FIRST DOWN
Lucas
TALK ABOUT BEING knocked off your feet.
This was not what I had in mind when I moved in her direction. Not by a long shot. For being blindsided though, I wasn’t in terrible shape. Sure, my head was killing me, and I was seeing stars, but at least I wasn’t out cold. Not only could I hear the sound of players doing drills, I could feel the breeze and the hot sun, and I could smell the wet dirt.
There was however, an iron taste in my mouth that really sucked. With no mouth guard, I hoped like fuck I still had all my teeth in place. I’d been sacked by some of the fiercest defensive ends, but never had I gone down like this.
“Are you okay?”
I tried to nod, but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” The voice was sweet, like honey.
It must be Strawberry Fields.
Small hands with the smoothest of skin held my shoulders still. “Stay right here. We’re going to move you off the field.”
After another second or so, I lifted my lids and found myself looking into two very green pools of concern.
Trying to prop up on my elbows, I stopped right away because those damn stars came back. “Don’t move,” she whispered, so close to my face I could feel her warm breath on my skin.
I probably should let her know I was not seriously injured, that I was not compromised in any way. With that intention, I moved my arms and my legs in a way that indicated I was trying to get up, but she kept a firm grip on me, holding me in place. “I said, don’t move,” she ordered.
I wasn’t going to say I was unhappy that she was holding me down, but I didn’t really like it either. Then again, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get up.
I grimaced and reached for my forehead. “What just happened?”
“I hit you with the water cart,” she said, panic clear in her voice.
“The water cart,” I groaned, dropping my arm to my side.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again.
Hearing the apology in her voice didn’t sound right. “I’ll be all right,” I reassured her, and hoped like fuck that was going to be the case.
Behind her I could see the medical wagon heading my way, and both Dallas and Coach Whitney were on it.
Shit!
They came to an abrupt stop and rushed from their seats.
Jack Whitney stood six-foot-three and with the span of his shoulders, he looked like one intimidating motherfucker, even to me.
Dallas was much smaller than him and had dark hair, but was also neatly dressed in khaki shorts and a polo shirt and cleanly shaven.
“I think he might have a concussion.” It was Strawberry Fields, and whether she knew it or not, she was about to fuck me.
And not in the way I wanted her to.
“No, I’m fine,” I argued, and immediately popped up.
If Dallas enacted the concussion protocol, I would be off the field until I underwent a full evaluation and then put through the rigors of the return-to-participation protocol.
Can you say fucked for the season?
“Did he lose consciousness?” Coach Whitney asked.
“No, but—”
Strawberry Fields was standing up in order to get out of the way while trying to relay what she saw, but I cut her off. “I’ll be all right. I just got the wind knocked out of me,” I said, and somehow got to my feet before she got to her own.
Coach Whitney eyed me with speculation. “Do you know where you are, Lucas?” he asked. He was starting the evaluation that I was sure Dallas would complete to determine the extent of my injuries.
I wiped the sweat from my brow. “Yes, I’m mid-field, Coach.”
Satisfied, he nodded, and then immediately turned his attention to Strawberry Fields. “Gillian,” he barked, “please explain to me what just happened?”
Right there, I knew at the very least she was about to get her ass chewed out, but more than likely, regardless of what job she held, she was going to get fired on the spot.
She opened her mouth to speak. “Da—”
“It wasn’t her fault,” I blurted out. “It was mine.”
This caused his head to dart in my direction, and I knew I was now the one about to get my ass chewed out. “Your fault? Care to explain to me, Quarterback, why the hell you would go barreling into a water cart? Are the drills we’re putting you through not challenging enough?”
“Yes, sir, I mean no, sir.”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Coach,” I corrected.
His gaze grew fierce.
So I shut the fuck up.
“Jack,” Dallas said, “I’d like to take him to the training room for further evaluation.”
“Do you think that’s necessary?” Coach asked Dallas.
I started to argue, but Coach put his hand up silencing me, and gave his full attention to Dallas.
“Yes, I do.” Dallas’s response was matter-of-fact. There was no hesitation or waiver in his voice.
Strawberry Fields, or Gillian, I guessed was her name, handed me a bottle of water from that fucking cart. “Drink this,” she said twisting the cap off.
Coach was shaking his head in disgust. “Fine,” he muttered. “Send him back out to the sidelines in an hour unless you find an issue, which if you do, I want to be notified about immediately.”
Dallas nodded and motioned me toward the medical wagon.
“I’ll be in to help as soon as I get the waters filled,” Strawberry Fields said to him, and it became obvious she was an athletic trainer in some capacity.
My neck felt like it was stiffening by the minute, but I said nothing as I sat where Dallas insisted.
The players weren’t staring though, and I was certain they were told to pay attention to their shit.
Thank fuck.
Still, the ridiculing would come, I was certain.
Fuck me.
Coach Whitney pointed his finger at me. “I want to see you in my office immediately following breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Coach” I said, swallowing a lump in my throat.
When he wheeled around to face Strawberry Fields, I caught sight of her face, and it was filled with concern.
Our gazes held for a moment too long because Coach moved to his left a little to block my view. “Gillian,” he bit out.
Unsure why I felt I had to see her, I shifted so I could get a glimpse of her face. She tried to speak, but he put a hand up, and instantly I could see her dejection.
Gently, he lifted her dropped chin. “And you, you’ll join me before dinner, alone, in my room, and explain everything to me then. I don’t have time right now.”
The strangest surge of adrenaline burned through my veins. It was a flame of jealousy I couldn’t control. Everything I’d heard about Coach Whitney was what a stand-up guy he was, but was he tapping Strawberry Fields?
Then, she threw her arms around him and I almost went flying off the wagon until she said, “Yes, Daddy, I’ll be there. And I’m really sorry.”
Daddy! Strawberry Fields was Coach Whitney’s daughter? She was Coach Whitney’s daughter!
What the hell?
I had just thrown myself under the bus for her, and she hadn’t even so much as tried to warn me that it wasn’t her head on the chopping block . . . it was mine.