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Everything is fuzzy.
I need my phone.
Where’s my phone?
I need it, but I can’t remember why.
I want to scream. My throat is open. It hurts, and I can’t make a sound.
What’s on my chest? Why can’t I breathe?
Shrill beeps screech and wail.
The shadow of a man.
“Layton?”
The edges of my mind close in.
I dissolve into blackness.
FIFTEEN
ZERO SHITS
LIVY
“Dr. Morgan?” I look up at the interruption into the face of Tasha Williams. Our head of public affairs is nearly a decade my senior.
Like most women who work in the NFL, she is utterly attractive. She has flawless skin, a brilliant smile, and is stunning. Her beauty commands attention; her brains command the room.
“Ms. Williams, come in.” I extend a hand.
We’ve met more than once, but it’s always been around an issue. She’s never come to my office before.
“Please call me Tasha.”
“Tasha, please call me Livy.” I gesture to the chair in front of my desk.
She sits, her posture ramrod straight. We must be a pair – her suit and my yoga pants. Her elegance and my commonality.
“Livy,” she begins. “I’m sure you’re aware of Mr. Ranger’s accident last week.”
A chill runs through me.
“I heard. Terrifying news. Have there been any updates?”
“Nothing substantial. He’s awakened from the coma. The surgeries on his hip and vertebrae have been successful. The swelling in the left arm is going down with the drainage tube. They needed that to proceed with rebuilding the elbow. The femur hasn’t responded as well.”
This isn’t terrifying; it’s catastrophic.
I cover my mouth with a hand. Tears well, and I fight to keep them at bay.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Dr. Silverberg has been copied on his medical charts as is standard with player injuries. He feels Layton will not succumb to his injuries, but IR is a must.”
“They’re placing him on injured reserve?”
