Page 12 of Colliding with Ten

“Stay with me,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me.

I‘d been hit many times in my career, taken shots that rattled my teeth and blurred my vision. Watching her not move, I knew how bad this could be. Maybe everyone would say it was an accident, but I didn’t want this on my conscience.

I wiped a tear from her eye. My heart hammered, not from the run, but from seeing her so still. I shook her gently—probably shouldn’t have, not knowing her injuries—but I was desperate.

“You okay?” I said, my voice rough.

She opened her eyes, trying to focus. “I . . . I think so.” She rubbed the side of her head.

Our eyes held for a few breaths. Had I seen her before? Or maybe dreamed her? I couldn’t have. I would have remembered her. A face like that didn’t pass through a man’s life unnoticed. An ache pulled at my chest as I looked at her.

Then Jace’s urgent hands grabbed me, snapping me back to the game. He tried to pull me back toward the field. Cheerleaders and trainers crowded around us.

“Let her go, man. Trainers got it,” Jace said.

I resisted, but he was right. The trainers were waiting for me to move. My hand lingered on her cheek, thumb brushing turf paint from her skin. I couldn’t let go until she said she was alright.

“I need to know you’re okay.”

“Come on, Monroe,” Jace barked, harder this time.

Her eyes were unfocused, her lips parting as she tried to speak.

“Yes.” Her voice was thin, but good enough.

I looked to the trainer. “She hit her head, and then she passed out for a few seconds. I need an update later.”

The trainer nodded and began his assessment. Only then did I let her go. Jace pulled me upright. I moved as if I had lost all sense of direction. I’d been knocked off balance, alright, but not by the defense.

The trainers surrounded her, their careful hands at her head and neck, talking into their headsets. I couldn’t hear their words over the ringing in my ears or the crowd’s roar. It took a few seconds before they lifted her onto a stretcher. One of the other cheerleaders followed close behind, still shaking.

I backed away a few steps, watching them wheel her toward the tunnel. Turning, I saw AJ Callahan, standing by the coolers, pacing and talking to his coach. His coach was trying to calm him. The fury in AJ’s eyes said it all. She was important to him, but I just didn’t understand how.

Shaking it off, I forced myself back to the game. On the field, there was unfinished business.

“Let’s go,” I muttered to Jace.

The ref’s whistle sounded. First down, our ball, and it was time to put this game to bed. I forced the image of her face out of my mind and locked back in. Once we got into the red zone, it took another minute to get the ball into the end zone with a throw to Jace. My teammates mobbed me, their helmets clashing against mine.

We’d regained control, but the high never came. My mind snapped back to the hit. Jace slid onto the bench beside me, grinning.

“Hell of a drive, man. You’re ice cold out there.”

I ignored him, eyes locked on the third-and-eight replay streaming on the pad propped on my knee. Good read on the defense pressure, but I botched the timing and spatial awareness. I replayed the hit in slow motion. My stomach twisted when her knee hit the turf. The electrolyte water turned sour in my gut. I ran my fingers over the two white scars from an old ACL/MCL tear.

“Bro,” Jace said, nudging my arm. “You hear me?”

I nodded without looking at him. “Yeah.”

I replayed it again. The visual of her head hitting the turf pulled at my gut. A half step faster, and I don’t hit her.

Jace grabbed his water bottle, took a swig, and then said his next words as if it were nothing. “Yo . . . I just heard from one of the sideline guys. You remember that cheerleader you hit?”

I flashed him a look, as if I could’ve forgotten. As if I hit cheerleaders every day.

He shrugged. “Apparently, that’s AJ Callahan’s sister.”

Crowd noise faded. My fingers curled around the tablet, knuckles white. I understood the look now.