Page 7 of The Quarterback
These were the moments he loved, the quarter seconds of analysis, of making those calls that were half gut instinct and half hard-fought experience, his muscle memory and his training kicking in at exactly the same time to create the perfect play. The smell of grass clinging to his skin and sweat soaking his jersey, the way his mind worked like it was on fire.
“Delta 81!” Colton called, squatting into position behind Art, the center. He scanned Anton’s defense again. Anton was showing blitz, but Colton was trying something brand new, balls-to-the-wall wild. If it worked, it would be legendary. If it didn’t, everyone would laugh. But it would be a hell of a fun play. He held out his hands. Lifted his foot. “Delta 81! Hike!”
Movement, play action. Cleats on grass, heavy pants, grunts of exertion. He faked a handoff to Orlando, who sprinted to the left, following the blocks of the offensive line. Colton spun right, holding tight to the ball. Had he sold it? He had. Anton and another linebacker were hauling ass for Orlando, while the safeties were man on man with the deep receivers. Wes was slanting, running across the field. He glanced back to Colton.
Colton was all alone, dizzyingly so, in a way the quarterback never was. One of Anton’s linebackers realized Colton still had the ball, and he shouted, then pulled to the right, roaring toward Colton.
He had milliseconds.
Colton planted his foot, dropped his weight back, and readied his pass. The linebacker bore down on him. Wes was still hauling ass, wide fucking open. It was a touchdown play, for sure. He’d done it. The play was going to be massive, epic. He heard cries from the stands, surprise and cheers and shouts. He heard his offensive linemen laughing as the line fell apart on the far side of the field. He heard Anton bellowing for the safeties, trying to chase down Wes and Colton both. It was a scramble now, the defensive play destroyed. Strategy had devolved to tag, to keep-away.
Colton hurled the ball toward Wes and watched it sail, arcing high, parabolic against the sky. The wind rushing over him was sweet, and the sun was warm on the exposed skin of his abs and his back. Wes pumped his legs, held out his arms—
The thud that hit Colton was harder than it should be. The freshman linebacker had dropped his shoulder and plowed into him, knocking him back. He jerked, pinwheeling his feet as he tried to stay up. He hadn’t expected to be hit, not with a real tackle. This was bear-hug ball, laughing ball. But,fuck. That had knocked the wind out of him and sent him backward too fast. He was going down.
Unbalanced, Colton twisted, reaching out with both arms to break his fall as he headed for the grass.
Pain. Something wrenched loose in his shoulder when he hit the ground. Something that used to be whole ripped, and his whole arm went limp like boiled spaghetti. His fingers and hand went numb, and he watched his arm spin the wrong way around as he bounced and skidded over the grass. Liquid fire raced down his right side, sliding between his ribs and into his lungs.
A whistle blew somewhere, long and warbling like a train, going on and on and on as the world went thin.
He tried to wiggle his fingers and watched his hand stay still.I can’t throw without my fingers.He heaved himself over, rolling onto his right shoulder, but that was a mistake. As soon as his weight landed on his right side, the fire that had been bubbling inside his shoulder roared through his body, wrapping him in pure agony. He screamed, curled into a ball, and reached for his unmoving right arm.
Not like this.This wasn’t what another year was supposed to be like.Please, not like this.He grasped his shoulder and buried his face mask in the grass as he screamed.
Feet ran for him, cleats and the tennis shoes of the coaching staff and the athletic trainers. “Get the fuck off the field!” he heard Wes roar. “You’re off the fucking team!”
Hands on him, rolling him to his back. His right arm stayed on the grass. Like it wasn’t attached to him. “Colton—” Wes was beside him, kneeling down.
Not like this not like this not like this not like this—
Wes ripped off his helmet and threw it to the side. He grabbed Colton’s face mask and turned him, forced their eyes to meet. “Colton,” Wes said again. His eyes darted beyond Colton. There were hands on his arms, reaching beneath his pads. Grabbing his shoulder, his right bicep. “Stay with me—”
Someone bumped his shoulder. Colton roared, screaming so deep and loud he felt his body lift from the field. He bellowed and grabbed Wes with his left hand, fingers gripping the collar of his jersey, the edge of his pads. Pain, so muchGoddamnpain, more than he’d ever felt in his life, so fucking awful he couldn’t breathe. He tried to gasp, tried to grab Wes, tried to drag him close. Panic rose inside him, ripping right up his center, like a linebacker coming up the hole about to deliver the sack. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel anything but this fucking pain, and every dream he’d ever had, from when he was six years old up until ten minutes ago, when all he wanted was one more damn year with his brothers and his best friend, flashed before him and vanished.
Not like this not like this not like this—
“Colton,” Wes whispered, his face suddenly close, pressed right up against Colton’s face mask. “Breathe, breathe—”
Chapter Three
They calledthe cart for him. In all the years Colton had played football, he’d never been carted off the field.
He was woozy, the world fading in and out of focus. Darkness ringed his vision, and sound came in peals of thunder. He heard Wes’s voice, stretched thin and then roaring too loud, and he flinched away even as he opened his eyes and saw Wes sitting next to him on the back of the cart, holding his left hand tight against his chest.
They drove him right into the athletic facility, steering the cart down the wide halls to the medical suite. The team doc was already there, ready with a wheelchair. Colton remembered the move from the cart to the wheelchair like a series of snapshots, moments frozen in time: Wes hauling him into a sitting position, then pulling him forward, making Colton lean all his weight against Wes’s broad chest. He whimpered into Wes’s pads, felt the salt sweat of Wes’s neck and the cool air from the AC blowing against his own wet face. Was he crying?
He grasped Wes’s jersey as the doc and the medical team pulled him down into the wheelchair. Wes moved one of the trainers out of the way and pushed Colton’s wheelchair himself, following the doc and the radiologist into the X-ray room.
They cut his jersey and his pads off him.
He screamed when they laid him on the X-ray table. Screamed again when they rolled him left and right, repositioned him for different angles. Wes lay on his legs to hold him still as Colton bit down on the knuckles of his left hand and tears rolled down the sides of his face.
“Dislocated,” he heard the doc say, reviewing the digital X-ray behind the partition. Wes was beside him again. Colton curled toward him, balling himself up as if he could make the pain go away if he was small enough. “We need to reduce the joint. There’s far more damage than just a dislocation, though. Judging by the arm position, I think we’re looking at multiple torn ligaments. Maybe a torn labrum, as well.”
Torn ligaments. His throwing arm. His million-dollar arm. His shoulder that carried every one of his hopes and dreams. Colton squeezed his eyes closed. It was just a nightmare, and he’d wake up soon. He’d wake up. He would.
“Prep the MRI,” the doctor said. “And get a syringe ready. He’s not going to like this.”
