The whistle blows, and Boulder and Andy are arm to arm. He pushes, Andy skirts around, knees scrabbling against the turf, trying his best to counter the massive opponent in the bid for the ball that sits between the both of them. Andy, thankfully, is just barely able to flick upward and get the ball in the air. I pluck it right up, look hard for an attacker, and then I hear a reliable, ‘BALL!’ I don’t give it a second thought before launching the ball his way.
Hot Rod Wilson zooms away with the goods, cradling it to keep it from falling out of the net on his way up to the goal. His stick moves in an arc of silver and pink owing to the Peppa Pig stickers his kid’s put all over the crosse. As much as we give him shit about it, he’s fast – he whips the ball straight towards the goal mere seconds into the game. Unfortunately, it’s just short of the goal by maybe an inch.
One of Boulder’s attackers makes his way towards our creasein the tenth minute, but our defender JJ is fast to sneak in a stick slap, causing the ball to fly out towards Drew. He snaps it out of the air and feeds it to Connor on midfield.
‘OPEN!’ I yell.
Swinging his stick around to avoid an opposing attacker, Connor thrusts the ball at me, and from there, it’s muscle memory. As a midfielder, it’s not my primary job to score, but when my team slides me the ball, it’s clear they’re placing trust in my judgement. I bolt down the field, all the while deciding my next move. I can pass this ball, or I take it all the way. At least two attackers are covered. The final Boulder defender is heading my way.
SHIT.He darts left, I go right, he mimics me, I spin the other way, and with a whip of my stick, it’s in the air, and then …
The lights go out like they always do when New Haven scores, crowd whooping as strobes streak across the field and my teammates rejoice. But when they turn back on, a distraught ‘ooh’ ripples through the first couple of rows, yelps of shock from the guys.
Turf pricks at my bare arms. The Boulder defenceman nearest to me – the one who’d covered me – mutters a shaky expletive. I immediately wonder why I’m not in more agony, and as the adrenaline wears off, it hits me like a ton of bricks to the face.
‘FUCK!’ I nearly scream. Tears well up in my eyes, sweat beading on my brow. I claw at the ground. My teeth saw at the mouthguard as they try in vain to bite away the pain.
A whistle blows in the distance, and the red fabric of the first-aid bag appears in the corner of my blurry field of vision. ‘Okay, okay. Take a deep breath,’ the team medic tries to calm me. ‘Take—’
‘My knee, my fucking knee.’ The energy trickles right out of my body like something’s sucked it all from me. I whimper as I try to clutch my right knee, but it won’t move, I can’t move, and it’s my worst nightmare. I run. I hustle. I’m a midfielder, it’s what I do, and now I can’t move.
‘Colt! Colt, bro … bro, hang in there.’ JJ’s voice joins our medic. He tosses his stick off to the side and kneels beside me. Even through the grille, I can see the fear in his eyes.
‘What happened? How does it look?’
It’s a dumb question. When you play lacrosse, you know exactly what different kinds of injuries feel like. We’ve been taking knocks to the head since we were ten. We grow up thinking we’re indestructible. Usually, I get back up right away. My mom used to call it one of my best qualities. This time around, I can’t manage it.
‘You gotta shut up, man.’ JJ, usually loud and boisterous, is mumbling, stringing his words together. ‘You gotta shut up so they can help you. Don’t look.’
I couldn’t if I tried; my eyes can barely stay open. It feels like someone’s wrenched my ligaments apart fibre by fibre, and while that pain should be all I’m able to concentrate on, I cling to desperate pleas instead, stuff that I pretend will be able to erase the injury as quickly as it happened.
‘Call my parents, man,’ I croak out, clutching JJ’s arm. ‘My mom.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll call ’em. Colt, they’re far, dude, you know they’re far. Won’t be here till tomorrow—’
‘Shut up.’ I grit my teeth against the now free-flowing tears streaking my cheeks. I just want my mom. Ireallyjust want my mom.
And as I grip my knee for dear life, the pleas of a desperate man weave their way through the tears.I want May. ‘May,’ I manage through waves of pain that send dark spots into my vision.
‘Who?’ Rod’s voice now, the thump of his knees against the grass as he presses a hand to my shoulder. One of the medics protests, and he says something I don’t catch in reply. ‘Who – Colt, I’ll call your mom,’ he assures me, voice wavering.
I blink away the floaters in my vision, and one more time, I barely manage to move my lips to form her name. No sound comes out.
Despite feeling like I’m going to pass out, I vividly recall every second when they load me onto a backboard to take me off the field and to the ambulance. The humiliation of not even being able to walk off the field on my own is almost as painful as the injury itself. Because it’s all crowds see now.
The paramedics buzz around me, asking me dozens of questions about scales from one to ten. Somewhere between it all, the realization dawns on me that it’s not just now. This is all anyone will see for the rest of my career.
‘You’re more than your injury,’ the doctors and therapists will tell me for weeks afterwards. I heard it enough times when Rod had his ACL injury the season I joined the team, and I’d love to believe it all.
I’d love to believe I’m still unbreakable, but I know that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Chapter Two
Southern Hospitality
May
Three Months Later
