“What the fuck happened?”
“I don’t know—there is so much blood.” I’m practically shouting in fear. “It looks like someone beat the shit out of him. Seth is seeing to him, and Christian has called the ambulance.”
“Okay, I’m on my way,” is all I hear before the line goes dead.
I glance to Walsh’s pockets, not seeing his phone, so I race to his car and find it laying on the passenger seat. I punch in his code and bring up his dad’s contact. My finger hesitates over the call button as I see the blood covering the driver’s seat and steering wheel. It causes bile to race to my mouth, but no vomit follows, so I slam the car door and spit on the ground.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Walsh, it’s Randy. I’m calling because Tony has been hurt—and I think you need to come here.”
“What happened?” His thick, country accent is laced with worry.
“I don’t know, sir. My guess...looks like he has been beaten.”
“But he’s okay?”
“I hope so. The ambulance is on its way.”
“Okay, son. Thank you, I’m on my way. I’ll call you back soon.”
I hang up the phone and watch the ambulance stop at the end of our driveway. I take the stairs back inside the house and observe Seth yelling at Walsh.
“Man, what’s going on?” I ask Seth in irritated confusion.
“He’s refusing to let us call the police,” Christian answers.
I look to Walsh. “Walsh, we need to report this.”
“No,” he says, his voice firm, then it cracks in a desperate plea, “please don’t. I beg you.” He looks around at us, his eyelids hovering as he struggles to hold them open; he licks at his bloodied lip and tries to sit up.
I watch Seth’s chest fall in defeat as he looks to Christian, then back toward him. “Fine, but this isn’t over.”
Walsh nods and we all step back to let the paramedics assess the damage.
42
Randy
We watch his dad leave the small hospital room, the three of us staring down at Walsh as he lies on the hospital bed. Every few minutes, I catch Coach pacing past the door, phone pressed to his ear, talking to the Raptors medical staff.
“Don’t start,” Walsh says, clearly reading our minds. His hand is tethered to an IV, and he shuffles upright, wincing.
Now that all the blood’s been washed away, the damage is clear. His busted lip, the gap where a tooth used to be, and his left eye is swollen shut. The swelling is massive, filled with blood and fluid, colored black and purple.
“Why aren’t you reporting this?” Christian asks, raking his fingers through his hair. He’s frustrated. Always the protector, law abider, captain, leader, friend. He doesn’t want the culprits getting away with this.
“It’s my decision,” Walsh replies, voice firm.
“It’s the wrong decision,” Seth says, his voice cut and deep.
“Well, for now, I just need you to accept it.”
“Do we know them? Hell, do you know them? I’m guessing there was more than one,” I ask.
“No, I don’t know them. And even if I did report it, I doubt the police could do much. So can we please just drop it?”
“We just want to understand,” Christian says.
