CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CALLAN
It was the first game of December. Yesterday, I’d spent the evening watching Beth put Christmas decorations up in her flat, all the while pestering me to go shopping so we could buy decorations for mine. I didn’t really do Christmas decorating. And that wasn’t why I was watching and not helping. That night I’d discovered something new about Beth.
She was a Christmas nut and very particular about decorating her tree.
I left her to it, agreeing to buy a tree for my place since I couldn’t care less and it would make her happy.
And I had to admit, her flat looked straight out of a fancy Christmas advert once she was done.
Now, I was standing on a pitch that was getting muddier by the second as rain pelted down. When we’d first jogged out, we’d been Baltic. It only took five minutes of the game to get the blood up. Except for it running into my eyes, I barely felt the cold rain. We lived in Scotland. We were used to playing in adverse weather, and this had come on out of the blue.
Ainsley and Beth were in the stands probably getting soaked too. But I couldn’t think about Beth.
We were down by one and frustration was getting the better of me. Baumann had lost control of the ball every single time it got to him. As captain, I was supposed to keep us together as a team, but I was only human. And the Swiss was pissing me off. “Where’s your fucking head?” I yelled at him, gesturing angrily after he lost the ballagainand Dundonald United scored. This was supposed to be the game we trounced them.
“Focus on your own game!” Baumann shouted back at me and then yelled something in Swedish I’m sure was not in any way complimentary.
John jogged past me, clapping me on the back. “Let it go! Fucking kill them, not each other!”
I attempted to release my exasperation and raced down the pitch. It was getting torn up in this weather, especially near the goals. The match continued for another fifteen minutes, and it was a standoff. For whatever reason, we were playing like shit.
And then it happened.
The Dundonald midfielder, Stuart Uddersfield, was powering toward the goal. Baird had his knees bent, preparing to move where he was needed.
Stuart kicked the ball to his striker, Juan Perez, who was sprinting toward the goal.
Baird lunged as the ball approached the box, but at the same time he jumped, Juan launched into the air to header the ball.
He missed the ball.
He hit Baird instead.
I heard the crack across the pitch as their heads collided and both dropped like sacks.
The crowd hushed as my stomach turned. “Get up,” I murmured under my breath, picking up my pace as the players nearest Baird and Juan knelt beside them. They were waving on the paramedics.
“Baird,” I huffed out, fear making me suddenly aware of how cold the rain was.
I slid to a stop beside my best mate, vaguely aware of John crowding in beside me.
Baird was out cold.
“Move!”
John yanked me out of the way as I watched the paramedics check Baird and Juan over.
Relief surged through the Dundonald players as Juan opened his eyes, groaning. The paramedics told him to stay down.
Baird didn’t move.
Minutes felt like fucking hours as the paramedics waited for Baird to regain consciousness.
Then …
“… possible spinal injury.” I heard one of the paramedics mutter, concern etched all over their faces.
