Page 31 of Game Changer

I nod, but I don’t move right away.

Hart nudges me. “Come on, man.”

I force my legs to work, my steps stiff, like I’m moving through wet cement. The hospital is eerily quiet at this hour. Phones ring in the distance. A soft beep echoes from somewhere behind a set of closed doors. An orderly wheels a cart past us, the wheels squeaking every few seconds. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.

The elevator doors slide open with ading, and the three of us step inside. The second they close, I feel like I can’t breathe.

“Fourth floor,” Logan mutters, pressing the button.

The elevator lurches to life, humming softly as it climbs. My stomach twists. The closer we get, the worse it gets, like the walls are pressing in, like there’s no air left in this place.

Then the doors open, and the surgical floor stretches out in front of us—quiet, sterile, cold. A nurse’s station glows dimly under a set of overhead lights, and the sound of a monitor beeping somewhere down the hall punches through the silence.

Hart and Logan stay close, but they don’t say anything. Again, what is there to say?

I take a deep breath, step out of the elevator, and walk toward the desk where the receptionist informs us Lindsey is still in surgery Then she directs us to the waiting room, promising we’ll be updated soon.

Within half an hour, Coach Cohen, Coach Moore, Lucas Links, Ryan Brooks, and Tessa are sitting with us, just waiting …

“Baby,” Lucas whispers, “he needs some answers; you think you can find anything out?”

Tessa looks at me. “Let’s see what I can do here.”

“Appreciate it.”

When Tessa returns, she is followed by a nurse.

Her voice is steady and calm—too calm. She looks at me like she’s trying to keep me from falling apart. But I already am.

“Your girlfriend was in a very serious accident. She hit a tree head-on. The impact …”

Her words start to blur. My ears ring. My hands grip my sweats so hard my nails dig into my skin.

“She has a traumatic brain injury, multiple broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a fractured femur, and internal bleeding.”

No. No, no, no. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.

I shake my head, like that will somehow change what she’s saying, but she doesn’t stop.

“We did everything we could in surgery to stop the bleeding and stabilize her, but … she’s in a coma.”

I swear my heart just stops.

“We don’t know when—or if—she’ll wake up.”

My stomach drops. I can’t move. I can’t think. It feels like the floor just disappeared from under me, and I’m free-falling into nothing.

“But right now, she’s alive,” the nurse says, like that’s supposed to bring me any comfort.

Alive. But not awake. Not okay.

I try to speak, but my throat is tight, like I’m swallowing glass. When I finally force the words out, they sound broken. “Can I see her?”

The nurse nods, but there’s something in her expression—hesitation. Pity. “Of course. But I need to prepare you—she’s on a ventilator. There are a lot of machines helping her right now, a lot of wires, a lot of monitors. She won’t look like herself, but she’s still in there.”

Still in there.

I swallow hard and force myself to stand, even though my legs feel like they might give out.

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