44. Chapter 44
Chapter 44
TEAGAN
I’m floating.
Weightless.
Everything is dark. Until it’s not.
I wince, squinting through bleary eyes, but the light hurts, so I shut them quickly.
In the background, someone is talking, but I can’t make out the words.
My eyelids flutter again, and I open them, sending a wave of nausea ripping through my gut. The room spins, turning with the pounding agony in my head as I try and remember what the hell happened, sensing it’s right there on the edge of my brain, but the memory slips through my fingers like sand.
Wincing, I focus instead on the hushed voices around me and make out one word: football.
That’s right . . .
I got hit.
The memory sweeps through me at once. It happened so fast it’s a blur—the defender coming at me, then the ground rushing up to meet me, and the sickening thud.
I try to move, but everything fucking hurts. Every twitch of my muscles sends sharp jolts of pain through my back like I’m driving railroad spikes through my bones.
And then I remember what my heart wants to forget, and it’s like waking from a bad dream.
My chest pounds at the memory of my confrontation with Chance. And Lane . . .
Aw, fuck.
I don’t want to remember.
I want to go back to sleep. To forget.
The ache in my chest intensifies, wrapping around me like a vise, five times worse than the hammering in my head or the daggers in my spine.
I squeeze my eyelids tighter and my thoughts scatter.
I can’t think about this right now, so I allow the grogginess to take over and dream.
The next time I wake, the pain in my head is merely a dull throb, background noise to the real pain in my back.
I inhale and open my eyes, glancing around at the hospital room, far more conscious of my surroundings and everything that happened to me at the game than I was the first time I woke.
Sadness sweeps over me, but I have no time to dwell on it because a nurse chooses this exact moment to appear at my bedside, eyes bright, tone soft as she says, “I called for the doctor since you’re awake. He’ll be here in a minute to explain everything. Also, you’ve been cleared for visitors and you have quite the crowd waiting for you. I hope you don’t mind, but your coach is here.” She steps aside to reveal Coach, his face slack and pale as he sits in a chair by the window.
He rises and my thoughts immediately go to Lane, but I block them out. I can’t think about her right now. It’s too much.
“My parents?” I ask, turning back to the nurse.
“Mr. Turner called them as soon as it happened and we’ve also been in touch with them. They know that you’re okay, but they’re on their way here.”
I nod, and try to tell her thanks, but all I can muster is unintelligible mumbling.
“Water?” the nurse asks, and I nod again suddenly realizing the fire in my throat is thirst.
She turns to the little bedside tray where a pitcher of water sits, waiting for me to wake I guess, and pours me a cup, then hands it to me.
I take huge gulps, drinking until I drain the cup, then set it back down on the tray at the same time the door to my room opens and the doctor—or at least, I assume it’s the doctor—walks inside, dressed in green scrubs and a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck.
“Mr. Nichols,” he says, his tone far more chipper than I feel, “glad to see you awake.”
“How long have I been out?” I ask, my voice slightly garbled, but stronger than a moment ago.
“Just a few hours in and out.”
Fuck. It felt like a century.
“Do you want privacy for this, or—” the doctor’s gaze flickers meaningfully to my coach and back.
I shake my head. What the fuck do I care? He was there. He saw what happened.
“It’s fine.” It’ll save me from an update.
“You suffered a Grade II concussion. That and the pain is what had you going in and out of consciousness, but there’s no swelling or anything to be concerned with as far as your head goes. Still, we’d like to keep you for observation overnight, seeing that you did lose consciousness.”
A concussion. That’s nothing.
“Is that all?”
He spears me a look, and I stiffen, waiting for whatever else he’s about to say. “You had a pretty good fall, and the impact to your spine was severe enough that you have a compression fracture in your back, your T2 to be exact.”
I straighten at the news, shocked as I push myself up with my hands.
Wrong move.
A knife twists in my back, and I hiss. Fuck.
The doctor holds his hands out, and his calm expression alone alleviates some of my fears. “I know it sounds scary,” he tells me. “When people hear they broke their back, they immediately think of paralysis, but that’s not the case with this kind of injury. You’ll be fine with some care and rest. No heavy lifting for at least eight weeks. No sports. Mobility will be limited, and you’ll have to wear a back brace for two months. Even small tasks will be painful. Putting on a shirt, brushing your teeth, but overall, the pain shouldn’t be severe. It will be annoying and frustrating for an active man like you, but it should heal up on its own. No surgery. No PT. If you’re going to break your back, this is the way to do it.”
