Page 17 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Yeah. I’m in Atlanta’s end zone. I scored a touchdown.”

“You did. Congratulations.”

A staff flashes a penlight into my eyes. “What hurts?”

“My leg.”

And I know. There’s a difference between pain and injury. I can play through pain. I can’t play through this—my leg is done for.

Movement and discussion happen around me. My mind spins while medical staff determine the probable point of injury and stabilize my lower leg with a vacuum splint.

“We’re going to lift you on three, Declan,” one of the trainers says.

“Okay,” I say, clenching my jaw as another bolt of pain runs through me.

The team hoists me and lifts me onto the cart. I sit up, leaning on the padded backrest, my leg extended in front of me as the vehicle drives off the field to the courteous applause of the entire crowd.

I wave and raise my fist into the air to show I’m not down for the count. The applause ratchets up.

Both teams have taken a knee with their helmets off—for me. It’s a sign of respect, but it feels more like a death knell.

My eyes find Delaney’s. His face is somber, but he musters a smile and his head bobs in a single, quick nod.

My season is over.

I stare at cold padded vinyl under my leg.

Lynn, one of the Thunder’s trainers who’s been with us since before I joined the team is riding alongside me. She’s watching me for signs of a concussion, I’m sure. And she’s keeping an eye on my leg while we ride slowly away from the game—the one I’m supposed to be playing in right now.

“Stay with me, Declan,” she says. “How’s your pain level?”

“I’m alright,” I lie. The pain is the worst I’ve ever experienced.

I wince and she notices.

“Liar,” she says, calling me out.

“It hurts,” I concede.

“Anything other than your leg?”

“No.”

She smiles at me. It’s not a smile filled with pity. She knows players—knows me. We don’t quit. And we hate being the object of anyone’s pity. Her hand lands on my shoulder and I feel moisture gather behind my eyelids. I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a breath.

“I’ve seen worse,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Career-ending level stuff.”

“Mmm.” I hum. Then I nod. If she wants me to take out a gratitude journal and count my blessings, I’m not there yet, but I get the message. I’m down for this season. But I’ll be back.

“You think I’m out through the big game?”

“Depends on the break,” she says. “And your care. And the level to which you follow directions.”

“I can follow directions,” I tell her.