Page 82 of Play the Last Track
The truth is, something is definitely wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Katie
Paniccrawlsupmythroat and suffocates me every time someone in a pair of scrubs walks past the waiting room. It’s full. People are everywhere. Trainers sitting on the plastic seats, coaches huddled in the corner, Scott pacing in front of the doors leading to wards, waiting for news.
We’re all waiting for news.
Flynn scored, ball clutched to his chest as the defending player took him down. It was too late, though. He got the touchdown. The confetti exploded from the canons, covering the crowd and the field. The Broncos won the Super Bowl.
People in the box screamed, cheering along with the thousands of fans in the stadium, elated to finally get the ring. My brother shook me, euphoric, and my parents cheered happily.
I could only feel Ivy’s hand in mine, only see the body still lying on the field, players surrounding him. Silence enveloped me then, as it does now.
He went down, and he didn’t get up.
It’s been a blur, from that moment to now. I watched from afar as the trainers carefully moved him to a stretcher, carrying him off the field. Scott was right next to him. The celebrations for us were done before they began.
I sit next to Ivy, her hands covering one of my own. Her thumb slides from side to side over my skin in irregular strokes, the only evidence that she’s also freaking out. She doesn’t show it, though. She’s holding strong on this one, for me.
“You don’t have to be here,” I whisper. “I know you hate coming here, after everything. If it’s too hard—”
“Absolutely not.” Ivy shakes her head, inching closer to me and wrapping her arms around my own, drawing my hand tighter into her grip.
“I—” I glance at the doors again, checking for the hundredth time that no one is coming through them with an update on his condition.
“I know,” Ivy murmurs. She leans her head against mine. “He’s going to be okay, though. Promise.”
A sob inches up my throat, and I swallow it down. I can’t cry.
I won’t.
Even though the last words I said to him this morning were, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
I’d wanted to tell him I loved him. That I was proud of him. That even if they didn’t win today, he should be so proud of himself because he is a big reason the team made it this far. I wanted to remind him that he’s good, really good, at catching the stupid ball, and no matter what anyone says, he deserves to be there.
Fuck.
My eyes sting as I think about the way I made him leave things. The way I could tell in his eyes when we spoke about what we were. When I lied through my teeth and told him I didn’t want things to change.
Of course, I was lying. Of course, I want things to change.
Namely, the fucking label I told him I didn’t want.
I glance around the room, at all the people from the world he adores. At the trainers, the teammates he’s close with, the coaches he boasts are geniuses. What the hell was I so afraid of?
Grant’s face flashes in my mind, and I feel the anger bubble under my skin.
Fuck him for ruining my trusting nature. For taking me for granted and breaking down my self-worth with his gross words and lies.
I wish I had walked away years ago.
I wish I had never allowed him to break the person I was, the person I loved, down into these tiny little pieces. I hate that he made me into this complicated jigsaw that I’ve been struggling to put back together ever since I finally walked away.
I realize now that Flynn has been the one putting those pieces back together. Healing something he never broke in the first place, all while wearing a smile like it’s his favorite pastime.
And I was too chicken shit to tell him how I really feel.
