“Oh, don’t worry. They will eventually. Now, the doctor will be here in a minute, so you just rest.”
Without another word, she left me. Frustrated and annoyed at the nonanswers, I decided to see if I could get out of bed. I lowered the railing, slid my feet to the edge and swung my legs over the side. It took me a few minutes before I could push up on the mattress with my hands. The world turned upside down, everything going hazy. Pain throbbed at my temples, and my stomach heaved.
“Okay, maybe that’s not the best move,” I whispered and gingerly reversed everything I’d done, but not before wincing at the multitudes of black and blue marks littering my calves and thighs.Damn, those guys did a number on me.
A ruddy-faced, dark-haired man in a white coat strode into the room. “Mr. Summers, I hope you weren’t thinking of running away from us so soon. I’m Dr. Albright.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I was hoping to get some tips on how to throw a perfect spiral to my fifteen-year-old so he’d think I’m a cool dad.”
I laughed. “I guess it’s up to you to tell me if I can.” Upon lifting my arm, there were a few twinges, but nothing that seemed too serious to me. “Frankly, it feels no different than the usual aches and pains after a game.”
“That’s good to hear. Let’s have a look.”
For the next hour I was poked and prodded, had my reflexes tested and my eyes checked. He unwrapped the bandages on my knees, which I saw were to protect the abrasions I’d received from the AstroTurf.
“I always did like playing on natural grass,” I told him. “Sliding along the fake grass, it burns like hell and takes the skin off.”
“Yeah,” he said, bending my legs. “It would’ve been less damage on your knees for sure.” He rewrapped the bandages and moved on to my arm. “We’ve spoken to your team physician and followed your usual post-game procedure with taking care of your shoulder, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Good because I wouldn’t want to be out of commission for the next playoff game. I’m thinking that a little rest will do, and I’ll be ready.”
Dr. Albright set my left arm down and lifted the railing. “I’m not going to lie to you, Mr. Summers. You suffered a concussion, and we need to keep you and run more tests to see how severe it is. I doubt you’ll be ready for the next game.”
About to contradict him, I refrained. “Can I try and sit up and see how my head feels?”
“I have a feeling you’ll make the attempt whether I’m here or not, so I’d rather see it for myself and keep you safe.”
Once again, he lowered the railing but hovered at the side of the bed. With caution, now that I already knew what might happen, I slid one foot, then the other over the side as I slowly raised to a seated position.
And promptly threw up. My vision doubled, and I fell back.
“Can we get some help in here, please?” Dr. Albright yelled out, and several people ran in and began to clean up the mess I made.
I lay in bed, head pounding, my heart beating madly. I knew my season was officially finished.
When I could string two words together, I mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause such a problem.”
Dr. Albright frowned. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. I hope you see now that this isn’t merely a little headache. We have you scheduled for an MRI, and once we get the results we can see if there’s anything we need to be concerned about.”
“Like?” I whispered.
“Brain swelling or a fractured skull. You need to rest and take this seriously.” He scribbled some notes. “I’ll see you after the tests, and we’ll discuss the findings. In the meantime, rest. That’s the best medicine.”
I suffered through the cleanup of my hospital gown, and smiled weakly at the nurses’ aide. “Thank you for everything. I’m sorry to be such trouble.”
“Aren’t you sweet. That’s okay. You just make sure you get yourself better and listen to the doctor. We need you healthy to play.” Her genuine warmth reassured me, but I still hated that someone had to be responsible for my pigheadedness.
“I’m thinking that won’t be till next year.”
“Whatever it takes. We’ll take good care of you, don’t worry.” After dumping the dirty gown, she stopped by my bed. “You know, I remember watching you play in the Orange Bowl. That was the most exciting game I’ve ever seen—even better than the Super Bowl ’cause we were there in person. When you threw that touchdown to Blink Martin and he caught it, the whole stadium exploded.” She poured me a fresh cup of water and moved the rolling table over. “He hasn’t left since you were brought in, you know.”
“Who?”
“Blink Martin. He’s been sitting out there since yesterday after the game. The rest of the team came and went, along with some other people, but he’s stayed.” Her expression softened. “It’s so nice that y’all are still such good friends and care about each other so much.”
“Thanks. Can you send him in? I should thank him.”
“Sure thing. I’ll do that right now.”
Brody didn’t come. Instead, I was whisked away for an MRI and X-rays. They probably told him I was about to have tests and he could come in after. But he didn’t show later either, and the time ticked away.
