***
ROMAN ALMOST MADE me late. By the time we made it to campus, I barely had time to point him in the direction of Evan’s tailgate and rush to the coliseum to meet up with the rest of the homecoming court. Since the game wasn’t being televised, the homecoming court presentation would be during halftime instead of before the game. That meant the court had reserved seats in the first and second rows near the end zone. Though the seats weren’t centered, that was probably the closest I would ever get to the action. It was a shame, though, because I would rather sit with my parents and Roman.
When Carson came streaming out of the tunnel, carrying the Virginia flag, my chest swelled with pride. I was glad Roman and my parents were there to see this. I knew they watched the televised games religiously, but it wasn’t the same as seeing Carson in person and hearing how the crowd reacted to him. Everyone loved him. Wyatt Archer might’ve been the best player on the team, but Carson was the most fun.
He scored in less than three minutes on a pass from Wyatt that resulted in a forty-seven-yard run. I knew from years of watching Carson’s games that that play was one of the most basic in their playbook. Yet the defense had done little to slow them down, much less stop them.
Beside me, Blake stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. He put both hands up to high-five me. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
The entire first half went pretty much like that, with the touchdowns alternating between Carson and Jake. By halftime, it seemed like the game would indeed be a blowout since we were up thirty-five to nothing. It was also clear the other team was frustrated as hell. In a way, I felt sorry for them. The only reason they played us was proximity. It really wasn’t fair to them. But that still didn’t stop me from enjoying seeing my man jump into the crowd behind the end zone on his last touchdown. The fans couldn’t get enough of his antics. Neither could I, really. I loved seeing him confident and in his element.
The homecoming presentation at halftime was nothing to write home about. I’d been so nervous about walking on the field, but at least a quarter of the audience had gone to the bathroom, and out of the people left, probably only half of them paid attention.
Spoiler alert—I didn’t win. But Blake did. I was so freaking excited for him, even if he did look ridiculous in the furry maroon crown they put on his head. While the rest of us got to return to the stands, he had to stay on the field to pose for pictures along with the homecoming queen. But as soon as he got off the field and away from the cameraman who was broadcasting him to the jumbotron, he took the crown off.
“I think you should wear it,” I told him. “You look, um, regal.” I tried valiantly to keep a straight face and failed.
“Nope,” he said quickly. “I did the requisite five minutes. Besides, that thing is heavier than it looks. Do you want to try it on?”
“Nope. But congratulations. For real.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking bashful and adorable. “Aww, thanks.”
I wanted to ask him if he’d talked to his ex-girlfriend, whom he was hung up on, but I didn’t want to risk bringing it up in case it was still a sore subject. If things didn’t work out with her, he was going to make someone else very happy one day. Hopefully he and I would remain friends.
By the fourth quarter, the other team still hadn’t scored, and we were up by forty-nine. Coach Coyle pulled Wyatt out so his backup could get some game-time experience. By that point, a lot of people had already started filtering—or stumbling—out of the stands. There was a collective gasp several rows up, and I looked up just in time to see a drunk girl land on her ass on the concrete stairs. I winced on her behalf. That was going to hurt tomorrow. But she was probably lucky she didn’t get arrested, considering security had been right next to her. Sheesh. She looked like she was a freshman.
Though a lot of the other homecoming court members had already left, Blake and I stayed. He grinned at me. “Always stay until the bitter end. Am I right?”
I nodded. “Always. Just glad that this time the bitter end is for the opponent.”
“It usually is.”
“True,” I agreed. “We’ll conveniently forget about the game…” I trailed off as I watched our backup quarterback bobble the ball in his hands, nearly fumbling. By some miracle, he managed to recover and send the ball sailing down the field. The throw was high, arcing up, which gave the defenders plenty of time to get down the field. Carson jumped, easily claiming the ball. The defender who had also been trying to catch the ball hadn’t stood a chance, even though he had committed pass interference. I nodded as the ref threw down a flag at the spot of the foul.
As Carson turned to run, a defender rushed him. Carson dipped his shoulder, no doubt planning to plow through the guy. That might have worked, except another defender rushed up behind him. Goddamn it. Where the hell is our offensive line? The defender slammed into Carson’s back just as the first defender went in for the tackle. He led with his helmet and crashed into Carson’s arm, probably in an attempt to force a fumble. Carson got sandwiched between them and went down.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
“It’s okay,” Blake said. “He still has the ball.”
I wasn’t worried about a damn fumble. It looked like Carson was hugging the ball to his chest, but I knew better—he was cradling his arm. He didn’t hop up like he normally did. Something wasn’t right.
A teammate jogged toward him then waved his hand toward the sidelines. The trainers rushed onto the field.
Oh no, oh God, oh no.
When Blake put his arm around me, I realized I was shaking. “Hey,” he said in a soothing tone. “Don’t worry. Carson is one of the toughest guys on the team.”
That was what I was worried about. Carson was tough and had a ridiculous pain tolerance, so if he stayed down, then something was very wrong.
***
Carson
THE SECOND I heard the crack, I knew it was bad. Motherfucker! The pain was excruciating, but that wasn’t what bothered me. My main concern was that Coach wasn’t going to let me go back in the game with my arm bent like that.
I had the errant thought that I should use the hand on my good arm to massage the crooked arm straight again. But before I knew it, the trainers were hovering over me with concerned looks on their faces.
“Just stay still, Carson,” one of the older ones named Hank said. What the hell did he expect me to do? I couldn’t move with the wall of bodies around me. Hell, weren’t they supposed to leave some oxygen for me? Fuck. Give me some goddamn air.
Hank undid my helmet strap and pulled it off. Nope, not better. The brim of the helmet had blocked out the sun, but now it was blasting right into my eyes.
“It’s definitely broken,” someone said.
No shit. I could have told you that.
“I’ll be fine. Tape it up.”
The trainers all stared at me. “Tape isn’t an option for this one.”
Fuck. I’d known that, but it was worth a shot.
“Can you walk?”
“It’s my arm, not my leg.”
“All righty then,” Hank said. “Let’s get you off the field.” He leaned down to help me up, but I waved him off. Using my unbroken arm, I pushed myself up off the ground. I wasn’t careful enough, and my bad arm got jostled. I nearly stumbled as a wave of pain hit me. Holy fuck.