Page 81 of Play the Last Track

When I do, I see it. The ball, hanging like a gift as it sails through the air. I stretch out my arm, but … fuck, it’s short. I make the decision on instinct. I dive.

Arms stretched, fingers splayed, I feel the ball hit my hand.

I got it.

Before I can curl my fingers, before I can pull it in to my chest and secure the win—

Bam.

A helmet crashes straight into the side of my head. I hear a deafening crack. My ears begin to ring, the sound of the stadium disappearing as my cleats hit the turf and my knees buckle beneath me.

It’s a blindside.

Helmet-to-helmet contact. The defender didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t stop in time. It’s not malicious, it’s just football.

Just bad luck.

I feel as if I’m falling, but it’s infinite. I don’t hit grass or another body. I just keep falling. Then, it goes white. Everything brightens in the space of mere seconds, blinding me.

Then black.

Then nothing.

***

I come to on the turf, flat on my back and unfeeling. My ears still ring, and it sounds like someone is screaming through a broken radio. Everything is muffled even as I strain to make out the sounds around me. My arms won’t move. My head feels as if it’s caving in on itself.

A pulsing deafens my ears, traveling through my nerves and down my spine. My vision’s a tunnel. Everything is blurry, and when it begins to clear, the stadium lights stare down at me like a judgment.

I hear my name, over and over. Someone’s shouting for my attention. Teammates? Trainers? Fans?

A face hovers over me, then a bright light. On instinct, I follow it.

“What happened?” I try to say. I can’t be sure that it comes out. My mouth is dry, my muscles numb. I can’t move. Nothing is working right.

But then I feel it. Someone lifts a finger, and I twitch as they let it drop.

I feel the ball.

It’s pressed against my chest. Still there, still tucked in. I never let go.

I held on.

Above us, on the screens that shine around the stadium, one word flashes.

Touchdown.

The whistle’s blown. The clock’s run out. It’s game over, and we won.

We’re champions.

Confetti falls like rain around us, but my teammates aren’t celebrating. I jostle and realize they’re moving me onto a stretcher. I want to walk off. Ineedto walk off.

Katie’s face flashes through my mind, and I feel like screaming, just so one of the medics will hear me. She’s watching right now with no idea what’s happened or where I’m going.

Scott’s face comes into my line of sight, covered in dirt and grass from the game. His helmet is off, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looks distraught. I want to tell him I’m fine. I want to ask him to make sure Katie knows I’m fine.

But I can’t.