Page 4 of Unloved

None of that rationale matters, because each second that passes feels like long, agonizing minutes, each one more painful than the one before.

“We get concussions all the time,” Jennings says, attempting to reassure me. “Some smelling salts and he’ll be up in no time.”

If my brain was actually working, I could tell myself just how many times a season this happens. But there is a complete disconnect, fear overriding logic, my head telling me to try and take a breath, but my heart telling me that something is very, very wrong.

The hit was hard, and the fall was harder. And hestillisn’t moving.

“Get. Off. Me,” I say through gritted teeth.

“No,” he says, his voice firm like his hold on me. “The team doctors are with him, and if you calm down, you can see they’re assessing the damage and trying to wake him up.”

The thought of being with him, by his side, slows my breathing down almost instantly. Roughly, I shake Jennings off me, and surprisingly, he drops his hands and steps back, giving me the space I so desperately need.

My body moves, pushing through the people, my arms and legs racing to get to him.

“Lennox,” I shout as I step closer to him, hoping my voice alone can be the thing that has him opening up his eyes.

My stomach roils at the sight of him. They keep his helmet on but remove the facemask, ensuring his airway is as free as possible. Even though his eyes are still closed, I don’t miss the sight of blood dripping down the length of his face as the man kneeling beside him waves smelling salts underneath his nose.

“Come on. Come on. Come on,” I mutter, my body trembling as I wait. “What’s taking so long?”

“Son, move out of the way and let them do their job.” Coach sidles up beside me, his hand curling around my bicep, moving me back, away from Lennox. “The quicker they get him to wake up, the quicker they can fix him.”

Fix himmy brain chants.Fix him. Fix him. Fix him.

His eyes begin to flutter, long, slow blinks, and before I even have the chance to decide to move forward, Jennings is back, arms around me, holding me still.

“Give them a second,” he says, his voice hard and commanding. “You are of no use to them or him right now.”

I can feel myself shaking within his hold, watching paramedics run onto the field, joining the team doctors and coaches. The juxtaposition of everybody moving at warp speed around me, but Lennox’s reactions and response time getting slower and slower by the second, is the final nail in the coffin.

“Something’s wrong with him,” I hear myself say.

“Well, yeah, he just got a mad hit to the head,” Jennings responds, much too flippant for my liking.

Not wanting to jostle him, they keep him as still as possible while bringing a light to both his eyes and checking his pupils.

I watch them move from left to right, hoping for it to provide me with some relief, but it only amps up my anxiety even more.

While his eyes are open and he’s responsive, there’s no disguising Lennox’s fear.

“No,” I insist. “It’s something else. Something is wrong.”

“Okay. On three,” I hear one of the medical staff say as he and another man hold on to either side of Lennox’s body to place him on the backboard.

“One, two, three,” they shout in unison. They lay his body down firmly, and I wait for the commotion to bring forth any other reaction out of him, but there’s nothing. No wince of pain, no cry for help, just fear.

“Jennings, man, I need to—” I try to catch my breath as I watch the staff take him off the field, knowing I can’t be away from him for another second. “Jennings. I need to follow them. If he’s going to the hospital, I need to go with him.”

“We still have a game to play––”

Tearing my gaze away from Lennox’s retreating body, I use all my strength to push Jennings off of me.

He stumbles back, managing to stop himself from falling.

“Okay,” he concedes, putting his hands up in surrender. Whatever expression I’m wearing causes his eyes to soften, a mixture of pity and sympathy staring right back at me. He gestures to the tunnels. “Go. What you do is none of my business anyway.”

On autopilot, I run across the field, down through the tunnels, past the dressing rooms, and follow the muffle of voices into the team’s medical room.

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