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Cade
Helmet in my hands, I jump up and down, knees hitting my chest, cleats sinking and releasing from the grass with my pre-game ritual. Twist to the left, then to the right, then stare up out of the open arena to the glittering stars above.
For you, Brady.
I press my lips to my fist, then point into the air. Stadium lights rain down like next level spotlights. A rush of adrenaline surges through me. To my right, the band blasts out the Warner Bulldog fight song as our kicker starts his run, slow at first, then picking up speed until his foot connects with the ball, sending it end over end through the air.
A breath fills my lungs.
The crowd reaches a crescendo when the returner catches it—only to get taken out a few steps later by Breezy, the fastest special teams player we have.
Instead of the cheer reaching new heights, the crowd silences.
Breezy jumps up, walking backward while staring at the opposing player still lying on the ground.
My heart speeds off, stomach falling like I’m on a runaway track.
An old memory rips its way into my brain. Trembling with the weight of overwhelming grief, my knees buckle. Seven years, and yet certain moments make it feel like yesterday.
I walk out onto the field with weighted steps until the downed player jumps to his feet, flipping the ball to the referee who’s marking his spot.
One deep, calming breath later, I slip back to the sidelines in reverse like the whole thing never happened, but in my head, a different scenario plays out.
The time someone never got up.
I see it like an imprint on my brain, as if someone pushed play on a recorded TV show I’m all too familiar with.
Me, returning to the huddle, cursing Reid because I was wide open. Looking for him in the throng of jerseys to tell him I’m out there playing. I’m ready. Throw to me, for fuck’s sake. Then finally finding him and almost simultaneously hearing the confused murmur in the crowd.
“Hey,” a voice called out with no return response.
“Hey,” he said again, more forcefully.
Turning, I saw a guy in gray leaning over Brady’s white jersey. Immediately, I changed direction, thinking the asshole better get out of my best friend’s face before I take his ass out.
But then he backed up. “Oh, shit…”
A knot of apprehension formed in my stomach. I pushed past him.
Brady’s limp, pale body was sprawled out on the field, the twenty-yard line on either side of his helmet.
“Dude,” I knelt next to him, “you okay?”
I waited for his lips to curl into a laugh and jump to his feet like nothing happened but that didn’t come.
“B.” I placed my hand over his chest pad.
Reid moved into view on the other side, anxious eyes assessing.
In the coming days, I’d wonder why we didn’t ask for a doctor right away. He was unconscious, still. Instead, we tried to wake him, like he’d fallen asleep on the nights we were camped out in Reid’s backyard after we’d vowed to stay up until the next morning.
“Man, come on,” Reid pressed.
We were naïve. All of us.
Annoyed and confused instead of frightened. I remember thinking he should sit the next play out if he was hit that hard. The thought that he’d have to sit the rest of his life out wasn’t on my radar. Brady, forever on the sidelines…