Chapter 10
Blake
The BHU goalkeeper is good.
Not Zac Kincaid good, but he’s definitely on par with Galdeen. By half-time, the score is nil-all, but not without lack of trying from both teams.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with my arm as I follow my team back onto the pitch for the second half.
Coach Johnson’s half-time speech was nothing short of inspirational, and I wonder if he’s been watching sports movies again.
I smirk as I recall how much shit we gave him last season after Jasper and Ritter busted him watching Remember the Titans in his office the week before our championship game.
“What’s so funny?” Everett asks, nudging my shoulder with his.
“Just wondering whether Coach has been studying film again.”
He snorts. “Probably.”
I hold my fist up. “Let’s go lock this down.”
“Let’s do this, baby!” he hoots, pounding my fist with his.
I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I take my position on the pitch.
The game is fast-paced, and my body is screaming at me after the smash room yesterday, but I relish the pain. It spurs me on, makes me want to push myself harder.
Time counts down in the second half, with the scores remaining nil-all.
Noah executes a well-timed slide tackle, and the ball spills out to Kristof on the left.
He takes a touch, then slots a through-ball to Griffin, who’s under fire.
The BHU defensive pressure is intense, but Griff gets a pass back to Noah, who resets down the right.
I’m on my toes, jostling for position against my defender, watching for the perfect moment to time my run. The ball moves quickly, and I back away from play, confusing my defender. When he turns his head to look for me, I make my move.
I twist around and sprint towards the box. Everett spots me and crosses the ball. I run onto it, aiming for the left post, but the keeper gets the tip of his gloves to it, and it spills over the line for a corner kick.
As Jasper sets up, I find my spot at the corner of the box, waiting for his signal. I know he favours an in-swinger, and we’ve practised this to death at training.
He tugs once at his left sleeve, and I start my run before he moves, drifting back a step to buy space. When his boot connects with the ball, it arcs in, curling towards goal, seeming to hang in the air. The keeper shouts, takes a step, then freezes—caught between claiming and covering his line.
That hesitation is all I need.
I cut across my defender, feeling his arm brush my ribs, and launch.
The ball skims my forehead clean and I flick it towards the net.
There’s a flurry of movement as opposition players scramble to block the shot.
The keeper reacts late, flinging himself sideways, but the ball has already crossed the line.
My teammates swamp me, and we celebrate.
For the next fifteen minutes, we tussle it out, my lungs burning from exertion. BHU’s goalkeeper has lost confidence, and his teammates are too busy shouting at each other to play well. They get sloppy, and we capitalise.
Everett scores a penalty, and I slot in another right before the ref blows the final whistle. Our winning streak continues. No team has ever won back-to-back-to-back championships, but we’re sitting one game clear on the ladder halfway through the season.
The change room is loud, with everyone shouting over one another. I sit on the bench, icing my shin, which copped a stray boot in the dying minutes of the game.
Everett drops next to me with a grin and swings an arm around my shoulder. “You had to one-up me, didn’t you?”
I smirk. “You want to play with the big boys.”
He barks out a laugh and shoves me away. “Cocky bastard.”
Coach Johnson gives his post-match speech, then I escape to the showers. The noise dulls to a low echo, steam rising as the water hammers my shoulders. I rest my forehead against the tiles and close my eyes. The last two months have been intense.
Most of my teammates have cleared out by the time I’m finished, but Everett and Noah are waiting for me.
“Pizza and a couple of quiet beers back at mine?” Noah throws out as I get dressed. “Ritter’s not flying out until four.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Count me in.”
Everett whoops and slaps me on the back. “Our boy’s back.”
I shake my head with a laugh. “Shut up.”
Tuesday is day two of my five-week clinical placement. It’s been a quiet shift. Jack, Melissa, and I are doing inventory on the ambulance when the call comes in for the private preschool in Beckford.
The words paediatric seizure causes my chest to tighten. Anything to do with children usually does.
