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@kk.dewdrop: Not set on fire. A few windows got broken. NBD.

@stlou__angl: jezusss, so much drama. Ain’t the Train sick of all this bullshit?

@kk.dewdrop : Amennnnnn sing it sister

***

When it happens, you are ashamed to admit even to yourself, you weren’t really paying attention.

Preseason football, you have learned this year, is not your favorite thing.

A real NFA game is a rush, even if the teams are lousy, and a lot of fun for spectators.

The exhibition games, on the other hand, feel more like an extension of practice.

It’s a chance for the coaches to get a look at what the rookies are working with, and to gauge chemistry in certain positions.

The vets don’t get to play much. Kai told you that the last preseason game would be a bit better, because guys like him would play more.

You’re told that the fans are absolutely living it up in the parking lot, tailgating and talking shit like their lives depend on it.

You, on the other hand, were walked to the suite flanked by gigantic men in front of you, behind you, and on either side.

It’s pretty embarrassing, having half your security team holding up the back wall and framing the door like so many black-suited pillars.

You have a good thing going with the WAG bunch, and you don’t want to scare anyone off with your oversized safety detail.

The thought of even a few furtive eye-rolls makes your stomach turn over painfully.

You are feeling as raw and exposed as a fish-belly that’s about to be fileted.

Your hair has been set into a cascade of soft curls, your jeans are custom, and you’re wearing a tight, soft green-and-gold striped sweater that your team sourced from an Etsy housewife and made viral.

When you’ve worried the 99 charm around your neck to the point that you are worried about breaking the clasp on your necklace, you tell Jamie that you are getting hungry.

“Ooh, do you want to share?” she says excitedly. “Can we do the pretzel fries? And maybe the guac? And popcorn! I don’t know why popcorn sounds so good.”

Despite your mood, which hangs over your head like a black cartoon cloud, you have to crack a smile. You were definitely more in the mood for actual food than a bunch of snacks, but you figure that, at nine months pregnant, Jamie deserves some indulgence.

On the field, the Tampa Terriers have the ball.

They’re at about midfield and dragging the possession out in what feels like inch-by-inch increments.

They’re probably going to at least kick a field goal, but it hardly matters.

The score doesn’t count—you actually don’t even know who’s up at present.

“The Train’s going in,” another woman calls amiably over her shoulder as you excuse yourself gingerly past the seated row and head towards the back of the room, where the bartender will place your concession order.

“Shit,” you mutter. “Okay. Give me a yell if anything good happens.”

The room is thick with TV screens, but you aren’t really watching as you lean on the bar.

It only takes a moment to tell the guy what you want and place a rolled-up fifty in his tip jar for the trouble, but you are mildly hypnotized by the shining glass bottles of booze.

Christ. If things don’t start getting much better, maybe you’ll turn into an alcoholic, and your career will really be in the shitter.

It’s a morose, morbid intrusive thought, and you have to physically shake your head to dispel it.

You have maybe three units of alcohol a month.

Maybe a bit more during awards season. You’re such a lightweight that you get drunk at the drop of a hat.

Everything is fine. (You still avoid ordering the shooter of Patrón that you were eyeing).

You’re facing the window but too far up to see anything, half-distracted by trying to slide your wallet back into your tight jeans, when a collective gasp of horror goes up from the women in the two rows of seating.

Instinctively, you glance at the nearest TV.

A player is down on the field, flattened like a pancake.

He’s not moving. Oh, shit. You blink. His jersey is Cyclones green.

It takes a long, stupid moment before the 99 on the jersey registers in your brain and the synapses and neurons fire up the connection.

It’s Kai. Kai’s hurt.

“What happened?” you exclaim. It comes out like a shriek.

Jamie struggles to her feet. It’s evident that she wants to stand up quickly, but her belly is weighing her down and screwing up her center of gravity.

“It’s that miserable fuck Tamatoa!” she says. “He speared him! I’ve never seen a hit that dirty.”

Like ping-pong, your eyes dart back to the TV, to the instant replay that you know is coming.

Julian Tamatoa is something of a nemesis to Kai.

He’s the Terriers’ left tackle, but, before that, he played for the Buffalo Blues and, thanks to divisional rules, saw Kai on the field twice a year.

