Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(78)
Don’t get me wrong. You can’t play football for most of your life and not experience the odd injury here and there. But this was different. This was a game changer.
“Fuck, Cam!” Tanner cried, his expression marred with a knowing doom beneath his dripping beard.
“I tore something, Tanner. I know it,” I exclaimed. Right on cue, I felt a sharp slice of pain shoot up my quad. “Fuuuuuck!”
“Maybe it’s just a cramp. Can you get up?” Tanner asked hopefully.
I shook my head but attempted to stand anyway, hoping fate was playing a mean trick on me. My stomach flipped again when it felt like both the top and bottom parts of my leg were moving in two different directions. When I stumbled, Tanner slipped under one of my arms to hold me up. My ego crumbled with that one gesture. I held my lame leg completely off the ground, unwilling to tempt fate by putting more pressure on it.
In a flash, our baby brother, Booker, was under my other arm. Panic spread across his entire face—a face that always looked so young to me, even though he was only two years below us.
“Fucking hell, Cam. Tell me you didn’t!” he croaked the knowing question.
I clenched my jaw as I felt the distinct sensation of bone rubbing on bone under the skin of my kneecap.
Suddenly, the crowd erupted around us in celebration. I looked up at the board to see the opposing team had just scored a goal.
“Booker,” I groaned, realising he must have left his box when he saw me go down. “You should be in your box.”
“Sod football. You’re my fucking brother,” he growled back angrily. “That wanker was completely out of control. Utter horseshit and no card from the ref…It’s bullshit.”
I chomped down on my lip, seemingly fighting back pain when, in fact, I was fighting back the immense emotion that swept over me at the sight of my two brothers. The act of them choosing to leave the match mid-play to carry me off the pitch and not subject me to the scene of a stretcher was overwhelming.
These brothers of mine truly would do anything for me.
On the sidelines, we were swarmed by the team medic, a ref, the pitch emergency staff, our dad and, eventually, our raging, wildfire sister.
Vi was covered in an enormous Bethnal Green poncho and looked ready to burst. “Where was the fucking red card, Ref?” Her screams were in no way intimidating or threatening, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. “That was utter shite and you know it! Get some fucking glasses, you twat!”
I winced as they settled me onto the hard stretcher on the ground and prepared to carry me away. Everyone was talking at me, including my dad. He was touching my knee and looking earnestly at my eyes with a million soundless questions. His lips were moving—everyone’s were—but I couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying. The blood rushed loudly in my ears as hot sweat dripped down my mud-stained face, blurring my vision. All I could do was stare down at my offensive knee.
My dream-crushing knee that just ruined any chance I had at a contract offer.
“Fuck!” I screamed loudly into my shoulder, feeling utterly betrayed. I slammed my fist down onto the hard plastic of the stretcher just as some blokes lifted it and began escorting me off the sidelines. “I blew it,” I whispered on an exhale as I glanced back at Tower Park.
Tower Park.
This pitch was a place that had been my home for most of my life. From going along with my dad as a child while he attended practises with potential recruits, to now playing on it myself for the past six years. This was my career. I became a man on this grass. And now, I was being carried off of it…like a baby.
My eyes glazed as I took note of the fans all standing up…even the visiting fans. The men had their hats off and placed respectfully against their chests. The women had their hands cupped over their mouths in shock. Down below, the players had all taken a knee, even the ones on the sidelines. My chin wobbled as I admitted that for the first time in my life, I hated this fucking game.
When I finally pull my hands off my face because of the muted noise, I find myself in a small exam room surrounded by glass. I look out the closed sliding door straight in front of me and see my family gesturing wildly at the doctor who received us when we first came in.
A throat clears from beside me and I jump. “Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Dr. Porter, and I’m going to be prepping you for your MRI.”
I frown and turn to eye the petite woman who barely looks old enough to drink. Her red, curly hair sits in a mess atop her head and she touches it self-consciously.
“Doctor?” I ask while wiping away the moisture on my face and trying to hide the fact that it’s a mix of mud, sweat, and tears.
“I just look young. I’m not.” Her insecurity fades instantly with her sharp and clipped tone like she says that phrase every day and hates it.
A loud shout snaps my attention from the doctor. I look back and see my dad running his hands angrily through his grey hair. He looks haggard and out of control. A shaken Vaughn Harris isn’t a common occurrence. He has two primary emotions: protective and demanding.
The first time I ever saw the man crack any level of emotion was last year when my sister gave him a gift of our mum’s poems. It was a peculiar sight and one he made us swear never to speak of again. So the sight of him flailing at the doctor makes me positively ill.