My brain quickly computes, the doctor’s words echoing in my mind and clanging through my head, while I try to wrestle them into submission.
I broke my fucking back?
Shit, that sucks.
But I’m fine. Or at least, I will be. No surgery. Just a back brace and limited activity.
Nothing life altering.
Except . . .
My brow creases. “So, football. You said I’m out the rest of the season, but what about . . .?”
The doctor’s expression answers my question before I even finish. “I’m sorry, but I highly recommend you get another hobby. Any time you break a bone or have a fracture, that spot will be vulnerable, more susceptible to future breaks.”
Get another hobby. Like it’s that easy.
I exhale a rough breath, feeling a little like the walls are crumbling around me.
Across from me, Coach is eerily silent.
The doctor places a gentle hand on my shoulder, meeting my eyes as he says, “You’re lucky to be walking away from this hospital. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”
I’m still reeling from the news when the door to my room closes.
The doctor is gone with the promise to discharge me in the morning just as a precaution, leaving me alone with Coach.
Football has been such a big part of my life for so long, I’m not sure how my life looks without it. I’d always known college was endgame for me, but now the thought of it ending so soon fucking hurts.
I swallow, staring straight ahead at the ugly painting on the wall across from me as my thoughts drift to Lane.
My chest instantly throbs, and I have half a mind to call the doctor back, to ask him to check my heart, too.
A throat clears, and my head jerks toward the sound.
Coach draws closer, hands shoved in the pockets of his joggers. It almost hurts to look at him, and when his gaze meets mine, the raw emotion in his eyes is enough to have me glancing away again.
“Hey, Coach,” I mumble.
“Teagan.” He clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing and the realization that he’s no longer my coach, not after today, hits me square in the chest.
I won’t ever step foot on a football field again, at least not in a uniform.
A burst of pain explodes inside of me, a round of fireworks hitting in succession, each one bleeding into the next.
I lost a lot today.
Lane.
Sophie.
Football.
It feels like every-fucking-thing.
Knowing it could’ve been worse, that I might not have walked out of here, does little to ease the sting.
Coach removes his ballcap and glances down at his hands where he wrings it like an old rag. “I’m sorry, son.” He clears his throat. “I can’t help but feel like part of this is my fault.”
I frown.
I might feel like shit, but none of this is on him. That’s just plain stupid. “No.” I shake my head, my tone firm. “This was all on me, sir. I was distracted, not thinking right. Hell, I stopped mid-play. My mind was elsewhere and I just fucking froze. I wasn’t even thinking about football or catching the ball. Otherwise, I never would’ve gotten struck in the first place. I should’ve told you where my head was at, that I couldn’t play.”
“As nice as that sounds, I’m your coach.” He places the wrinkled cap back on his head and our eyes lock. “I knew you were emotionally wrecked, or at least, I should’ve known. I never should have put you out on that field. Not after . . . after everything that happened.”
He inhales a sharp breath and glances away for a moment, composing himself, his voice stronger when he says, “I know how to read a player, but I was so damn stuck in my own head, I ignored everything and everyone just so I could shut everything else out, pretend like it never happened.”
I understand that more than he knows.
“Maybe,” I tell him, “but I still should’ve told you I was in no condition to play. This one’s on me.”
He bows his head, shoulder slumping with the weight of the world as he says, “You were a damn good player, Nichols.”
I swallow, unable to choke anything out through the tightening in my throat as I nod.
“Well . . .” He taps a hand on my bed rail. “I’ll let you rest, but I’ll be back to check on you in the morning before they discharge you.” He turns for the door, and I’m more than grateful when he leaves without mentioning Lane.
My gaze slides to the window overlooking the city below and I stare out of it in an effort to numb myself. Traffic lurches along, stopping at lights and zipping between lanes. Pedestrians walk over the sidewalk, to and from work, to shops and restaurants.
I hear a knock on the door, and I turn my head to see the nurse from earlier peeking inside. “Mr. Nichols, there’s a young lady here to see you, a Lane Turner? I didn’t know if you wanted any other visitors yet?”
I shake my head as my chest cleaves in two, then I turn back toward the window while I focus on the simple task of breathing.
“Not now,” I say. “Tell her I don’t want to see her.”