Page 3 of Save the Game

“I don’t remember anything,” I plead, but I’ll remember this.

“I know,” she says, “I know.”

In the end, I agree to it. The nurse clears the room and draws the curtains so nobody walking by can see inside. I look away when she pulls out the kit and starts prepping; I don’t want to know any more about what’s happening than I need to. When she’s ready to get started, she comes to stand by the bed and puts a hand on my head, rubbing a gentle circle into my scalp with her thumb.

“You have the right to revoke consent at any time during the exam; do you understand?” I nod. “If you want to stop, we stop.”

“Okay.”

When we’re finally allowed to leave, a nurse wheels me out front in a wheelchair while Marcos fetches the car. He’s stiff and angry as he helps me into the passenger seat, and my exhausted mind can’t figure out a way to bridge the gap. Instead, as we leave the hospital parking lot, I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. I feel truly terrible—like somebody beat every inch of me with a baseball bat. Every muscle in my body hurts, and the missing hours from my memory grate on my nerves like sandpaper. I don’t even remember going home after practice.

“Marcos?”

“Yeah?”

“What party were we at?” I look over at him. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly I can see the whites of every single knuckle.

“Brandon’s,” he responds tightly. “He plays baseball with me.”

“Oh.” I don’t remember Brandon, but I don’t know many of Marcos’ teammates. There is a sour smell in the vehicle and I crinkle my nose. Is there spoiled food in the back? “What’s that smell?”

“You threw up on the way here. I had to pull over on the side of the road. You…you were all limp and kept losing consciousness. I was worried you were going to choke.”

Shame floods my system like molten lava. I’m thankful for the darkness of the car to hide my burning face. I add this to the list of things that hurt from tonight: my best friend having to make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit.

“I’m really sorry,” I tell him. “I’ll detail the inside for you, clean everything up.”

“Don’t you apologize,” he says, practically spitting the words out. “Don’t you ever apologize to me. None of this is your fault, do you hear me? You have nothing to be sorry for.”

He lapses back into a tense silence after his outburst. I lean back against the window, enjoying the chill against my skin. I want to get home, burn all my skin off in a scalding hot shower, and then sleep for a week. It seems incredible to me that life will continue tomorrow; that I’ll play hockey and do my homework, and pretend that nothing has changed. I don’t know if I can do it.

“Marcos,” I mumble, eyes closed and forehead still pressed against the glass. “We don’t have to tell anybody about this, right? Like…Coach Mackenzie, or anything?”

He’s silent for long enough that I worry what his answer is going to be. When he does speak, it’s in a careful monotone. “I already called your coach.”

Lifting my head, I look over at him. He glances at me, grimacing.

“I didn’t say anything specific, but I told him you were ill and that you wouldn’t be able to play this weekend.” He pauses, flexing his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I know I should probably have waited for you, but I was kind of freaking out. And then all the shit the doctor said…I just figured you’d take a couple days to rest.”

“Yeah,” I agree, because my body is sore enough that a couple days of rest does sound good. “But I meant…do I have to tell Coach that something happened? Or…submit the lab results?”

The muscle is ticking in Marcos’ jaw again, and he rubs a palm over his face. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out though, and let you know. Don’t worry about any of that; I’ll handle it.”

“All right.” Looking out the windshield, I notice we’re almost home. “What exactly happened? At the party. Do you know?”

He sighs. “I can tell you what I told the police. I…I drove us there and, like I said before, it was my teammate’s party, so there was a group of baseball guys that flagged me down right when we walked in. You went and got us drinks, and then a little bit later—like, not even thirty minutes later—you told me you needed to find a bathroom because you didn’t feel good.”

I’m watching him as he speaks, simultaneously wishing he would stop talking while also needing to hear more. I listen carefully, attending to every single word, hoping that something will jar loose in my mind and I’ll remember for myself.

“Brandon pointed you up the stairs to the bathroom, and I let you go alone, and that was the last I saw of you for a bit.” We pull into the parking lot and he turns off the car. He sounds defeated. “It wasn’t like I was standing there watching the clock, you know? I have no idea how much time passed. I talked to some of the guys, had a drink with a girl from my English class, and then someone asked if I wanted to play beer pong. I told them I couldn’t, because I was driving, and then…I realized it had been a while since I’d seen you. So, I went to find you.”

He stops, hands resting in his lap and eyes staring sightlessly through the windshield. I wait until it becomes clear that he isn’t going to offer anything more up on his own.

“And then?” I prompt. He sighs.

“And then I found you. You were upstairs, in the hallway. At first, I thought you were drunk. You were trying to walk, but kept…slumping against the wall and bumping into stuff. I had to grab you to keep you from falling down the stairs. You…I don’t know how to explain it, Max. You were so out of it. It was the scariest fucking thing. You couldn’t string two words together and were barely able to stand on your own. I practically carried you to the car. Which…which is how I noticed that your clothes were fucked up.”

“Fucked up?” I ask quietly.

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