saint to the emergency room at Detroit General Hospital.
They got the stretcher in the truck and locked the wheels, Wendy kneeling next to Oliver.
“How you doin’?”
“Tired,” he mumbled.
“I’m not surprised. We’re gonna have a long talk later. Right now I don’t think you’d remember anything I say.”
He opened his eyes and looked over at her. “You’re gonna tell me to stop playing, aren’t you?”
“I am. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, using your head as a weapon.”
“Our helmets are state of the art.”
“You know what, Saint? Save it for someone who gives a shit,” Wendy snapped. “They might be state of the art to keep your skull from being bashed in, or cutting your scalp, but they can’t prevent your brain from being rattled around inside your cranium like a Ping-Pong ball. You’ve heard of shaken baby syndrome, right? It’s the same thing.”
“Don’t tell my mom,” he said.
“Is she here?”
“Not yet. They’re coming for next Saturday’s game. I hope you’ll come.”
