Chapter 3
“We need the best fucking doctor here, right the hell now. I don’t care if he’s on holiday, get him here!” Tanner’s voice booms as a man attempts to introduce himself as my doctor.
I wipe my face as small flicks of spit come raining down on me.
It’s shocking to see him this worked up.
Granted, I’ve seen him get mighty upset over football before.
But he’s not the one being wheeled into Accident and Emergency right now.
I am. Shouldn’t I be the one screaming? Aren’t I the one horizontal on a stretcher?
My stomach rolls as I recall what happened only minutes ago.
The slip.
One fucking slip.
And my career is probably over.
I cover my face with my hands, willing a time machine to materialise and take me back to the second when everything went horribly wrong so I can stop it from happening. Reverse the damage. Undo what has been done. Anything.
It was a wet and wild game as London’s sky decided to open up and rain holy hell down onto the pitch, turning our match into a virtual mud bath. There is no such thing as rain delays in football, so the ball and every square inch of our bodies were covered in mud.
We were up two-nil—both goals scored by me.
I was driving my way to a hat trick and potentially securing myself an offer from Arsenal.
Suddenly, a back tackle came sliding across the mud right toward me.
I attempted to cut left to dodge the harsh contact.
My feet couldn’t find any grip, though, and they slipped out from under me just in time for him to come crashing into me.
It was that second that I felt it…The slip.
That’s the only way to describe it. Something in my knee slipped and I knew I was fucked.
I went down awkwardly and froze while the defender recovered with the ball and took off with my teammates down the field. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. My whole career had just flashed before my eyes like it was over.
Wet.
Muddy.
Bleak.
And over.
I rolled onto my belly and punched the mud-soaked grass over and over and over with all my might.
I roared in anger and glanced up, immediately connecting eyes with Tanner across the field.
He dropped down to the ground, reacting to the horror that overwhelmed me.
He quickly leapt up and charged toward me, sliding on his knees to my side.
This was bad. Just looking at his face I could tell it was bad.
Don’t get me wrong. You can’t play football for most of your life and not experience the odd injury here and there. But this was different. This was a game changer.
“Fuck, Cam!” Tanner cried, his expression marred with a knowing doom beneath his dripping beard.
“I tore something, Tanner. I know it,” I exclaimed. Right on cue, I felt a sharp slice of pain shoot up my quad. “Fuuuuuck!”
“Maybe it’s just a cramp. Can you get up?” Tanner asked hopefully.
I shook my head but attempted to stand anyway, hoping fate was playing a mean trick on me.
My stomach flipped again when it felt like both the top and bottom parts of my leg were moving in two different directions.
When I stumbled, Tanner slipped under one of my arms to hold me up.
My ego crumbled with that one gesture. I held my lame leg completely off the ground, unwilling to tempt fate by putting more pressure on it.
In a flash, our baby brother, Booker, was under my other arm. Panic spread across his entire face—a face that always looked so young to me, even though he was only two years below us.
“Fucking hell, Cam. Tell me you didn’t!” he croaked the knowing question.
I clenched my jaw as I felt the distinct sensation of bone rubbing on bone under the skin of my kneecap.
Suddenly, the crowd erupted around us in celebration. I looked up at the board to see the opposing team had just scored a goal.
“Booker,” I groaned, realising he must have left his box when he saw me go down. “You should be in your box.”
“Sod football. You’re my fucking brother,” he growled back angrily. “That wanker was completely out of control. Utter horseshit and no card from the ref…It’s bullshit.”
I chomped down on my lip, seemingly fighting back pain when, in fact, I was fighting back the immense emotion that swept over me at the sight of my two brothers.
The act of them choosing to leave the match mid-play to carry me off the pitch and not subject me to the scene of a stretcher was overwhelming.
These brothers of mine truly would do anything for me.
On the sidelines, we were swarmed by the team medic, a ref, the pitch emergency staff, our dad and, eventually, our raging, wildfire sister.
Vi was covered in an enormous Bethnal Green poncho and looked ready to burst. “Where was the fucking red card, Ref?” Her screams were in no way intimidating or threatening, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. “That was utter shite and you know it! Get some fucking glasses, you twat!”
