Page 130 of Colliding with Ten

They transported me by ambulance, and I kept my eyes half closed because of the fluorescent lights in the hospital hallway. They did a CT scan first, then an MRI, blood work, and neurological assessments. I passed most of it except for a numbers quiz they gave me, where I transposed two digits.

Afterward, I sneaked a look at my phone when Mateo stepped outside my room. That was a bad idea. I was seeing messages and missed calls from people I hadn’t heard from in months. I ignored most of them, resolving to get back to them later. Two names grabbed my attention, though: Cole and Issac, my older brothers. They didn’t follow every headline with my name on it anymore. They’d had years to get used to seeing my face every football season. But they never missed my games, and this injury got their attention.

Cole was ten minutes older than Issac and considered himself more responsible, though there was still a lingering debate about that.

Cole

I saw the hit. Call me when they give you your phone back. Don’t give me that “I’m fine” shit either. I want to hear from you.

Issac

You good, lil’ bro?

I know you’ve probably got a hundred people bothering you. Just send me a thumbs-up so I know your brain isn’t scrambled eggs.

I chuckled, and Mateo caught me as I was typing my reply. He threatened to take my phone, but I told him I had to call Mom and Dad first. With his help, I called them. Mom answered immediately. She’d been holding the phone, I bet.

“I’m fine,” I said before she could start.

“You are not fine. You were unconscious on national television.”

“For a few seconds.”

“Lennox David Monroe, do not minimize this.”

Dad’s voice came from the background. “Tell him we’re booking flights.”

“Your father wants to fly out.”

“Tell him not to. I’ll probably be discharged in the morning. They’re just holding me overnight for observation.”

“I told him we should’ve been at this game,” Mom said, and I heard her turn to Dad. “Didn’t I tell you? I said the Buffalo game is going to be trouble. I said it.”

“You did say it,” Dad confirmed.

“I’m fine,” I repeated. “It’s a concussion. They’re monitoring me, but I’ll be home probably tomorrow.”

A pause hung on the line.

“You call me in the morning,” she said. “First thing.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

They hung up. I set the phone on the side table and stared at the ceiling.

The TV was mounted high on the wall, and Mateo tuned it to the game after I promised to listen, not watch. They were in the third quarter. I glanced when I could, but the headache soon pushed back, so I listened. The offense was moving, but not explosive. Chapman did his best. That was all I could ask, but Buffalo smelled blood after their dirty hit.

We lost by three. The nausea came back so fierce I wasn’t sure if it was the concussion or the loss. I stared into space for a long time after, feeling helpless. I asked Mateo for a tablet, and he looked at me like I’d asked for a cigarette.

“No screens. Doctor’s orders for at least forty-eight hours.”

“I need to look at game film.”

“You need to rest.”