I tried to move, to dodge, but my body wouldn't respond. My legs were cemented. My knee locked.
The attack came from behind...brutal, deliberate. I felt his cleats connect with my knee, and heard the sickeningcrackthat echoed across the silent stadium.
The pain was instant and all-consuming. White-hot fire shot up my leg as I crumpled to the ground. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.
The crowd had vanished. My teammates had vanished. It was just me, alone on the field, clutching my knee as blood seeped through my fingers.
“You were never that good anyway,” Sanchez's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. “Now everyone will see the truth.”
I looked down at my knee. But it wasn't my knee anymore...it was twisted at an impossible angle, bone jutting through skin, the joint completely destroyed beyond recognition.
“No, no, no...” My voice finally worked, coming out as a desperate plea. “Please, no…”
The grass beneath me turned red, spreading outward like a pool. I was sinking into it, drowning in my own blood.
“Derek!”
A voice cut through the nightmare, but I couldn't place it. Couldn't reach it.
“DEREK!”
I jolted awake, gasping for air, my sheets soaked with sweat. My hand flew to my knee, expecting to find it mangled, destroyed.But it was fine. Whole. The scar was barely visible in the darkness of my room.
My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it hurt. My breath came in short, desperate gasps. The room spun.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
But my body didn't believe it. My knee throbbed with phantom pain, my hands shook uncontrollably, and I couldn't seem to get enough air into my lungs.
Panic attack. I was having a panic attack.
I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over a water glass in the process. The crash made me flinch. My phone screen said 3:47 AM.
I should call Dr. Morrison's emergency line. That's what he'd told me to do.
But my fingers, moving on their own, pulled up a different contact.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
She's asleep. Of course, she's asleep. It's almost 4 AM. What are you...
“Derek?” Rosalie's voice was thick with sleep but immediately alert. “What's wrong?”
“I...” My voice cracked. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...”
“Are you hurt?” The rustling of sheets came through the phone. “Where are you?”
“Home. My room. I'm not hurt, I just...” Another gasping breath. “I can't breathe. I can't...”
“Okay. Okay, listen to me.” Her voice shifted, becoming steadier, more grounded. “You're having a panic attack. I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
“I don't...”
“Yes, you can. In for four counts. Ready? In...two...three...four.”
I tried to follow her count, but my lungs wouldn't cooperate. The air felt thick, suffocating.
“That's okay, you're okay. Try again. In...two...three...four. Hold...two...three...four. Out...two...three...four.”
