It was the first thing that greeted me, a symphony of it. It wasn’t localized; it was systemic. My head throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm that matched the beeping of a machine somewhere to my right. My shoulder felt like it had been filled with broken glass and set on fire.
The light was too bright, searing through my eyelids, forcing me to squint against the assault. The smell hit me next, antiseptic, floor wax, and the metallic tang of blood.
Hospital?
Where am I?
Panic flared in my chest, a cold spike of adrenaline that warred with the lethargy in my limbs. I tried to push myself up, to orient myself, but my left arm wouldn’t move. It was dead weight, numb and heavy, strapped down or simply refusing to obey commands.
Julian. Camden.
Cal.
The names floated to the surface of my concussed brain like debris in a shipwreck.
“Oh shit, Si?”
The voice was muffled, coming from somewhere to my right. It still sounded like I was underwater.
I groaned, the sound tearing at my raw throat. My tongue felt too big for my mouth, dry like sandpaper. “Ca—Cal?” I choked out.
The face that came into focus wasn’t Cal.
It was Evan.
He looked wrecked. Pale, his usually perfectly styled hair messy, eyes rimmed red with dark circles underneath them that spoke of hours spent in a waiting room chair. He looked beyond scared; he looked relieved, but underneath that, there was a horror I didn’t understand.
“It’s Evan, Si,” he said softly, leaning forward from the plastic chair next to the bed. His hand hovered over the railing, like he wanted to touch me but didn’t know where it wouldn’t hurt.
The door opened. Footsteps. Heavy, confident, familiar footsteps.
“He’s awake?”
It was Maverick.
His voice didn’t have its usual booming confidence, the tone that commanded locker rooms and arenas. It was thin, edged with something I didn’t recognize. Fear? Or maybe just the inconvenience of a crisis.
“I’m going to get the doctor,” Scott’s voice chimed in, breathless and anxious, followed by the sound of rushing feet exiting the room.
“What happened?” I whispered. My vision was still swimming, the room tilting on its axis every time I blinked. I felt nauseous.
Evan’s face crumpled with remorse. Guilt? Why did he look guilty?
“You didn’t land right when you came off the ladder,” Evan said, his voice quiet, refusing to meet my eyes. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans.
My eyes widened. The memory was there, lurking in the dark corners of my mind, but it was murky. I remembered the climb. I remembered the sweat making the rungs slick. I remembered the fear, not of the fall, but of what I was leaving behind.
“Did I hit my head?” I asked. The throbbing behind my eyes was blinding.
“You hit your head and tore your labrum in your shoulder. You’ve got a concussion, kid.”
Maverick sat down in the chair Scott had vacated. He looked older under the harsh fluorescent lights. The lines around his mouth were deeper. He didn’t look like “Maverick Reed.” He looked like a tired man watching his investment crumble.
“Do you remember what happened?” Maverick asked, his eyes sharp, assessing.
Cal.
That was the only clear image.
