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Then I heard it. The scream of agony wasn't meant to get attention. This was the sound of pure pain, and it was coming from over there.
"J.D.!" Cody's voice cut through the silence.
I looked back to see her struggling to get over here. She couldn't, but only because of the man holding her around the waist. I wanted to help her, but I had to see J.D. I needed to know how bad this was, and my heart was hanging in my chest.
"J.D.?" I asked as I pushed my way in.
"Here," Jorge said, moving over for me.
That let me finally see him. The sports medicine team had him on his back. His vest was open. His helmet was long gone, having been punted like a football. But when Doc yanked his shirt open, I realized this was serious.
"C'mon, man," I begged. "You got this."
"Take his hand," Jorge told me, making me aware he'd been holding J.D.'s gloved palm.
I quickly took his hand, not caring about the grit and rosin. I just gripped him hard enough to let him know he could crush me if it would help. J.D. didn't seem to notice. He was simply writhing, shifting like he couldn't make himself stay quite still.
Then he screamed again.
"Let's get an IV in him and some morphine," Doc said.
"No!" J.D. begged. "No morphine, Doc."
"Get me some damned pain killers that aren't opiates!" Doc snapped.
Someone took off running, but J.D. was now panting. "I got this. I got it. Just get me the fuck outta here, Doc?"
"I got you, J.D.," I reminded him. "Squeeze if it helps."
"Ain't gonna fuckin' helpyounone," he managed to get out.
"Don't fucking care."
So he squeezed, and damn, did that man have a grip. Then again, this was his riding hand, so it made sense. I felt the bones in my palm being pushed together, but I wasn't about to complain. He'd said no morphine? Well, that meant he needed something else, and I was more than willing to take the hits for him.
"I need a backboard," Doc said. "J.D., I think we're carrying you out of here."
"Yup," he agreed. "Just let me wave or some shit, 'kay?"
"Promise," Doc told him, clasping J.D.'s shoulder quickly.
Because that shoulder seemed to be the one place he hadn't been trampled on. I could see the dirt, the hoof marks, and the torn fabric all over him. There was even a stain on the side of his cheek shaped too much like a horn for my comfort.
"Did I make eight?" J.D. asked.
I glanced up, looking at the scoreboard. "Seven point two," I told him. "Longest anyone's ever stuck to him so far."
"Fuck."
Then the backboard arrived. Isaac and Jorge shifted to make room. The man who'd run for pain killers wasn't here yet, but Doc didn't seem to care. With the crowd watching, and a few too many people piling up at the railing right behind us, J.D. was going to be the latest spectacle.
"We gotta get this under you," Doc warned. "Ready?"
"Just fuckin' do it!" J.D. snapped.
Three men from the sports medicine team rolled J.D. onto his side. His hand clamped down even harder. He screamed louder than he had before, proving something had to be broken. Then it all stopped. J.D. went limp, his fingers releasing mine and trying to slip free even as they eased him back down onto the back board.
"Go," Isaac told me. "We got this. You make sure he's ok."
