It starts to slow, and I run to meet it.

Call it sixth sense, call it self-preservation, but the second I step out onto the street, my body tenses all at once. I feel the danger before I see it. Or maybe I hear it.

Someone shouts my name, unhinged and desperate. But I don’t turn that way. I turn towards the rushing sound at my side. All I see is a blur before impact. Something hits me so hard, my brain registers it as sound: shattering light bulbs, dropping from a great height. Stars sparkle behind my lids.

I think of Fred slamming into me in a smoke filled hall, and for a second I don’t know where I am.

Finn’s frowning face flashes in my mind, and then there is nothing.

 

* * *

 

Finn

 

* * *

 

What the fuck just happened? What the fuck just happened!

The thought cycles through my skull as I pace the halls in the bowels of the stadium. It had been a perfect pass, a sweet forty yard spiral straight into the end zone. Jake had caught it. Perfect catch. A thing of poetry.

That ball had landed in his hands, and I swear I felt the contact. We’d been connected in that play, one mind. Fucking poetry.

And then he went down.

Panic skitters up my throat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to be sick. I halt and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs as I take deep breaths. We deal with injuries all the time. Pain and football go hand in hand.

But neck injuries, spinal damage. It’s the thing you don’t even want to think about. Not just career ending but life altering. He could die.

The ground beneath me sways. I grip my thighs tight.

Breathe. Breathe.

A door opens with a squeak. I don’t look up as footsteps approach.

Charlie stops beside me. “Been looking for you.”

I’d done my part. Finished the game. Bucked the fuck up and buckled down to win it. Nothing less would satisfy any of my guys. The fact that Jake had been joking at halftime about a “Win one for the Gipper” speech, almost made me lose it a couple of times.

But I’d held it together. Kept my game face on after the game, through the post game interviews where reporters clamored to know how Jake was doing. I’d wanted to know too. It fucking killed me, not knowing, waiting to hear what the doctors had to say.

Was he paralyzed? Would he play again?

“You hear anything,” I ask Charlie, as I stare at the floor.

“I don’t know much. But they think he’ll be okay.”

My knees sag. “Okay?”

Charlie knows what I’m asking. “No spinal damage.”

I let out a gust of air. “Okay. Okay.” Standing straight, I face Charlie. And then I’m hugging him. He pounds my back, and I pound his, both of us breathing too hard. I let him go with a final squeeze then step back and rub my eyes.

“Coach wants to see you,” Charlie says when we turn and head back toward the locker room.

“Now? Jesus.”

I find Coach Calhoun waiting for me. “You hear about Ryder?” he asks without preamble.

“Charlie told me.”

He nods, the relief in his eyes clear. “We need to talk about a few things. Got a minute?”

It’s not really a question, just Calhoun’s way of being polite, which is rare in and of itself.

“I was planning to go see Jake.”

“He’s under sedation.”

“That’s good. He needs the rest.”

“Nobody but family is getting in to see him tonight.”

“I’ll get in.”

His eyes narrow. “We’ve put guards to keep everyone out. You’re not getting in.”

Our stare stretches. It’s a delicate thing, saying no to your coach. If you don’t have a good reason for it, you’re accused of not being a team player. Management does not find that amusing. Press gets wind that you’re being uncooperative—and somehow they always find out— and suddenly there’s talk of “problems” between the player and the coaching staff.

Politics suck. But there’s also respect. I respect the hell out of my coach. Enough that I can wait a few minutes more to go see Jake.

My shoulders lower. “Your office?”

Appeased, he relaxes too. “Won’t take too long.”

I haven’t taken a step when my phone rings. I reach to turn it off, but it’s Chess’s ringtone. Until now, I haven’t let myself think of her; it’s hard enough worrying about Jake. But the wall is crumbling. I need to hear her voice, to see her. Hell, I need her.

Calhoun shoots me a glance, as Cindy Lauper’s Goonies song plays on. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the call. It feels fundamentally wrong to do it. But twenty minutes isn’t going to kill either one of us. Twenty minutes, I promise myself.

We’re almost at Coach’s office when Chess calls again. Hell.

“You ever heard of turning that thing off, Mannus?”

He’s one to talk. Gossip has it Calhoun brings his into the shower with him.

“Give me a second.” I pull the phone from my pocket. “I’ll tell them I’m in a meeting.”

The second I answer, I know something is wrong. It isn’t Chess’s voice coming at me in a rush. It’s James. “Thank fuck you finally answered.”

“What’s wrong? Why are you using Chess’s phone?”

“Chess is hurt. She’s in the hospital…”

Had I felt panic with Jake? That was nothing to this. Everything stops. Black spots dance before my eyes. I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.

This isn’t fear. This is terror.

“Mannus? You there?”

“What hospital?” I manage.

James gives me the name and then takes an audible breath. “She’s okay. Just…I think she’d want you here when she wakes up.”

Wakes up? A weird sound comes out of me. I catch my breath. “I’m on my way.”

My fingers feel numb as I hang up. In fact, my whole fucking face feels numb. “I have to go,” I tell my coach, who stares at me as if I’ve lost it.

“Now? Who was that? One of Ryder’s sisters?”

“No. My girl. She’s…” Don’t lose it. “She’s in New York. I’ve got to go.”

“You’re going to New York?” His voice rises just a bit. “We have meetings tomorrow.”