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The impact is so severe that Drew is still sprawled out on the field while the other players remain in motion. After the initial split second of suspended silence, fans of the opposing team jump up, their attention focused on the players running to the end zone amid a chorus of shouts and cheers.
Go! Go! Go!
I seem to be the only one who's noticed something's off.
Raising my camera to eye level again, I zoom in on where Drew is still on the ground, lying motionless. His face is white, pinched, and laced with pain.
My breath catches in my throat.
Oh my God. He'sreallyhurt.
I quickly take a few shots of him on the ground, then grab my backpack and hurry down to the field's edge, pushing my way through the line of journalists and TV crews.
By the time I get there, others have realized there's a problem, and a time out has been called while the team's medical staff rush out to check on him.
He's circled by players from both teams.
Fans take notice and begin to chant his name.
After what seems like an eternity, they sit him up, brush him off, and help him to his feet, but he immediately crumples back to the ground. He looks disoriented and uncomfortable. They call for a stretcher.
From where I stand, I automatically snap a few more shots of him as he is slowly removed from the field. Reporters rush forward, shoving microphones and cameras in his face, asking for an update.
I'm doing my best to keep a respectable distance, but I'm near enough to overhear bits and pieces of the conversation.
“How bad?” I recognize Drew's agent, Mitch Ryland. He was a star himself until an injury took him out. He's jogging alongside the stretcher with the team's coach and the medics.
“He's in a lot of pain.”
They pass right by me, and I glance down just as Drew opens his eyes.
His gaze locks on mine as confusion pulls at his brows. “Who are you?”
“I—”
“Pretty.”
I almost trip over my own feet. Pretty? Did he just call me pretty? That's not what I expected from someone being carted off the field with an injury like he just endured.
“Just a photographer,” I stammer, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
His lashes flutter as his eyes drift close, and his head rolls to the side. He's out cold.
With everyone's attention diverted, I sneak under the barrier and follow behind. I don't know why I did that, but for some insane reason, I need to know what's happening. Maybe it's because I grabbed those images, and when I sell them, I can sell them with the whole story. Perhaps it's because I believe if you act like you belong, nobody will notice you don't.
Mitch is still running along with them, asking questions and barking orders into his phone as he goes. “What did the doc say?” He's addressing one of the medics.
“We think it might be a hip dislocation, but we won't know for sure until we take some x-rays.”
Mitch curses under his breath. He looks exhausted and worried.
After consulting with each other, the medical staff decide to transport Drew directly to the hospital.
I'm in the way now, so I step back.
The conversation slowly fades as they head inside the stadium while on the field, the game is called back into play.
Drew Wylder called me pretty.
