Page 106 of Play the Last Card

“Woah, where did that come from?!”

“Ouch! That had to hurt.”

My eyes dart up to the screen in time for the broadcast to switch from the live feed to a replay. I don’t catch the two players’ numbers that are on the ground, but I know it is a Broncos player that got hit.

My legs uncurl from beneath me as I lift myself out of the corner of the couch, phone slipping from between my fingers while the blanket drops to my feet.

In slow motion, they play it back.

Scott hesitates after the snap, just barely, and the left tackle digs in as Scott takes his moment. I see it in the replay, the moment it all goes wrong. The left tackle—Connors I think his name is—takes the brunt of a defender but his back foot jerks, slipping on a patch of ice before sliding through the mud underneath. The defender barrels through him and collides with Scott.

Arm still lifted, ball still in hand, shoulder-hitting-the-hard-ground-first type of collision.

My heart is in my throat. My empty stomach seems to churn over and over. When the live broadcast comes back, I inch closer to the TV. The crackling fire licking at my skin is burning me but I can’t step back.

“Get up,” I beg him. “Get up, Scott. Please, god, please.”

I can’t hear the commentators anymore.

My heartbeat thuds in my chest. Blood rushes in my ears. A distant ringing starts to echo as if an explosion has gone off right in front of my face.

Only it has, hasn’t it?

I am watching the only casualty in live time. Still on the ground. Not moving.

“Scott for fuck’s sake, get up!” I scream at his still body on the TV screen. My body begins to shake and I can feel the tears stinging behind my eyes.

I can’t shut them. I can’t—won’t—look away.

Not until he gets up, not until he moves.

“Please, please,” I beg again, waiting.

Finally he moves and oxygen fills my lungs again. My breathing is shallow and the air feels thin, but it’s something.

The shill ring of my phone cuts through the air and I’m stunned momentarily as I watch medics rush the field. Scott waves them off, slowly getting to his feet.

My hand makes contact with my phone, which is buried in the blanket that had pooled at my feet in my haste to be closer to the TV.

“Ivy? Ivy? Are you okay? Are you there?” Katie yells down the phone as soon as I answer the call. I can hear the crowd in the background but her voice comes through, shaky and concerned. She sounds out of breath.

“Yeah—yes. I’m here. Am I okay? Is he okay?” I question, my voice crackling. My chest hurts. I press the palm of my hand to the ache, trying to soothe it. Something catches in my throat and a small sob escapes. I feel a few tears finally rolling over my cheeks, making my skin feel sticky. “He—I can’t—what if he—”

“He’s okay. He got up. Are you watching? He’s walking off now. No help. He seems okay. He’s okay.”

“The hit—oh my god, Katie I—I can’t breathe.” She curses on the other end of the line as I desperately try to calm myself down. It doesn’t work. I watch Scott disappear from the field. He doesn’t accept any of their help but the entire team's medical staff follows closely behind him.

The benched, second-string QB runs onto the field. I watch as they reset and play begins.

The clock restarts in the corner of the screen and I feel my lungs constrict.

Nothing. No comments. No cutting away.

What’s happened to him? Why aren’t they saying anything about him?

“I’m trying to find someone from the team. I don’t know—Ivy, who should I ask? Who would know what’s happened to him?” I didn’trealize I spoke out loud but Katie’s panicked questions cut through my spiraling thoughts.

“I—” My eyes finally close.Think. “Meghan, I think her name is. The PR girl. She usually sits in the players box with the owners for home games. She’ll—she’ll know.”

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