Page 22 of False Start

“This is Natalie, a nurse at the Norwalk Regional Medical Center.” My breath caught in my throat, and nausea gripped my stomach. “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Derek Clark.”

My Vans squeaked on the linoleum tile as I pitched around an incoming wheelchair. Derek had been hurt.

How hurt? The nurse hadn’t said anything other than he was in MedSurg, so he wasn’t critical, but that room assignment could mean anything from needing overnight observation to waiting for surgery.

“Sorry!” I called back at the visibly annoyed-looking older man wheeling himself across the hallway. His blue hospital gown flapped as he pushed out of the hallway with a huff.

I screeched to a halt at the nurse’s desk. “Derek Clark?”

The elderly woman behind the desk sighed, not bothering to look up as she searched the computer in front of her. She made two careful keystrokes before she slid her glasses off her nose and deigned to look at me. “And your relation?”

“Best friend,” tumbled out. I shook my head. “Emergency contact. Medical whatever. A nurse called me. Natalie.”

She hummed under her breath, eyes crawling back toward the computer. Her wrinkled fingers pushed her glasses back onto her nose. Milky gray eyes ran back and forth over the screen. “Umm-hm.”

I pressed a balled fist to my chest. My heart rattled underneath, and if this lady didn’t move faster, I’d need a room of my own. “If you could hurry.”

“Your name?”

“Kit Holden,” I answered. “Katherine. Katherine Holden.”

She blinked once, twice before her eyes traveled back to the computer. “Room 1145.”

“Thank you,” I breathed, already running down the hall.

I counted the numbers on the doors and, halfway down the hallway, spotted the room. Door ajar, I stopped at the entrance, rubbing my sweaty palms onto my pants before I rapped on the door.

“Come in,” Derek answered.

I released a shuddered breath at the sound of his voice as I pushed aside a light curtain. At least he was conscious.

Derek laid on a hospital bed, an IV hung beside him. He looked wan, normally tan skin faded into a sickly yellow. He had the same hospital gown as the man in a wheelchair and a thin white blanket over his waist. His right leg was bound in a sling, attached to a hoist.

“What happened?” I walked to his side, unable to peel my eyes off the crane-looking thing holding up my best friend’s leg.

“Paintball,” Derek said with a shake of his head.

A snort of laughter drew my attention to the recliner beside the bed.

Trent.

He wore a pair of paint-splattered jeans and a faded sweater that hugged his body a bit too closely. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, roped muscles. I hated myself for noticing that detail.

“Don’t laugh. This was your dumb idea.” My sharp tone wiped the smile off his face, and I turned back to Derek. “Whatspecificallyhappened?”

“Kids,” Derek muttered. He braced his hands next to his lap and attempted to push himself up. The movement jostled his leg, and he collapsed back into the bed with a faint mewl of pain.

“The bed moves, man.” Trent leaned forward and fished out the remote from the edge of the bed. He pressed a button until Derek sat upright and then reclined back in his seat.

My panic gave way to anger. Not at Derek, of course. I couldn’t be mad at Derek. Trent on the other hand…

“I can’t believe you let this happen!” I directed all the anxiety building over the last twenty minutes straight at the wide receiver.

“It’s not his fault.” Derek gripped my hand, thumb brushing my knuckles. “I’m a big boy. I knew what I was signing up for.”

“Did you know what you signed up for when you fell out of that tree house?” Trent snorted.

“You fell out of a tree house?” I asked, rearing around on Derek. “What were you doing in a tree house?”

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