The loud cheering and jeering all around me turned to a collective gasp before the entire stadium went silent for a moment.
And it’s in that moment of silence that I open my eyes.
I can’t see the field because everyone around me is standing. I stand, too, and I see a ring of men surrounding someone on the ground in the spot where Luke caught the ball. I can’t see past those men, but I spot Nolan eighteen standing there. Fletcher is nearby, too, as the trainers rush out onto the field. Players from both teams kneel as they wait.
And then Nicki’s hand finds mine. She squeezes my hand as we wait with bated breath.
Is he okay?
What just happened?
Should I have kept my eyes open to see? Or will I see it a thousand times over on replay both on television and as it haunts my dreams?
Time seems to slow to a crawl, or maybe it’s moving backwards. The stadium remains hushed, but a buzzing in my ears starts to get louder.
And then the big screen replays what just happened.
We watch as Allen Hammond plows into Luke’s right knee. It looks like a cheap shot to me, and the bend of Luke’s knee looks both unnatural and painful.
I can’t watch.
I close my eyes and offer up a little prayer.
Please let him be okay.
Maybe he just got the wind knocked out of him.
“Oh shit,” Nicki murmurs beside me.
I see the cart as someone drives it out onto the field, and that sick feeling in my stomach worsens. I may not know much about the game, but I do know that when the cart comes out, it’s to clear an injured player off the field so the game can go on.
But how can it go on without Luke?
My heart thumps loudly in my chest. I feel it in my head.
A few players shift out of the way of the cart, and suddenly I can see him just as he sits up with the help of one of the trainers. His helmet is still on, so I can’t see his face to get any sort of gauge on how he’s doing.
The trainers help him stand. It’s hard to see around them, but his knee doesn’t look right. I try to suck in deep breaths, but they won’t come. My chest feels heavy as I imagine what he’s going through right now. His worst fears are being realized. He has an injury that could take him out for the rest of this season, and since he’s in the last year of his contract and he’s thirty-one and he could need time for rehab, this could be more than just season-ending.
And it’s happening in Denver. His brother’s homefield.
“What do I do?” I cry to Nicki.
“The tunnel,” she says. “Let’s go find the tunnel. We’ll get you down to him.”
I nod. I don’t know what the tunnel is, but I follow her as we walk down the three rows to the security guard standing on the field near us. “She’s his wife,” Nicki says, her tone panicked. “Luke Dalton’s wife. How do we get to the tunnel?”
The guard looks at her like she’s crazy, and then, thankfully, Josh spots us. He rushes over and says something to the guard, and then he lets me onto the field and ushers me toward the tunnel.
Nicki stays behind.
I’m terrified to do this by myself. I don’t know where I’m going, and I have no idea what I’m walking into.
Security passes me off to another security guard, who leads me through the back tunnels of the stadium toward the room where Luke is being examined.
This guard knocks on the door, and when we’re called in, I spot Luke sitting on an exam table holding a towel pressed to his eyes, his shoulders trembling beneath all that gear. His helmet is off. A team doctor in an Aces polo shirt is typing on a tablet. Luke’s injured right leg is stretched out on the table and the left hangs off the side. He’s swinging that leg a little in what seems to be a nervous tick.
His tight football pants are pulled up over his knee, which looks like it just got through a warzone. It’s already starting to swell, and it just doesn’t look right. It doesn’t look healthy.
“His wife is here,” the guard says, and Luke lowers the towel. His eyes are red and watery, and he’s sweaty, and despite all that, a wave of emotion washes over me. Tears spring to my eyes at how damn much I love him.
He’s crying, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of the pain or if it’s because he knows it’s the end of the season and maybe more than that.
I force my own tears away and I stop myself from rushing to his side. I take it slow here. I don’t know exactly what he wants from me. Yes, I’m his wife. Yes, we’re in love. Yes, we’re giving this a real try. But the reality is that we’re still getting to know each other.
This is the moment where I need to be strong for my husband—where I need to show him what I’m made of as his wife. I offer a smile. “Hey good lookin’,” I say. “You come here often?”
He doesn’t smile, but a slight tick of his neck calls me to his side.
“Can you help me out of this?” he asks, tugging at his jersey. His voice is soft as he fights off his emotions.
“Of course,” I murmur. I tug at it. It’s on there tight. I wrestle with it and can’t even imagine how he actually got it on. “Dammit,” I mutter. “Is there a lock on this thing? Why’s it so tight?”
“So defenders can’t grab it.” His voice isn’t just soft. It’s hollow and flat. It’s missing the element of him.
I finally wrestle it off and help with his shoulder pads, and then I reach over and hug his head to my chest. He wraps an arm around my arms, and this big, strong man quivers beneath the hold I have on him as he allows some of his very big emotions out. “What’s the word, Doctor?” I ask the man examining Luke, my voice soft and soothing as I hold Luke to me.
“We’ve got a dislocated knee and possible torn ACL, but we won’t get the full picture until we get an MRI,” the doctor tells me. “We’ve got an ambulance on the way now. If it was a kneecap, that’s simple, but this is a total knee dislocation, and that requires emergency treatment.”
“How long is the recovery on a dislocation?” I ask.
“Nine to twelve months depending whether there’s any nerve damage. If we’re also dealing with a torn ACL as I suspect, it could be even longer.”
Luke lets out a small yelp of protest as he continues to shudder beneath me.
“Does it hurt?” I ask softly.
“Like a motherfucker.” His words come through gritted teeth.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he mutters.
He lets go of his grip on my arms as he seems to draw into himself at the mention of potentially being out for a year or even longer.
This injury transcends whatever bullshit he has going on with Michelle and his boss. It’s bigger than our “fake” marriage.
A year out of the game at this point in his career could very likely mean the end of it. Not only will he need time to heal and get healthy, but when he returns, he’ll be another year older. He may not have the same range of motion with a bum knee. He’ll be another year less agile. He’ll have another year on the kids joining the team right out of college, which in football is detrimental.
He’s scared. I get that. But my job is to be here for him. To be the place he leans while we work together to pick up the pieces and figure out the recovery plan so he can get back to doing what he loves.