On Loverose Lane (Return to Dublin Street #1)

52. Callan

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CALLAN

I t was the first game of December. Yesterday, I’d spent the evening watching Beth put Christmas decorations up in her flat, all the while pestering me to go shopping so we could buy decorations for mine. I didn’t really do Christmas decorating. And that wasn’t why I was watching and not helping. That night I’d discovered something new about Beth.

She was a Christmas nut and very particular about decorating her tree.

I left her to it, agreeing to buy a tree for my place since I couldn’t care less and it would make her happy.

And I had to admit, her flat looked straight out of a fancy Christmas advert once she was done.

Now, I was standing on a pitch that was getting muddier by the second as rain pelted down. When we’d first jogged out, we’d been Baltic. It only took five minutes of the game to get the blood up. Except for it running into my eyes, I barely felt the cold rain. We lived in Scotland. We were used to playing in adverse weather, and this had come on out of the blue.

Ainsley and Beth were in the stands probably getting soaked too. But I couldn’t think about Beth.

We were down by one and frustration was getting the better of me. Baumann had lost control of the ball every single time it got to him. As captain, I was supposed to keep us together as a team, but I was only human. And the Swiss was pissing me off. “Where’s your fucking head?” I yelled at him, gesturing angrily after he lost the ball again and Dundonald United scored. This was supposed to be the game we trounced them.

“Focus on your own game!” Baumann shouted back at me and then yelled something in Swedish I’m sure was not in any way complimentary.

John jogged past me, clapping me on the back. “Let it go! Fucking kill them, not each other!”

I attempted to release my exasperation and raced down the pitch. It was getting torn up in this weather, especially near the goals. The match continued for another fifteen minutes, and it was a standoff. For whatever reason, we were playing like shit.

And then it happened.

The Dundonald midfielder, Stuart Uddersfield, was powering toward the goal. Baird had his knees bent, preparing to move where he was needed.

Stuart kicked the ball to his striker, Juan Perez, who was sprinting toward the goal.

Baird lunged as the ball approached the box, but at the same time he jumped, Juan launched into the air to header the ball.

He missed the ball.

He hit Baird instead.

I heard the crack across the pitch as their heads collided and both dropped like sacks.

The crowd hushed as my stomach turned. “Get up,” I murmured under my breath, picking up my pace as the players nearest Baird and Juan knelt beside them. They were waving on the paramedics.

“Baird,” I huffed out, fear making me suddenly aware of how cold the rain was.

I slid to a stop beside my best mate, vaguely aware of John crowding in beside me.

Baird was out cold.

“Move!”

John yanked me out of the way as I watched the paramedics check Baird and Juan over.

Relief surged through the Dundonald players as Juan opened his eyes, groaning. The paramedics told him to stay down.

Baird didn’t move.

Minutes felt like fucking hours as the paramedics waited for Baird to regain consciousness.

Then …

“… possible spinal injury.” I heard one of the paramedics mutter, concern etched all over their faces.

“Baird, can you hear me?” the other asked, leaning over him. “Baird?”

“We need to get him into an ambulance now,” the first medic said urgently.

“Fuck.” John gripped my arm tighter.

I couldn’t speak.

I could only watch in absolute terror as they loaded my best mate onto a stretcher and carried him off the pitch.

“Match is cancelled,” the gaffer was saying. “Keen, John, you want to follow the ambulance?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll drive.” John tugged on my arm. “Callan, we gotta go.”

Nodding numbly, I followed him off the pitch and for the first time in my career, instead of walking off to the roar of cheers or chanting, I walked off the pitch to the stunned, hushed silence of thousands of football fans.

BETH

Ainsley was a frantic, sobbing mess as we found our way to security to identify her as Baird’s sister.

I was still in shock at witnessing the horrific accident, at realizing Baird was not getting back up. The other player had awoken and had been helped off the pitch by his teammates.

My focus had turned to Callan. He was facing our stands, and I could see his blank expression as he stood over Baird. Unmoving. Frozen.

Detaching?

Baird’s large body was moved carefully onto a stretcher, and I had a sneaking suspicion such care was taken because they were worried about his spine.

I was terrified for him. For Ainsley.

For Callan.

And selfishly, for me.

I was afraid this would cause Callan to shut down. If anything happened to Baird …

I clutched Ainsley’s hand tight as she went from crying to yelling at the security guard for not helping her. He refused to provide her with any information. But then someone approached him, a man in a shirt and suit trousers. “Ainsley McMillan?”

“Aye, where’s my brother? Where are you taking him?”

“They’re taking him to the Western General. He’s already on his way. Do you have transportation?”

“We were supposed to get a lift from my boyfriend. Callan Keen,” I said.

He nodded grimly. “Mr. Keen went with the ambulance. We’ll arrange a taxi for you. Come this way.”

By the time the man who never introduced himself got us out of the stadium, bypassing all the devastated fans who were the most subdued I’d ever seen them, a taxi was already waiting for us. We got in and out before stadium traffic became a problem, and I tried calling Callan.

“Maybe he doesn’t have his phone,” I murmured when he didn’t pick up for the fifth time.

Ainsley nodded, silent tears tracking down her face.

I grabbed her hand. “He’ll be okay. He’s going to be okay.”

She sobbed quietly. “I-I-I n-need to call my mum. She’s w-working. She p-probably wasn’t w-watching the m-match.”

“Give me your phone, babe. I’ll call her for you.”

Ainsley gratefully handed me her phone and brought up her contacts. I hit Mum , my stomach flipping.

After five rings, someone picked up. “Ains, sweetheart, I’m at work. Is it important?”

“Mrs. McMillan?”

Hesitation, then a sharp, “Who’s this?”

“I’m Beth. A friend of Ainsley’s and Baird’s. Mrs. McMillan, Baird was injured in today’s match. The ambulance is taking him to the Western General here in Edinburgh. Ainsley and I are following in a taxi.”

“What? What are you talking about? Put Ainsley on the phone.”

I winced and held it out to her. “She wants to talk to you.”

Ainsley took it but immediately burst into tears. She brokenly explained to her mum what had happened. When she hung up, she sucked in a breath. “Mum’s having a meltdown, but a coworker is there. She’s going to get her to the hospital.”

“Good. That’s good.” I snagged her hand again, curling it in mine. “It’s all going to be okay.”

It had to be.

Baird McMillan was a bright shining light in this dreary bloody world, and no fate could be so cruel to take him away so soon.