Page 446 of The Winslow Brothers

My cue comes faster than I’d like, but I dig deep and find the strength to follow through. Hands together three times, I jump to the tips of my toes and straighten out the muscles of my body while I brace myself on Chrissy’s and Kate’s shoulders. They lock their arms together by holding each other’s wrists in a basket-weave pattern, and Eden grips my hips, counting it off, “One, two!”

With a bounce of my toes, I jump up to the surface of their hands, and Eden counts it again, “One, two!”

Chrissy’s and Kate’s hands move down under my feet and then up with amazing force. I’m catapulted up, my body flying towardthe sky, and I focus on keeping my arm and leg muscles tight as I let my back stretch into the first flip of my stunt.

All is going welluntilmy body starts its rotation into the second flip.

My equilibrium turns wonky when I forget to latch my eyes on to my spotting point, and my body overrotates all the way through the second flip and halfway into a third as gravity starts to pull me down. My momentum is too much for Chrissy, Kate, and Eden, especially in this awkward position, and as a result, the catch fails spectacularly. We have a rule in cheerleading—that a flyerneverhits the floor. But even I have to admit, in this case, I’ve made it pretty much impossible for them to catch me. All that’s left is the ground.

Ohhhh noooooo!

After that much height and rotation, the impact is so sudden it forces my left hand to hit the ground at an awkward angle, and an audiblecrack!assaults my ears.

The pain that follows is so dang intense, it makes my vision burst into a kaleidoscope of indiscernible shades of reds and yellows and whites.

“Maria!”

“Oh my gosh!”

Concerned voices fill my ears, but all I can do is lie there, on the grass, cradling my left arm to my body. The discomfort is so acute, so undeniable, that I know I probably broke something.

Oh God. I’m gonna puke.

To my right side, I tilt my body, and vomit shoots out of my mouth and onto the football field.

“Ew.Gross.”

“Shut up, Chrissy! She’s hurt!” Eden scolds.

“Maria?” Emily’s worried voice is right beside me. “Are you okay?”

All I can do is shake my head when I meet her eyes. I am definitely not okay.

“I think we need—” she starts to call over her shoulder, but something stops her midsentence.

Bright-blue eyes replace Emily’s green ones so quickly it’s almost as if she vanishes in a puff of air.

“Maria? You okay?” Remington Winslow, sweaty and still wearing a football helmet, is hovering over me, his eyes etched with the kind of unease that makes tears want to flow from mine.

I swallow hard against them and try to answer, but my words come out all stutter-y. “It…it h-hurts really b-bad.”

I don’t know why I want to cry. Because it hurts? Because I feel embarrassed? Because I feel oddly thankful for the concern he’s showing me?Probably all three.

“Is it your arm?” he asks, his fingers gently assessing me for injuries.

“The left one,” I tell him through a shaky breath. “I think it’s broken.”

“We should probably call an ambulan—” the Great Disappearing Emily tries, only to get metaphorically shoved out of the way again.

“I got her,” Remy says as he tugs off his helmet and tosses it to the ground. “Maria, just keep that left arm braced to your body, okay?”

But there’s no time for me to answer before I’m being moved, up and into his arms and cradled close to his chest.

“Where are you going, Winslow?!” a husky male voice calls from somewhere in the distance.

“She’s hurt, Coach! I’m taking her to the ER!” Remy yells over his shoulder, his body already jumping into action and somehow managing to carry me like I weigh two pounds.

There are definitely irritated words that follow from his coach, but I’m too busy staring up at the enigma jogging me across the field and into the Brooklyn parking lot where his car is located to hear what’s said. Most high schools in Manhattan don’t even have football teams, but ours does. Still, because of spatial constraints, that means we have to either drive or bus it over to Aviator Field in Brooklyn every day to practice. It’s normally a pain in the ass, but then again, I don’t usually get the opportunity to ride in Remy’s car.

---