Fumbled (Playbook #2)(71)

Because of the hit Peter took, the ball starts to lose momentum sooner than it should. And with TK and the defender running full speed, I let the prayers fade, positive it’s going to be an incomplete pass.

But just as my butt unfolds the plastic stadium seat, TK turns and cuts to the ball. He stretches out his hands, his fingers channeling Spider-Man, and starts to pull the ball in.

The crowd, who has not stopped cheering and shouting this entire game—with the exception of halftime—shifts their volume up a decimal.

But even over the cheering, with crystal clarity, I can hear the sound of the other defender’s helmet slamming into TK’s, followed by the sickening thud of TK’s body against the field. The defender barely looks fazed as he jumps up and pounds his chest.

You don’t have to be a football fanatic to know it’s bad. But the way the cheering instantly morphs into a collective gasp confirms it.

Even scarier is the way Donny whispers, “Oh fuck,” before screaming “Targeting! Throw your fucking flag, ref!”

I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the field, but I can feel Ace shrinking next to me. I look down at him and he’s no longer on his feet. He’s sitting in his seat studying the fingernails he’s already bitten to the quick, all excitement and color drained from his face.

I sit down next to him, pulling one of his hands into mine just as Charli sits down and does the same. I keep my eyes on the jumbo screen, watching as TK lays unmoving for a second before standing up and stumbling sideways. His teammates are at his side before he can fall again, helping him off the field. The camera stays on TK as he sits on the bench, but once he’s circled with trainers and coaches, we’re given a pretty view of the field as the players hustle to a huddle to make the most of the timeout called.

From our seats in the stadium behind the Mustangs bench, I can see as the person I’m assuming is a trainer or medic helps TK up and walks him to the tunnel.

I squeeze Ace’s hand a little tighter, but I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. This is exactly why I hate this sport and I don’t think Ace wants to hear, “I told ya so.” And also, because I’m using almost all my energy to ignore the ignorant assholes behind us who I’m learning aren’t just football experts but medical ones as well.

“That’s gotta be a concussion for sure,” one says to the other, their voices slurred from the beers they’ve been cheersing over since they got to their seats.

“You know how much higher the ALS rates are with NFL players?” the other one asks in response. “Like a shit ton. This is why I’m glad I decided not to play after high school.”

“For sure, bro,” the other agrees. “Shit’s fuckin’ brutal. I wonder how soon they can find CTE or if they have to off themselves first?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I stand up, leveling them both with a glare.

“Whoa. What’s your problem?” the one with awful facial hair asks me.

“You.” I lean forward, pointing a finger in his face. “You’re my problem. Sitting back here, drunk as fuck, acting like you know everything about football and brain injuries. When in reality, I’d bet a thousand dollars your football career consisted of you warming the bench and your medical knowledge is nothing more than two episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.”

I feel not only the heat rising in my cheeks but the unmistakable sensation of eyes and cameras trained my way. But do I make the mature decision to sit down and shut up?

Never.

“So how about, instead of running your mouths like imbeciles, terrifying my kid, who’s already scared as hell . . .” I pause, clenching my fists to try to alleviate the shaking and catch my breath. “You shut.” I lean in closer. “The fuck.” Closer. “Up.”

I level them with my best try me if you want look, prepared and willing to keep going, but I’m cut short when Ace taps my shoulder and shoves my vibrating phone in my hand.

I don’t recognize the number as my finger glides across the screen, answering the call. “Hello?”

“Miss Patterson?” the deep voice on the other end asks.

“This is.” I turn and sit in my seat, covering my open ear with my hand to hear him better. The assholes behind me are long forgotten.

“This is Jason Metcalf, the Mustangs’ trainer. I’m here with TK and he’s requesting for you and Ace to come down.”

I don’t even answer before I snatch my purse off the ground, motion for Ace to get up, and step over Donny. “We’re on our way.”

“Perfect, I’ll meet you there,” he says, clicking off before I can ask him where “there” is.

“Crap.” I look between Charli and Donny. “I’m supposed to go see TK, but I don’t know where I’m going.”

“I’ll take you,” they say at the same time.

I nod my head and try not to hold Ace’s hand as we walk up the concrete stairs. I laser focus on the man in the blue polo at the top of the stairs and move as fast as my legs will carry me, needing to see with my own two eyes that TK’s okay.

But it doesn’t prevent me from hearing Donny’s raspy laughter behind me. “You’re right . . . even worse,” he says to Charli. “And I fuckin’ love it.”