My breath seizes up. ‘A truck?’
Miguel just nods.
I cover my mouth with my hands and pray it will silence the sound of my resolve shattering. I remember what Darien told me about his father: he’d been in a car crash with a truck, too. It is so rare that lightning strikes twice like this, but here we are. My nerve endings still remember the feeling of his skinon mine mere hours ago, of his fingers guiding mine over the paddles of the steering. What happens now?
We are in intensive care. This place is the limbo state betweenyesandno.
Nevertheless, all our heads turn when we see someone come out from the red-marked double doors at the end of that long hall: a doctor, by the look of the white coat. He speaks to Celina, nodding and explaining. She exhales wearily, and I can feel our combined hope that it’s an exhale of relief.
They make their way back through the doors. Celina comes our way, her gaze downcast, a stark counterpoint to her bright pink hair.
She stops just before our row of chairs. ‘He is stable,’ she tells us.
‘Oh.’ The sound escapes me abruptly, more whimper than anything else, prompting Miguel to rub my back. When I look at him, I see the same tentative optimism on his face.
‘But … it’s not simple.’ Celina swallows hard. ‘It’s the right arm.’
The pressure in my chest is immediate: a fear I do not have to learn. The guys process this statement. I ask, ‘How bad?’
‘Bad enough that they’re hesitant to wake him because he’ll be inconsolable when he finds out. They’ll likely do that tomorrow.’ Celina gestures to me, a small beckoning motion. ‘Shantal.’
I follow her to the coffee machine in the corner on trembling legs. She shakes her head grimly, slightly guiltily. ‘Shantal, I … he won’t race.’
My throat feels like it’s closing in on itself. Darien has committed so much to this team. They’re counting on him to carry the expectations of this enormous complex through to the Championship, and he knows that. To not race …
The scattered handful of things he told me about his childhood floods back to me. And god, forget the implications for the team. He will have to live with this for ever. A loss of opportunity, a loss of redemption for his father. ‘No. He’s got to.’
‘His entire right arm, it’s shattered.’ Celina’s voice is so low she’s almost mouthing words. ‘They had to insert multiple pins. He broke three ribs, Shantal, suffered a concussion, we’re lucky his legs …’
The mere implication stops my heart.
I press a hand to my chest. I’ve always been the kind of person who is there for the players’ highs and lows, come what may. But this isn’t the same. My own bones seem to break with each injury Celina describes, and I cannot even completely understandwhy.
‘Shantal, are you all right?’ She peers at me with concern, and says, ‘He’s fine, love. He’s okay.’
I bite my tongue to hold back any more sounds of pain, hear a sigh leave my body instead.
‘I know,’ I finally tell Celina. I don’t know if I will be able to watch the toll this takes on him. I almost say that. Instead, I continue, ‘It’s instinct. You hurt when your players do, right?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Darien
‘Let’s wake slowly. Let’s just open our eyes. There we go.’
The voice is monotone, fading in and out like it’s coming through a broken speaker. I try to obey it. Light flickers in my frame of vision, and then a face.
The face is bearded and slightly wrinkled. It belongs to a tall man in a white coat. He holds a pen flashlight. ‘Good,’ he says.
Well, that’s got to mean something. I can only manage a groan in reply, and when I do, a sharp pain stabs my right side.
‘Do you know where you are?’
My eyes begin to adjust to the sterile white lighting. Hospital, probably. I croak out the single-word response.
‘Good,’ the doctor repeats.
Wait … what the hell?
