I drop the clipboard on the turf. Sprint toward him, chest seizing with every step. The team starts to crowd, and I yell—not words, justsound—until they part. I don’t even know what I said. Just that I neededspace—needed to get tohim.
Then I see him.
He’s on the ground, pupils slow to track, his mouth moving sluggishly.
“Luke,” I breathe.
My knees hit the turf. Hard. I don’t care.
He tries to sit up, and I press a hand to his chest, steady, desperate. “Don’t move. Stay down. You hear me? Don’t move.”
“I’m fine,” he slurs. “Just… give me a sec?—”
No.No, no, no. Not again.
Trainers descend. EMS appears. I’m vaguely aware of a neck brace being fitted, of someone checking his pupils, calling out terms I know too well—concussion protocol, spinal precaution, vitals steady but foggy.They push me back, and I try to give them space, landing on my ass, my eyes still on Luke.
Then the stretcher appears, and I feel my stomach lurch.
Because this is too familiar.
This is Xavier.
It’s happeningagain.
And this time it’sLuke.
He tries to smile. “Hey. I’m okay,” he murmurs. “Just a small hit.”
But I’m back on my feet, already gripping the stretcher rail as though I might snap it off. My jaw’s locked so tight I feel the ache in my skull. I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care that my players are staring, that the stands are watching, that the whispers have already started.
Because when they lift him, and he winces,something in me breaks.
“Wait—wait, I’m coming with him,” I say, pushing forward as the EMS team moves toward the sideline.
One of them holds up a hand. “You can’t. We’ve got protocol. Only space for?—”
“Iknowthe fucking protocol,” I snap, chest heaving. “I don’t care. He’s?—”
They shake their heads. They’re already loading him in. A door slams. The sirens haven’t even started yet, but the panic is already screaming through my veins.
I stand there.
On the sideline.
Staring at the ambulance as it drives away with the person I love inside.
My hands shake. My vision tunnels. All I can hear is my own pulse, crashing against the past, against every second of the last month and a half.
This can’t happen again.
Not to someone I love.
Not again.
The voice in the headset comes through, breaking me out of my haze. “I think we need to have a chat,” Coach Harris says in my ear.
My eyes drop shut, because I have just dropped a bomb on my life.
