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It seems wrong, somehow, to shut off the television, even though I don’t care about the game anymore. They might, at some point, have an update on Slater, and I’m desperate for one, so I keep it on.
“Cam is taking the first flight. He just left for the airport.”
My head bobs up and down. It’ll be hours before Cam arrives in California, but at least he’ll know something once he gets there. Can I wait that long? Is there another choice? Slater could be permanently injured. He might need help. It’s good that Cam is going. Cam will take care of Slater.
The thoughts bounce around in my head.
“Are you there?” Kelsey asks when I don’t reply.
“Hmmm…” I say, not really hearing her.
“Elle.” Her voice sounds harsh. “Do you want me to call Dad?”
That grabs my attention. “What? No. Why would you do that?”
“So you’re not alone. It’d take me hours to get there. Dad lives fifteen minutes away. You know he’d come and sit with you while we wait to hear something.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m fine. You don’t need to come. Dad doesn’t need to come.”
“You’re crying.”
“I am not.” It’s technically true, as the tears have finally stopped leaking from my eyes. “I’m fine. Will you call me if you get any updates on Slater’s condition?”
After she agrees, I tell her I have to go.
I keep watching the game, but they don’t have any updates. Cam doesn’t reply when I text him. I consider texting Slater. I want to text him. We haven’t talked since Sacramento.
With shaking hands, I type: I hope you’re okay.
I hit send and cling to my phone.
He doesn’t respond.
TWENTY-NINE
SLATER
I hate hospitals. The itchy gowns. The overly starched sheets. The smell of antiseptic. The beeping of machines. Not even the excessively cheerful nurses make it better.
By the time they wheel me out of the ambulance, I’m fine. My neck is insanely stiff, and I have a slight headache, but it isn’t even bad enough to warrant an Ibuprofen. I’m itching to be released before they’ve even got me checked in.
If I were anyone else, they’d send me home with a painkiller and a loved one. Instead, I get the red-carpet treatment, complete with a private room and too many doctors.
The team trainers are concerned because they think I was unconscious. The assistant trainer is in and out of my room. He doesn’t believe me when I tell them I wasn’t unconscious. I had the wind knocked out of me and the muscles in the left side of my neck seized up. It hurt so much that I almost blacked out, but I was conscious—I swear.
The hospital gets me in for tests right away and it isn’t long before the neurologist reports that I have a minor concussion. She wants to keep me for observation for a few hours, and nothing I say is going to convince her to release me until she’s ready. I suppose being the doctor gives her the right to decide on my treatment, but I’m still irritated.
She tells me that irritation is a side effect of concussions. That information does nothing to ease the irritation.
Eventually the doctors and nurses clear out, leaving me alone. They turn down the lights and instruct me to rest. I close my eyes, but sleep won’t come.
My mind won’t quiet.
The game is over. We won, just barely, and my record stands at five and one. Randy will start when we return from our bye week. I’m in concussion protocol with no reason to rush back—not that rushing back is an option. Concussions are no joke.
I have nothing. Nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, nothing to train for, nothing to focus on. I’m a man without an anchor, drifting along. Sure, when the season is over I’ll be back to hunting for a new contract, but right now I’m stuck in a hospital bed—with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company.
Naturally, they keep turning to Ellie.
