If they win. I don’t want to offend him if they lose, not when they’ve been having a good season.
He breathes, tosses his head side to side to crack his neck. He lifts one foot, then the other. Flexes his fingers. I’ve watched him do it every time he’s got the play clock ticking down. This has been the norm for him all season, although it seems like he’s added a step every game.
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me as I imagine the line dance he’ll have by the end of the season if this continues.
Cora grabs my other hand.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say, but I hear the nerves in my voice and I see the way Cora and Joss both look at me. They don’t believe me.
I’m probably stressed over nothing.
On the field, Blaise calls the play and Gabe snaps the ball back to him. They’re at the five-yard line, so it’s harder to track the scatter. Cohen and Oliver pass behind him, but he hands the ball off to neither, so they start picking off defense. Both Merrick and Wes scramble in the end zone, and Merrick gets himself into a clean position to be an obvious receiver. The offensive line holds firm, making the touchdown all but guaranteed.
Blaise should be cocking his arm back to throw to Merrick, but he holds it between his hands.
“Briggs is open!” Cora shrieks, radiating excitement, ready to absolutely explode once Merrick catches it.
She might be his girl, whether she accepts it or not.
Blaise sees a clear path in front of him. He can literally make eye contact with Merrick.
Instead, he starts to run.
My stomach knots. It’s clear at the moment, but everything changes on a dime in this game. There are too many people to block, it’s easy to get yourself up and charge again. It’s easy for the offense to miss what’s happening and not see where the future threats are.
It’s easy for everything to go wrong.
And he is eight yards away once he starts to run. That is so far when literally everything is between you and the destination.
“He’s gonna do it, he’s gonna do it, he’s gonna do it,” I whisper, but I taste bile on my words.
He’s two steps from the end zone when it happens: one of the guys on Wes lunges for Blaise instead, knocking the ball out of his hand.
It’ll be a fumble, but I tell myself that’s okay. We’ll still be ahead, and they’ll be all the way back in their end zone. I thinkthat’s even a scoring opportunity for us, something about tackling the quarterback in his own end zone.
The ball pops free, hits the turf, bounces.
Everyone scrambles for it, but Blaise manages to snag it as he falls, regaining possession, cradling it when he lands.
And another player lands right on his ankle.
I hear his scream.
“Just tape it up and get me back out there!”
“There’s no taping this up, Sinclair.”
“It’s just a sprain! Roethlisberger played with a whole-ass broken foot. Get me back in the fucking game now.”
“And Cam Newton was out an entire season on a Lisfranc fracture, so you better pray to the fucking gods above that whatever the hell this is doesn’t put you out perm—sit your ass back down or I will strap you to the goddamn bed!”
It’s enough to propel me into the room. The moment the medics ran out on the field while Blaise lay there with his eyes closed, unmoving, shooing Briggs off when he attempted to just communicate with him, the other WAGs shuffled me up to security, where I was let through and escorted to the exam room. Since I can hear him talking, I figure it would be best for me to wait outside to see if I could learn anything and make sure I’m actually welcome in there, but at Dr. Keltner’s threat, I don’t have a choice but to go in. He’s clearly not thinking clearly, and if I can help, I will.
He’s partially reclined on a hospital bed. He’s got his helmet off, but he’s otherwise still in his uniform. Jersey, pads, pants, gloves, even the arm thing Joss told me is a cheat sheet for plays that Gabe used to wear, but Blaise took over this responsibility this year. There’s still a towel tucked intohis waistband, and he still has his shoe and sock on his left foot. His right foot is elevated, wrapped in tape, a gel-filled tube — I’m guessing a fancy ice pack — surrounding it.
And as I walk in, he’s clearly trying to drag it off the bed so he can stand.
“Stop!” I cry out.