For Tamatoa, the rivalry never really died with his move to the South conference.

He’s a big guy with shit-stirring tendencies, and he likes to try and ruffle Kai’s famous reserve.

On screen, the Terriers line up at the Cyclones’ 32 and snap the ball.

Tampa’s quarterback—Hardy? Harris —scans the field.

He’s got a pretty good pocket; he’s got time to read his options.

Kai is one of the guys struggling to get to him.

The QB throws the ball, but the spiral is lower than it probably should be.

Kai gets his hands up and tips the ball with his fingers. It pops up in the air.

The next part plays out in agonizing slow-motion: Kai plants himself, arms up for the catch.

His eyes are spotting the ball, and he’s looking up, face to the sky.

Tamatoa takes note of what’s about to happen—Kai catching the ball and possibly running it back for a pick-six—and wheels hard in Kai’s direction.

It doesn’t make aerodynamic sense for a guy that heavy to run so fast, but it happens.

Kai has no sooner caught the ball and tucked it into his arms that Tamatoa drops his head and points his huge body like a dagger.

The crown of his helmet catches Kai under the chin.

The ball goes flying. Kai crumples to the ground. Doesn’t get up.

You may not be an NFA fan from way back like some of the other players’ significant others, but you know a blatant foul when you see it.

The voice of an announcer, which has, until this moment, been a droning buzz lower than the level of your conscious attention, breaks through the ringing in your ears.

“That’s a bad hit, Jim. We hate to see it. I think that was a mistake, showing that replay. Very graphic stuff. We’ll take a break for messages from your local station while Reinhart gets looked after.”

Reality roars back at you like a wave. “I need to get to the field,” you announce to the room at large.

Jamie shakes her head. “You can’t. Association rules say that you can’t get on the field unless you are authorized.”

“How can I see him?” you ask anxiously.

Another woman—you think it’s the center’s wife—speaks up. “Sometimes you can get to them in the athletic trainer’s room, if the next stop is going to be the hospital. That’s where they’ll cart him after they assess him.”

The words hospital and cart send your heart crashing to your feet like a lead balloon. “You think he’s going to the hospital?”

A couple of the women nod sagely with the assurance of people who have seen this before. “He’s out cold, Ster,” Jamie says gently. “Just pray that it’s a bad concussion.”

By your sides, your hands have started to shake. You feel both hot and cold at the same time.

“As opposed to what?” you ask flatly.

Jamie cradles her bump. You’ve seen pregnant women do it all the time, and you’ve seen Jamie make the gesture plenty since she announced her pregnancy, but there’s something disconcerting about how she does it now.

Like the baby inside her is shielding her, instead of the other way around.

Instantly, the thready feeling in your veins changes to queasiness.

Is Jamie afraid? Is it of you? Are you being scary?

She doesn’t answer.

You can’t help yourself. “As opposed to what ?” you repeat.

That same woman, the center’s wife, takes pity on you and turns around in her chair. “A hit under the chin like that can break someone’s neck.”

Jamie turns towards sharply. “For real, Shonda?”

You aren’t listening anymore. Not to Shonda’s affronted rebuttal, not to Jamie’s consoling words aimed at you.

Somehow, you make it down the short set of stairs to the front viewing area of the suite.

Mindless of the person who will have to clean the handprints later—something you’d normally always be aware of—you press your palms and forehead to the glass.

Down on the field, you can barely see Kai’s big body for the army of medics and coaches surrounding him.

From way up here, they look like so many insects on the big, green expanse of the field.

Kai’s feet, still in their cleats with the laces tied neatly, are the only thing sticking out.

His ankles are still. Just to the side of his head, mindful to stay out of the way, Sandy has taken a knee, his ashen face pointed to the ground and his helmet resting on the grass.

Several other Cyclones have done the same.

On the sidelines, Tamatoa is yelling at two referees, his arms wheeling wildly in protest.

“Wake up,” you murmur to the glass, your breath fogging the pane. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this.”

It takes a long time. The minutes stretch endlessly, your body numb and your ears deaf to anything except the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. Below, they are cutting off Kai’s jersey with scissors and gently removing his helmet.