“Hey.” Then he takes my hand in his.
That one word nearly breaks me.
The trainer tests the leg again and I bite down so hard on the inside of my cheek I taste blood.
“Ambulance,” she says to someone behind her.
Oh God.
Not good, then.
The world gets blurry after that.
Cart.
Voices.
Coach’s face white around the edges of her anger.
A blanket over my lap.
The pain sharpening every time I move.
But through all of it, Tristan stays.
I know because every time I open my eyes, he’s there.
At the sideline.
Beside the tunnel.
Outside the ambulance doors.
Someone says family, and I laugh once because my family is in Texas and my mother is probably still at some charity thing in Dallas telling somebody I’d marry rich if I had any sense. My father was never interested in my soccer career. Only his tee times.
Then the ambulance doors open.
And Tristan climbs in.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No asking permission from the universe.
No pretty-boy pause.
One second he’s outside.
The next he’s ducking in and taking the narrow bench opposite me while the EMT secures straps and starts asking questions.
I stare at him through pain and shock and flashing overhead lights.
“You have a game tomorrow.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“I know.”
