Page 66 of The Surprise Play (Nolan U Football #3)

ELIZABETH

It’s taken maximum effort and some decent classical music, but I’ve finally managed to stop thinking about my weekend and focus on school.

I’m minutes away from finishing my conclusion, and then I can let this essay percolate for a day or two. After that, I’ll do my next round of edits, and I’ll be one step closer to acing this assignment.

With a little grin, I add my final sentence, happy with the wording because I’ve been playing around with it for a few days now. It feels so good to finally type it out.

Yes!

I love this sense of completion.

Sitting back with a happy grin, I look at the calendar on my wall and quickly calculate that I’m well ahead of schedule.

“Edits on Wednesday,” I murmur to myself, adding the task to my to-do list before checking what’s next on today’s list .

I’m about to pull up my notes for my Literary Theory class, which I am loving , when my phone starts buzzing.

I don’t recognize the number and nearly let it go to voicemail, but something stops me.

Swiping my thumb across the screen, I give the person a tentative “Hello?”

“Satch?”

“Um…” I frown, slightly confused because this is not Wily’s voice.

“It’s Zander.” His tone is so serious, I go on immediate alert. “Wily’s on his way to the hospital.”

My stomach bottoms out as I lurch from my seat and gape at the wall. “What happened?”

“A suspected ACL tear.”

“What does that mean?” I plunk back down in my chair, putting the phone on speaker and pulling up a fresh Google search window.

Zander sighs. “Nothing good. Depending on how bad the ligament is damaged, he may need surgery, and then it’s months of recovery.”

A cold chill sweeps through me, my hands freezing over the keys.

“The Scouting Combine,” I rasp. “The draft.”

“I know.” Zander’s voice is so deep, so cut up, it makes me want to cry.

Covering my mouth, I fight that onslaught of emotion.

No. This can’t be happening. It’s Wily’s dream!

He’s going to be destroyed by this. Football means everything to him. He’s been working so hard. He’s?—

“Is there any way you can get to the hospital? I think he could really use your support. ”

“Yes, of course.” I sniff, willing myself not to break down as I throw on a coat and shove my feet into my boots.

Zander signs off while I finish getting ready, and I’m soon running out of the building, ordering an Uber, and waiting impatiently for it to arrive.

I try calling Wily, but it goes straight to voicemail.

“I’m so sorry this is happening.” My voice quakes as I leave a garbled message. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m on my way, okay? I’m coming.”

He probably won’t get it.

Shit!

How’s he getting to the hospital?

Is he in an ambulance right now?

What state will I find him in when I arrive?

Worry eats me alive, and by the time the Uber arrives, my stomach feels like it’s settled in my knees. I slip into the back and give the driver a shaky greeting, not even sure how I’m going to converse with him.

Thankfully, the man seems happy to drive in silence, and I scour my phone, looking for every piece of information on ACL tears I can find. It’s not good. It’s really not good. I chew on my bottom lip as we weave through town and get caught in a little traffic around Main Street.

The hospital is on the other side of Nolan, and even though it’s considered a small town, I feel like it takes forever to get there.

Finally, we’re pulling up outside, and I thank the Uber driver in a rush before racing into the emergency room.

I scan everyone and don’t see Wily, so I run up to the counter, all out of breath and flustered .

“I need to see Wily Wilson!” I practically yell at the poor receptionist.

She gives me an unimpressed scowl before the lady behind her steps forward with an efficient air. “Are you his girlfriend?”

“Yes.” I nod.

She flashes me a smile. “His friend told me you’d be coming. This way.” She flicks her finger, and I follow her through the NO ENTRY doors and into a large treatment room separated by curtained-off sections, a bed in each one.

“The last one on your left.” She gives me a wince. “I would walk you down there, but we’re under the pump, so if you could just…” She points, and I nod my thanks.

Gripping my beanie, I creep across the shiny linoleum floor, shuffling past two closed curtains.

One of them has a child wailing behind it.

The curtain after that is open, revealing a lady lying on her back with an oxygen mask over her face.

She has a bandage on her head, and she’s so pale, I can see the veins in her neck.

Her eyes are closed, and I glance away, wanting to respect her privacy.

This place is really full. I don’t think there’s a spare bed in the treatment room.

Glancing over my shoulder, I take in the hustle and bustle going on behind those sliding glass doors I just walked through. There’s a frenetic energy about this place that’s unsettling.

