Somewhere above the field, the stands have gone wrong.
All that noise distorted into one thick wave of concern.
Then there’s more movement.
A shout.
The metallic slam of a gate.
And when I open my eyes, Tristan is on the field.
Actually on the field.
He’s vaulted the fence and crossed half the sideline before security or staff even process what’s happening, and no onestops him because the look on his face says trying would be a deeply stupid decision.
He drops to one knee beside me just outside the trainer’s space.
“Isa.”
I blink up at him.
Hair wrecked.
Face stripped bare.
Every line in him is alarm and focus and something so intense it nearly burns the edges off the pain.
“You cannot—” I start.
He cuts his eyes to the trainer.
“What happened?”
“Possible tear,” she says sharply. “Give us room.”
He does.
Half an inch.
Which is somehow worse.
Because now he’s there and not there, close enough that I can smell clean sweat and cold night air and the exact soap he uses, but not able to fix a thing.
My eyes sting instantly.
Not from the pain.
Or not only from the pain.
From the humiliation of it.
The terror.
The fact that the game is still happening around the edges and mine just stopped in one tearing second.
Tristan sees it.
He leans in just enough that his voice stays for me alone.
