Page 260 of Wrath

The announcer booms over the speaker system. There's so much whistling and cheering as we reach the tunnel that it makes me feel disoriented. Then we're moving faster into the cement tunnel. More people jog toward us—looks like different paramedics.

"Mills?” Ezra’s hand finds mine, gripping so hard. “ICAN’T GO."

"Yeah you can, Ez. You can do this. I swear. You’re so fucking brave. I'm gonna be sure it's all okay. I’ve got you."

He pulls our joined hands to his chest. "You promise?"

“Oh yeah. I fucking promise you that, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

There's commotion as the new EMTs take over. The offensive coach seems to appear out of nowhere, telling Ez he'll be at the hospital after the game. Ezra nods and whispers “thank you” as the last few people from the field leave.

Everything from there on is a whirlwind. Lots of questions for Ez, and he he’s struggling; I can tell because his hand grips mine so hard ithurts. The EMTs wheel him through another cement corridor, past a chain-link gate, and they load Ez into an ambulance.

“I have to go,” I tell them, and they let me up. I end up in a chair about two feet from his waist, forced to buckle in so he can’t even see me due to how he’s lying on his back with EMTs around him. The ambulance starts moving, and they turn on the sirens. I can tell he’s trying to be calm, but as they start an IV, he grasps the stretcher’s edge and starts to breathe hard.

“I’m right here, Ezzie babe. When we get out at the hospital, I’m gonna be right there beside you.”

The two EMTs are flitting all around him, and I feel so fucking helpless, so I just keep talking to him, even as one of them comes between the two of us. Finally the woman moves. Things settle down a little, and he reaches toward me. He’s strapped to the stretcher, now wearing an oxygen mask.

I lean forward and stroke his knuckles. “I love you, my angel.”

At his feet, they’re doing something. He looks fucking scared and pained. I hate it so much. I want to unbuckle, get close so I can whisper to him, stroke his hair, but then the ambulance is turning sharply. Then the ambulance is stopping.

The rear doors swing open, and they lift his stretcher out. I climb down as they pop out the stretcher's wheeled legs. I try to get beside him as they rush him through some automatic doors, but I can't quite get into his line of sight. The EMTs are moving quickly down a hallway with white walls and waxy floors and cool air that reminds me I’m sweating.

I feel sick with shock about this—that this happened to him.

The hall dead-ends into a large room I don’t get a chance to see before an EMT is pulling a blue curtain back. They wheel Ezra into a triage space. One of them says, "Good luck, Mr. Masters. You played a great game."

I notice his face—pale and wide-eyed.

Before they’re out of sight, a woman in a white coat steps into the curtained space. I guess it’s the white coat and the hospital curtains that set him off. It happens so fast. One second, Ezra’s on his back, his jaw clenched and his eyes looking so desperate that my chest aches for him.

Then he’s up. He’s trying to get off the bed—but almost as soon as he moves, he starts howling. All at once, the doctor’s shouting and more people burst in through the curtains. Blood is blooming on the sheet over his leg as people try to hold him down and Ezra tries to fight them.

I feel all the heat drain from my body. My hands are shaking, and I’m flushing, and I don’t know what to do. He’s fucking bellowing as people work on his leg. He’s shouting for me, and I don’t know what to do!

I can tell they’ve drugged him when he lies back on the stretcher, panting. I move to the bed’s rail beside him. “It’s okay, angel. I’m so sorry.”

Two people in scrubs are still bent over his leg; someone else is cutting off his jersey. There’s a young guy sticking leads onto his chest and shoulders.

Whatever sedative they hit him with, it worked. All he can do is stare up at me, his face pale and slack, his pupils small black dots in his dazed green eyes. His hand lifts, but it can’t even find mine—so I grasp his, wrap it up in both of mine and lean down near him.

“I love you, Ezzie baby. You’re gonna be okay, angel.”

Tears start down his cheeks in little rivulets, and I think he’s in pain because he shuts his eyes and winces as he tilts his head toward me. “Mills,” he mumbles.

“I’m here with you.”

“I wanna…go.” He opens his eyes, his face twisting as he breathes with his mouth open. His hand squeezes mine. “Please!”

And then he’s biting his lip. He’s moaning as his left hand grips the bed’s rail. Someone else comes in—another doctor—and Ezra is peering up at me. He’s saying, “Josh.” He looks high as a kite, but his back arches as someone does something to his lower half. I realize they’re cutting off his pants.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m right here.”

His eyes shut, and he’s crying, muffled and quiet. It makes me want to break things, so I snap at the guy next to me. “It seems like he needs more pain medication, no?”

Someone down by his leg agrees, and on her orders, the young guy gives him more. After that, his body doesn’t move. Even his head rests still and heavy on its pillow. He just looks at me as tears drip down his cheeks, and I wipe them and tell him, “I love you.” He looks so pained and sad.

---