Page 217 of There's No Us Without You
“Fuck.” Will is standing in a matter of seconds, hands on his head as we both watch on in slow motion—at least that’s what it feels like—as Emerson lands heavily on his side, his face contorting when he grabs at his knee and rolls around on the ground.
All the blood drains from my face, my ears ringing. My stomach twists, and I have to press a hand to it in an attempt to calm myself.
Then I hear him—screams of agony echoing through the dead-quiet stadium. My hands fly to my mouth, my chin trembling as one of the men I love rips my heart out with each brutal cry.
Will pulls me up and drags me from the stands towards the exit. “Let’s go.”
“Will?” My tears are falling now, hands shaking as we make our way through the hordes of people.
He glances over his shoulder, giving me the same look I’m sure is plastered on my face.
This isn’t good.
When we finally reach the parking lot ten minutes later, Emerson is being wheeled out on a stretcher to an awaiting ambulance.
His eyes go wide when he sees us, tears rolling down the side of his beautiful face, leaving wet streaks.
“Pop-Tart,” he says, reaching for me when we get closer.
I take his sweaty hand as Will kisses my forehead. “You stay here. I’m going to get the car, okay?” His voice is calm, but his body is shaking, just like mine.
I nod, unable to speak.
He goes to Emerson next, cupping his face in his hands as he leans down close and speaks quietly in his ear. “We’ll get through this together. I fucking love you.”
Emerson nods, his bottom lip trembling as he grips onto the front of Will’s shirt. Then Will presses a demanding kiss to Emerson’s lips as though it might be their last, and races off, leaving us alone with the paramedics.
Emerson squeezes my hand so tight I swear he’s cutting off the circulation.
Sweat covers his face and hair, leaving wet patches on the dark-blue fabric of the stretcher.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say, pushing his hair from his forehead with as convincing a smile as I can manage.
He’s going to be fine. He has to be.
A nod is all I get in response. Then he’s snatched away from me and hauled into the back of the ambulance.
SIXTY-ONE
Emerson
Eden wrapsher arm around my waist and helps me hop out of the hospital room shower. I still can’t put any weight on my knee, so I know I’ve done some serious damage. I don’t remember a whole lot after I went down on the field yesterday.
When we got to the hospital last night, Will and Eden stood there gripping onto one another as I was ushered away to have scans and blood tests, and god knows what else.
At least I’m not in as much pain as I was yesterday.
I’d like to place those last twenty-four hours into the dumpster and light the thing on fire. Maybe that’s where the phrasedumpster firecomes from—all the shitty parts of life that build up over time, and it only takes one little spark, and the entire steaming pile of shit lights up in a stinking mess.
Eden gets on her knees and gives my right leg a little slap. “Lift, Em.”
When she opens the leg of my grey sweatpants, I use one crutch to hold all my weight so I can put my left leg inside it.
“I like you on your knees, Pop-Tart,” I say as I grin down at her.
“Easy now, superstar,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Don’t want you injuring any more of this beautiful body with your big mouth weighing you down.”
I snort, and throw my head back on a laugh, almost sending myself tumbling backwards. “You’ve never complained about my big mouth before.”
