Page 37 of No Place Like Home

I flinched like I’d done all other times Q had gotten hit. This game was too violent. I didn't like it anymore. The other player got up, but Q didn’t. I was mad when the video cut to the play.

I had to watch him get hit all over again. The second time, I saw the way his body gave a shake as it got hit by the other guy.

“Hardwell is still down,” one of the commentators said.

Everyone in the room got quiet. The game stopped, and they finally put the camera on Quincy. He was on the ground, his helmet removed. He was groaning, making the tendons in his neck stand out. He had his hands bunched at his sides and one of his legs bent. The other wasn’t moving.

He was hurt…and there wasn’t anythingIcould do about it.

I had no idea where that thought came from, but then I noticed that I was standing up as if that was going to get me closer to him. No one else noticed because they were doing the same. Our Quincy got hurt.

Again, why was I thinking things like this?

They brought a stretcher, and they helped Quincy onto it. My heart was pounding, trying to beat out of my chest. I was scared. It was a sport, entertainment, but I’d never realized just how dangerous it could be. I’d never thought I needed to.

We all watched in silence the rest of the game. I was on my phone, furiously refreshing to see if there was any news on Quincy. That’s when I came across a tweet that caught my eye.

For all of those worried about my boyfriend, thank you. Please keep him in your prayers.

I stared at the girl's picture and felt…stupid.

God, I had no reason to feel stupid, but I did.

She was gorgeous. Tan skin, sultry eyes with curly lashes, hair down her back, and she was wearing a sports bra from Quincy’s line.

Hello, he’s Quincy Hardwell. What did you expect?

He did say he could have any girl he wanted, didn’t he?

He was hurt, and she was there to help him. He would be fine. He didn’t need me. No one ever did.

“Shut up,” Prescott’s deep voice commanded, and everyone listened.

He nodded to the TV, where the sports anchors were replaying Q’s accident in slow motion. I cringed like I did the last time.

“Oh, thank God. His leg’s not broken,” I said with relief after the announcer gave his report.

Everyone’s faces were still grim.

Prescott stared at me. “That’s bad, kid.”

I glared at him for calling me kid, but it didn’t faze him.

“A break heals better than an ACL tear. Bones heal, but tissue scars…he might have just ended his career.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever not love it. The field…that’s my home.”

For a guy who had it all, he might just have lost the only thing he wanted more than anything, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

CHAPTERELEVEN

March

My career was over.

When I closed my eyes, I could see the moment everything changed. As I fell to the ground, I felt the snap, followed by the pain that ricocheted through my leg. I prayed that it was a break as I lay on the ground with an eerily silent stadium and lights blinding me. A break would be easier to deal with than a tear.

I wondered if this was some type of karma evening out the balance because I had too much.

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