I slow to a stop just before the last curtain on the left, my heart rate spiking as I catch the murmured conversation behind it. The voices are low and rumbly, and the second I peek my head around the pale blue fabric, the conversation stops.

Zander and Grady, who are standing on either side of a shellshocked Wily, give me equally sad smiles. But all I can see is my boyfriend.

He’s lying on the bed, looking hollow, like he can’t believe this is happening.

His leg is propped up on a stack of pillows, and he has an ice pack over his left knee.

I gaze at the injury, my face crumpling to show just a touch of the heartache I’m feeling.

Wily’s broken. The look on his face right now has me fighting tears.

“Thanks for coming.” Zander lightly squeezes my shoulder, then looks at Grady. “I’m gonna go call the house, give them an update.”

“Yeah.” Grady nods, then looks from me to Wily before murmuring, “I’ll come with you, see if Coach Jones has managed to speak with a doctor yet.”

And so it becomes just Wily and me.

I’m at the end of the bed, staring at his ashen face and wondering how to approach this heinous situation.

Wily won’t look at me. He’s staring at his knee, caught in a dazed stupor as he no doubt tries to wrap his brain around this thing.

“Wily,” I whisper, inching around the bed. His eyes dart to mine, and it’s like he’s noticing me for the first time. “Hey.” I give him a weak smile, then reach for his hand. “I’m here.”

“Satch.” He sucks in a breath, sudden tears filling his eyes as he grips my hand. “What am I gonna do?”

“It’s gonna be okay.” I perch on the bed beside him .

“It’s not.” He shakes his head. “I can’t play like this.”

“I know.” I look down at his knee, about to tell him that he’ll heal and this is not the end, just a delay.

“I’m nothing without football.” The words wobble out of him. “I’m nothing without the game.”

“That’s not true.” I stand, taking his face in my hands and forcing those glassy eyes to look at me. “You don’t need this game. You can be anything .”

He shakes his head, not believing me.

“I know it’s what you want , and because of that, you’re gonna play again. I know you will.” I try to give him an encouraging smile. “Just not yet.”

His lips dip into a heart-wrenching frown, and then it happens. My big, strong, tough boyfriend shatters. It starts with a breathy sob that scrunches his entire face, and then he pulls me close, clinging to me as he rests his head on my shoulder and weeps.

It’s impossible not to cry along with him.

Cupping the back of his head, I kiss the side of his face and close my eyes. Tears trickle down my cheeks as I listen to his keening sobs, my heart breaking right along with his.

Stroking my fingers through his hair, I do my best to comfort him. But there are no words.

I just have to hold him and let him know I’m not going anywhere.

I have no idea how long it takes.

My back is aching by the time he finally pulls away from me .

I want to ask him if he’s okay, but that’s the stupidest thing I can say. Of course he’s not okay. He’s completely wrecked.

Brushing the tears off his face, I then take his hand and press it to my lips, letting him know that I’m here in whatever capacity he needs me to be.

He’s still not talking, and I have to admit it’s unnerving. Wily’s usually the chatterbox of the two of us, and I don’t know how to fill this space.

But maybe I don’t have to.

Maybe just holding his hand and being with him through this is exactly what he needs right now.

The doctor finally comes to check on him, Coach Jones hot on his heels. They both look flustered, like maybe they’ve been arguing. Wily’s coach is glaring at the floor, his jaw clenched while the doctor apologizes for the delay.

“Your timing couldn’t be worse,” he explains. “We’ve just had a minivan collide with two other cars on the highway going out of town. Those surgeries take priority, so you’re going to have to wait, I’m afraid.”

“You haven’t even examined him. Is he going to need surgery?” Coach Jones growls in his throat, and the doctor gives him a look of forced patience.

“One of my residents checked him when we first brought him through, and according to her assessment, Mr. Wilson is going to need surgery. We just can’t perform it as soon as we’d like.

” The doctor turns to Wily again. “I’m sorry.

I know that’s not what you want to hear, but we only have so many surgeons in this hospital, and they’ll be working throughout the night trying to save lives.

” He points to Wily’s knee. “We’ll manage the swelling as best we can and keep the pain meds coming. But for now, that’s all I can offer.”

I stare at Coach Jones, holding my breath as I wait for his reaction. After a painful beat, he runs a hand over his head and lets out an irritated huff while the doctor checks Wily’s chart.

My boyfriend hasn’t said a word yet. He’s just lying there like a desolate statue.

“How are your pain levels?” the doctor asks. “I can get you something stronger if you need it.”