We’re rolling out within a minute with the lights flashing but the siren off—dispatch says the child has a history of epilepsy, and they’re post-ictal, breathing, and conscious. I run through the checklist of what we need to look for in my head. Airway, breathing, glucose, past medical history.
When we arrive at the preschool, a grey brick building next door to St Mary’s primary school, a staff member is waiting at the entrance, her face pale as she points us towards one of the rooms.
Inside, the room has been half-cleared; the tables have been moved out of the way and the tiny chairs are stacked against the wall.
A little boy sits on a mat near the window, legs stretched out in front of him.
A teacher sits behind him, not touching him, but just there for support should he need it. His eyes are open but unfocused.
“You take the assessment,” Jack says, while Melissa gets some details from another educator.
“Hey, mate,” I say gently, crouching to the little boy’s level and checking the medical bracelet on his wrist, confirming his epilepsy. “My name’s Blake. Can you tell me your name?”
He blinks slowly, mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to answer me. Silent seizure, I think. Absence or focal.
“Baxter,” his teacher says quietly from behind him. “His name is Baxter.”
I smile at the little boy. “Hi, Baxter. We’re just going to do a couple of tests. You’re doing well.”
Jack gets the monitor ready while I do a quick assessment. His airway is clear and his breathing is steady. When I touch his skin, it’s warm and a little clammy. His pupils are sluggish but equal. I check his blood sugar, which is normal. There’s no obvious injury.
“We’re not too sure how long the seizure lasted exactly,” the educator says in a shaky voice, “but it was longer than usual, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“You did the right thing,” I assure her as Jack makes some notes. “Hey, Baxter, buddy. How are you feeling?”
His eyes finally find mine, fear reflecting back.
“It’s okay,” I say with a soft smile. “You’re okay.”
The director tells us his mum’s been called and will meet us at the hospital. He’s out of immediate danger, but he’ll need to be observed. We lift him onto the stretcher carefully, and as we wheel him out, the other kids peer around the adults blocking us from their view.
As Melissa loads him into the ambulance, Jack and I stop at the office to gather some other information when a small voice cries my name, and I let out a surprised yelp as a tiny blonde barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my legs.
“Hey, Sprout,” I say, patting her little head.
“You know her?” The educator’s tone is wary, but I’m glad she’s being cautious. There’re too many shady fuckers out there willing to take advantage of little kids.
“She’s my housemate’s sister,” I explain as I squat down in front of Tinsley. “No need to worry, Tins. Your friend is going to be okay.”
She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“Do you want to talk to Rett? Will that make you feel better?”
She nods again.
I look up at the educator. “Is it okay if I give him a quick call?”
She hesitates, her gaze darting between me and Tinsley, then sighs. “Quickly.”
I slip my phone out of my pocket and call Everett, praying he’s not in class right now.
“Yo, Logan. What’s up? I thought you were on placement.”
“Yeah, I am. I’m at Tinsley’s school—”
He curses. “Is she okay? I’m on my way. What happened?”
“Whoa, hey. She’s fine. You don’t need to come here. It was one of her classmates. But she’s a little shaken. She wants to talk to you.”
I hand her the phone.
“Rett?” she says in a small voice. He must be speaking because she’s quiet for a minute, and my heart aches for her when she says in a small voice, “I want Mama.”
She pauses again, nodding her head, and then says, “Okay,” and passes the phone back to me.
“She’s okay, man,” I reassure Everett, giving Tinsley another pat on the head before following Jack back out to the ambulance where Melissa’s waiting for us. “Just a little rattled.”
“Thanks for calling,” he says. “I’m picking her up anyway. She was supposed to come back to ours, but I think I’ll drop her home. I might stay there for dinner if Juliet doesn’t mind, just to make sure she’s okay.”
“No worries,” I tell him. “Catch you later.”
“All good?” Jack asks from the driver’s seat as I climb into the passenger side.
“Yeah. Just reassuring my housemate’s kid sister.”
“Are we good to go?” he calls to Melissa in the back. She confirms, and he starts the engine, driving carefully back to the hospital with our little patient on board.