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She threw her flag but didn’t bother with the call on her way to assess Hud.
Oh no. His helmet was mostly off now, his eyes rolled back into his head. And then he started to seize. His body drew up, his arms shaking.
“Hud! Hud!”
“Back! Get back!” The voice of a trainer, coming in now to pull off his helmet. They doused him with smelling salts, and in a second, the seizing stopped. He jerked his eyes open, groaned.
“Get back!” This from another trainer who’d run out with a backboard.
“I’m fine!” Hud pushed one of them away. But when he sat up, he had to put his hand back to stop himself from crumbling.
She backed up as the team crowded around him.
“What’s the call, ref?” shouted someone.
Oh, right. She stepped back, raised her arms. “Touchdown!”
The crowd erupted, some of them booing, others ecstatic.
She turned and found Yannick, who waved her in. She ran up to join Yannick, Coach Clay, and the Admiral’s Coach. “What’s your rule on this, back judge?”
“He had two feet down and was making a football move. Watch it on the screen if you want, but I’m right.”
Coach Clay was nodding, and then Arne joined the huddle. “She’s right,” he said, and then spoke in German to the Admirals coach, who turned away, cursing.
“The ruling on the field is confirmed,” Yannick said to Coach Clay.
“Wait,” Iris said. “That was a targeting play—number forty-two is ejected from the game.”
Yannick looked at her, but she wasn’t budging.
“Okay.” Yannick headed over to the other bench. Forty-two had already gotten up, had thrown his helmet down, was yelling his protest at the TD. Wait until he heard the ejection call.
Hudson was up under his own power, but leaned a little on a trainer as he headed to the bench.
She couldn’t look at him.
“Back judge!”
She stilled, turned. Hudson had stopped the procession, his helmet in his gloved grip. Then he smiled. “Good call.”
And she didn’t care. “Good catch!”
He winked, then headed into the tunnel to the locker room.
As Yannick blew his whistle, she found her position.
Yeah, they just might have a shot at this happily ever after.
* * *
“You really gotyour bell rung out there, Bly.” The trainer, an older man named Bastian, shot a penlight across his eyes. “You looked like you had a seizure out there on the field, but your pupils seem to be equal and reacting.” He clicked off the light.
“This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“That’s what has me concerned.” He held a clipboard and was marking off the steps in the concussion protocol.
The first two—loss of consciousness and seizure—had been marked in red.