I winced as they settled me onto the hard stretcher on the ground and prepared to carry me away.
Everyone was talking at me, including my dad.
He was touching my knee and looking earnestly at my eyes with a million soundless questions.
His lips were moving—everyone’s were—but I couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying.
The blood rushed loudly in my ears as hot sweat dripped down my mud-stained face, blurring my vision.
All I could do was stare down at my offensive knee.
My dream-crushing knee that just ruined any chance I had at a contract offer.
“Fuck!” I screamed loudly into my shoulder, feeling utterly betrayed. I slammed my fist down onto the hard plastic of the stretcher just as some blokes lifted it and began escorting me off the sidelines. “I blew it,” I whispered on an exhale as I glanced back at Tower Park.
Tower Park.
This pitch was a place that had been my home for most of my life.
From going along with my dad as a child while he attended practises with potential recruits, to now playing on it myself for the past six years.
This was my career. I became a man on this grass.
And now, I was being carried off of it…like a baby.
My eyes glazed as I took note of the fans all standing up…
even the visiting fans. The men had their hats off and placed respectfully against their chests.
The women had their hands cupped over their mouths in shock.
Down below, the players had all taken a knee, even the ones on the sidelines.
My chin wobbled as I admitted that for the first time in my life, I hated this fucking game.
When I finally pull my hands off my face because of the muted noise, I find myself in a small exam room surrounded by glass. I look out the closed sliding door straight in front of me and see my family gesturing wildly at the doctor who received us when we first came in.
A throat clears from beside me and I jump. “Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Dr. Porter, and I’m going to be prepping you for your MRI.”
I frown and turn to eye the petite woman who barely looks old enough to drink. Her red, curly hair sits in a mess atop her head and she touches it self-consciously.
“Doctor?” I ask while wiping away the moisture on my face and trying to hide the fact that it’s a mix of mud, sweat, and tears.
“I just look young. I’m not.” Her insecurity fades instantly with her sharp and clipped tone like she says that phrase every day and hates it.
A loud shout snaps my attention from the doctor. I look back and see my dad running his hands angrily through his grey hair. He looks haggard and out of control. A shaken Vaughn Harris isn’t a common occurrence. He has two primary emotions: protective and demanding.
The first time I ever saw the man crack any level of emotion was last year when my sister gave him a gift of our mum’s poems. It was a peculiar sight and one he made us swear never to speak of again. So the sight of him flailing at the doctor makes me positively ill.
“They can’t come in here,” the redhead says. I turn back to catch her watching me. Her brows are knit together in sympathy beneath a pair of large cheetah-print glasses.
Disturbed by her perceptiveness and a little by those ridiculous glasses, I narrow my eyes and murmur, “I don’t care.”
She purses her lips, clearly unconvinced by my response. “It was kind of a mess out there, so we brought you to the ICU. Only doctors and patients are allowed in the exam rooms.”
Hearing her say ICU and patients sounds ominous. A sudden burst of panic grips my chest over what all of this could mean for me.
I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to have a screwed up knee for the rest of my life.
I’m not ready to admit this could be the end of my career.
I’m not ready for change. I want to be Camden Harris, footballing star and sex god to women.
That’s the life I signed up for. That’s the goal I want. Pun intended.
I refuse to feel differently. I refuse to let this injury take over everything I am and everything I represent.
I need a distraction. Now.
I turn back to take in the doctor more fully as she moves toward me.
She’s dressed in blue scrubs and bright neon green trainers.
Inch by inch, I assess that she’s a shorter frame, probably no more than five foot four.
Since I can’t get a good read on her body beneath those annoying scrubs, I focus more intently above her neck as she pushes buttons on the monitor near my bed.
Her face is sweet and innocent, but not necessarily na?ve.
Her brown eyes are too sharp and confident to be completely clueless.
They definitely contradict her cherubic facial features that make me feel a bit soft and funny on the inside.
I don’t typically have this reaction to women’s faces.
Normally, I’m more interested in their body stats.
Large arse.
Large tits.
Small waist.
Down for a shag.