I should roll over. I think I can roll over.
But then the sun would be in my eyes.
My lids drift shut.
Fuck.
“Can we get that umbrella over here?” she calls to someone. “We need shade. Collins. Let’s get him out of his uniform. You. Is that a pocket knife? Hand it over. Duncan, sip slowly. Who has a fan? Anyone have a fan?”
Something touches my lips from the side and I angle my head toward it.
My helmet disappears.
“C’mon, Duncan. Take a little sip,” Addie says.
My mouth obeys, and sweet liquid flows over my tongue.
Oh, yes.
That’s better.
“Good job,” she says quietly. “Don’t sit up. We’ve got you.”
“You want me to cut him out of his jersey?” a guy says.
“I think the Thrusters can afford to get him a new one,” she deadpans.
I smile and suck in more liquid.
“Good, Duncan. But not too fast.” Soft fingers touch my hair.
Is it Addie?
Is she touching my hair?
Something tugs on my sweater, and then cooler air trickles over my back.
I know better than this.
I do.
Rule number one—don’t overheat and pass out.
“Uncle Duncan? Uncle Duncan, are you okay?”
Shiiiiiit.
Paisley’s here.
I forgot I invited Paisley to watch.
I grunt and try to lift my head, but it swims in the summer afternoon, and I have to set it back down on the ground.
“I’m okay,” I mumble.
“Thanks, Coach,” a familiar voice says. I know that guy. He’s some front office dude for the Thrusters. “We’ve got him.”
“Why isn’t he taking his own pads off?” Paisley says.
