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“We have to get you off the field,” Adrian says, checking for swelling. “Can you stand?”
Miles grits his teeth as he attempts to stand, but he can’t do it. Adrian radios for a stretcher, and I try to make eye contact with him to read what the injury might be, but he’s not giving anything away.
“We’ll get through this, Miles,” I say to him as he’s lifted onto the stretcher. “Get it fixed and you’ll be back here stronger than ever soon.”
He waves to the fans, who cheer loudly for him, and then he’s taken off the field on the cart while my heart sinks.
I can’t think about what his injury might be right now, though. I have to remain focused since we still have an entire half a game to play.
Brandon takes the field, and the first throw he makes is intercepted by the Seahawks.
Oh, fuck. We’re in a boatload of trouble now.
CHAPTER 23: JOLENE
“It’s his ACL,” Lincoln says when he calls me. It’s after midnight, and he woke me when my phone rang, though I don’t admit that to him.
“Shit,” I mutter as I sit up and rub my eyes. The Aces ended up winning but only because Brandon stopped throwing the ball and started handing it off to Jaxon. Or, rather, because that’s what his coach told him to do.
Fletcher was nervous, and it showed. He wasn’t expecting to take on this role, and it was clear from watching him that he was resigned to sitting most of this season since the rookie was picked to play over him. Except now he’s moving front and center, and I’m curious what that means for the Aces.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Not really,” he mutters.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, Lincoln.” I need to be up in six hours to play Marcus at the office where I’m currently working as I decide what to do, and I should probably go in with a good night’s rest.
But looks like that’s not in the cards.
“Do you want to come over?” I ask.
“I shouldn’t. I’ve been drinking.” It’s only then that I hear it in his voice. His first few answers were too clipped, but the slight slur to his words now tells me he’s not just been drinking a little. He’s been drinking quite a bit.
“Oh. Do you want me to come there?”
“Can you?” he asks, and there’s a certain desperation to his voice.
I’ve only seen Lincoln Nash drunk once. It was after the team lost in the playoffs his junior year, back when I judged my high school peers for drinking when they were underage. Or maybe it’s why I started judging my peers for underage drinking.
It was…messy.
He was messy. This boy who was always poised and always well put together changed that day. Maybe it was the mark of him turning from a boy to a man, and what sticks out most to me from that day is how he seemed like he drank to run away from what he was feeling. He numbed himself instead of feeling the pain of the loss, and he wouldn’t talk about it the next day—likely because he was hungover, but he wouldn’t talk about it in the days after, either.
He was upset. He thought he lost the game for his team.
He didn’t, but he drank to bury the anger.
I’m guilty of it, too—now, anyway. Not back then. But now, I’ve had plenty of alleviating drinks over the years along with plenty of pains to numb.
Somehow, this feels different. I’ve never seen an adult Lincoln drunk, and one part of me is nervous about what I might be walking into, but the other part of me is desperate to be there for him.
So I pack a quick overnight bag and head out to the kitchen, fully intending to wake Sam to let her know my plan…when I find her standing in the kitchen making out with Devin.
And when I say making out, I mean these two are really going to town.
