Page 55 of Teasing

Our center snaps the ball to Mason.

Callen makes the run to where he needs to be.

It’s coming to him.

Mason releases.

Callen jumps into the air to catch the most beautiful spiral I’ve seen all summer, and he and one of Buffalo’s linebackers collide and fall to the ground. Every one of us on the sidelines hear it as much as we see it before Callen grabs his knee.

But the noise in the stadium dies as everyone’s attention is brought back to Mason, who’s lying on the field with his helmet five yards away.

They replay the hit on the jumbotron as the team doctors run onto the field, and every muscle in my body tenses as I alternate between watching the jumbotron and watching the doctors. Buffalo’s defensive end rushes Mason to the right while the defensive lineman pressures him to the left, trying to force him to get rid of the ball instead of throwing to Callen.

The pressure doesn’t work, and he gets the throw off, but the defense’s momentum is too much, and it’s too late. Neither player stops in time.

The defensive end hits first, helmet to helmet, in a play that’s abso-fucking-lutely going to be called for targeting. Mason’s head snaps back as his helmet falls off, and in the slow-motion replay, you can see their defensive lineman trying to stop as Mason falls his way, but it’s too late.

The lineman and Mason collide and both go down.

Mason’s head hits the turf, then bounces up and slams down again.

Without his helmet.

And he’s not getting up.

The stadium full of sixty thousand screaming fans is so silent, you could hear a pin drop as we all wait for Mason to move.

But he doesn’t.

Not as more medics rush onto the field.

Not for the five minutes they work on him before they finally get him on a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance.

Callen refuses to leave until they’ve taken care of Mason, then insists on leaning on our center as he limps off the field and onto the back of the waiting truck, while the rest of us stand, shaken to the core.

Declan Sinclair talks to the refs on the sidelines, then looks out at the field, now only nine Kings full instead of eleven. He then looks back at Camden.

“Monroe. You’re up.”

The mood in the locker room after the game is somber.

Callen has a torn meniscus. He’ll be out for at least six weeks.

But word is slower to trickle in about Mason.

A grade-three concussion.

Considering this is his fourth since I’ve been on the team, this could be catastrophic. He’s being kept overnight, but the damage is done to his body and possibly his career. We’re all left wondering if he’s coming back from this.

Not that the reporters give a shit.

No, those vultures are still here, intrusive as hell, picking at the bones.

I have nothing to say and ignore them all. Fuck this.

I pull my phone from my bag after a shower and can’t help but smile when I see the picture Emmie sent of Rosie and her squished together in front of the TV. Emmie’s in Camden’s Kings jersey—and I make a mental note to fix that as soon as possible—and Rosie is in the custom, black Beneventi jersey with a sparkling pink 99 on the back of it that Mom gave her for Christmas last year. It’s the first real smile I’ve had since that first play that took out Callen and Mason on one swoop and dullsthe throb in my head just enough to get me through the next few hours until I get home.

Emmie

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