Fuck.
Quinn must be freaking out. She warned me something like this might happen, but I didn’t listen. I just plowed ahead like always, confident in my decision.
You really think you could have predicted this?
Nope. It’s too goddamn ridiculous.
What kind of asshole concusses himself trying to do the deed?
It’s not a concussion.
At least, it better not be.
Fear grips my chest, squeezing like a vise. I can’t afford to ride the bench. Not now. Not when I’m so close to making my dreams a reality.
“Field. Grass. Blue.”
I repeat after Dr. Mackey, committing the words to memory.
This is what I get for trying to play the hero. For trying to be the good guy. For breaking fucking bro code and my own damn rules.
The doc examines my eyes and asks a series of inane questions.
“What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
Aka, the Homecoming that will live in infamy.
“How many receiving yards did you have today?”
“One hundred twenty-six.”
Like I could forget.
“Have you ever had memory problems?”
“No.”
But I’ve got plenty of memories I’d rather forget.
When the onslaught of questions finally ends, Dr. Mackey grins and pats me on the shoulder. “It’s a nasty cut, but I don’t see any sign of a concussion.”
My shoulders relax, relief welling up from the pit of my stomach.
“We’ll just get you stitched up and you can be on your way.”
He leaves briefly and returns with a tray bearing the tools of his trade.
The doc numbs the area with a local anesthetic and sets to work while I do my best not to think about the fact that he’s sewing my face back together. Easier said than done when he’s explaining the care and cleaning of the absorbable sutures.
At least you won’t have to come back to get them removed.
Truth. My schedule is already insane. I don’t have time for extra appointments.
“That takes care of the stitches.” Dr. Mackey peels off his gloves and tosses them in a waste receptacle. “Do you remember the three words I asked you to memorize earlier?”
“Field. Grass. Blue.”
