Page 49 of The Brotherly Shove

Santa Clara, California

I'm never drinking again. I know everyone says that when they wake up hungover, but I mean it. I am never,everdrinking again. I feel like I've been repeatedly smashed in the head with a sledgehammer while simultaneously slamming myself into a brick wall over and over again. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton and tastes like I spent my night chewing on cow manure. I think I must still be half asleep because I keep hearing this incessant beeping, like a tiny truck backing up down a tiny driveway.

Fuck, this is awful. The only saving grace is the warm body curled around me like a blanket, the one I know belongs to Lennon because of the sheer size and familiarity of him. I swallow down a wave of nausea as I try to shift closer to Lennon, to bury my aching head into his chest and try to will myself to sleep this hangover from hell out of my system, but when I shift to my right to gain some leverage, blinding pain explodes out of my shoulder and down through my fingertips. I cry out a curse as my entire body feels like it's being engulfed in flames. I fightthe urge to thrash as Len gently holds me in place, guiding me back into a supine position on my back in the bed.

"Shh, baby, it's okay. You've gotta stop moving though, you don't want to make it worse, sweet thing," he coos, placing a hand on my chest and guiding me to a few slow and steady deep breaths. When I finally manage to crack my eyes open, the bright white light sears my retinas and I swear, my brain skips a beat from the rattling in my skull.

"Where are we, Len? What did we drink last night?" I ask, unsurprised by the croak in my voice. If the ache in my chest and ribs is any indication, I probably spent a portion of my night heaving with my head in the toilet.

"It's Sunday night, Breaker. Christmas. Well technically it's Monday now, I think it's around 3 am. We had a game last night, remember?" He asks, and I…

Shit. Holy shit.

"Shit, Lennon!" I exclaim, trying to jump up again like an idiot, but I'm struck down by the same excruciating pain on my right side. "What the hell happened?"

"What do you remember, B?" he asks softly.

I think for a moment. We were playing Dallas. The score was…I don't remember exactly. But it was close. Fourth quarter? I think? I was watching the ball in the air, and then I was…

"I got hit, right?" I ask, and Lennon nods.

"You did. Some fucker from Dallas tackled you on a late hit and dislocated your shoulder."

"And now I'm…" I trail off, looking around the room. It's all falling into place. I'm in the medical ward. Maybe the hospital? I was hit. I was hurt. I was on the turf, I could barely move. My shoulder is dislocated.

That explains the agonizing pain I feel, at least.

"Am I concussed?" I ask him, and he shakes his head.

"No, but the tackle wasn't all that happened, B."

I give him a confused look, and he leans over, pulling a phone out from somewhere. He readjusts, careful not to jostle me, until he's on his back with an arm behind me. Not quite over my shoulders, but close enough that I can settle in against his bicep. I watch the screen as he pulls up a text thread.

Bossman Adler:

I hope you're still avoiding the media while you take care of your man, but I thought you might want this for your memory stash. I know I would.

Bossman Adler:

*video message*

"Want to see what happened after the tackle?" he asks, and I take a moment. Do I? I don't know that I need to see myself limp and pathetic and being wheeled away.

I nod anyway, deciding I'm ready to face the music, and Len presses 'play' on the video.

It's a recording of the game earlier, not shot from an angle that's best for television, but likely filmed on one of the cameras that are fed to the coaches live during the game.

I'm hobbling from the sideline back onto the field. Even through the tiny phone screen, I can see how my right arm is hanging awkwardly compared to my left. I must've gotten back up after the hit, but I have no memory of it. Lennon looks furious, and I look half delirious. Why the hell would anyone let me back on the field like that.

I watch myself on the screen as the offense lines up and runs the tush push, and I wince loudly. There's no way I could have felt good jumping onto Lennon's back like that, let alone having an entire defensive line falling on top of me.

But we did it. We got the touchdown.

I look up to Lennon and open my mouth, ready to ask him what happened next and if we won the game, but he shushes me and points back at his phone.

The pile on top of us is broken up, and as soon as he's able, onscreen Lennon is pulling me to my feet by my left arm. He yanks my helmet off, yelling something directly into my face, and I'm sure I'm about to watch him knock my lights out for acting so recklessly, but no.

No.

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