Page 31 of Game Face

Peyton.

I push my helmet from my head and race across the field, my cleats digging up turf as I lunge forward, angry that my feet aren’t fast enough. I pass Reed and move right up to the stretcher that my whole world is strapped to, her neck locked in place, her eyes wildly searching the sky as tears pour down her temples.

“Peyton!” Her name comes out as a scream, and her eyes dash to me in a breath.

“I’m okay, Wy. It’s okay. I’m okay! Win for me. Please. I’m okay!”

Nothing about her looks okay. And the tear stains would say otherwise. The candy red is smeared across her mouth and onto her chin, from who knows what or why. Her eyes blink uncontrollably, as the rest of her lies still, every bit of her strapped to a gray, aluminum gurney. I push through the emergency workers enough to grip her hand, but she slips away before squeezing me back and I’m left with nothing but the faint feel of her fingertips on mine as they hoist her into the back of the ambulance and shut the doors.

I turn into her father’s chest, and he hugs me to him.

“She’s going to be okay. It was a fall, but she’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” he repeats, and I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince more—him, or me.

Chapter Fourteen

There are so many people in this room. My parents, I get why they’re here. I want them here. I think. Why my Aunt Sarah is here, I don’t know. Or maybe I do. It’s a helpless feeling driving everyone. Helpless all around. Afraid. Frustrated. My Uncle Jason is out of town on business, but I’ve seen his face on my aunt’s phone screen about a dozen times in the last ten minutes. He’s FaceTiming into the room. I wish I was lucid enough to take notes and keep track of every little positive quip he’s said to me.

I’d laugh if no one were here.

I’d cry.

I’m scared.

This room full of people isn’t helping. It’s loud. Crowded with questions and zero answers. There’s not a doctor in this room right now.

My dad moves to my one side of my bed. My mom hasn’t left the other. I’m bound to the bed with this cage-like structure of pins and slings. I’ve gone through so many scans. It feels like ahundred, but I’m sure it’s more like four or five. Everything feels multiplied. My pain ranks at the top of all. I hurt.

“Wyatt’s on his way,” my dad says.

I breathe in deep. It hurts.

“Did they win?”

Nobody’s told me about the game yet. I haven’t asked because it probably makes me sound crazy. Wildcat football is very much not the priority in this room, but it’s a priority in my head. It’s my distraction.

My dad’s mouth shifts into a soft smile as he nods.

“Twenty-four to seven. Wyatt threw an interception.” He shrugs, but my mouth fills with a sour taste.

It’s my fault he threw that. That’s a stupid thought but I can’t help having it.

“Did they pull him?” I ask quietly, not wanting the rest of the room involved in my conversation. My dad is literally the only one in this room who understands why this is important to me. I need to know.

A faint laugh parts my father’s lips, and he shakes his head.

“No. He finished the game. And QB2 only went in twice.” My dad’s eyes linger on mine for a beat, and I blink because I can’t nod.

My father’s hand covers mine, and he moves his massive fingers between mine, squeezing. I feel him on the left. It’s the right side that has everyone on alert. My mom is holding my right. Apparently, she hasn’t let go since they moved me back in from the MRI and set up all of the braces. I only know because I see her holding it. I can’t feel a thing.

It wasn’t my fall that did it. It wasn’t even my grip. I can recall everything in flashes, as if my eyes took snapshots as the world crumbled and set them aside for me to sort out later, to pull out as proof that this was not something I made happen. It happenedtome.

Alicia wavered, her left foot slipped, and her body lurched forward. I did as I trained and worked to ease her fall, guiding her into a safe landing. But I was going down, too. And when I hit the ground, Alicia’s knee hammered into my head and then everything went blank. My memory gets a little spotty after that too. Eyes blinking rapidly. Coach Kane holding my shoulders still. Our team trainer with a flashlight. The words, “Just a concussion.”

Then the EMT. So many questions. Can I feel this? Can I move my right foot? Will I squeeze my right hand? Am I trying to? How about now? How about now?

What about now?

“Mr. and Mrs. Johnson? Can I have a minute with you and Peyton?”

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