Callum

The gray haze begins to lift slowly. I hear multiple voices around me, all calling my name, demanding I open my eyes and speak. I peel them open and then blink repeatedly. I’m surrounded by my teammates, coach, and refs. The trainers peel back my eyelids one at a time, checking my pupils, looking for the sure sign of a concussion.

"Hey, Cal? Can you hear me, son?" I search for a face to match to the voice, but I can’t focus on any one person. Each figure looming over me sways back and forth, doubling and then coming back into one single being. "Cal?" Coach asks again. I nod slightly so he knows I hear him, but I can’t find his face.

I lay my head back and squint hard, trying to focus my thoughts. What the hell just happened? How did I let him hit me? I never take a tackle. Especially not when the field is wide open.

“Do you know what day it is?” one of the trainers asks, and I nod again. “Can you tell me?” he asks, and Coach laughs a little, but it sounds off. It’s a nervous laugh. He’s worried that I’ve been hit too hard. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened in the game, but luckily, it isn’t the case right now.

“It’s Tuesday, the ninth of October, and our president is still Obama. Fuck, how hard did that fucker hit me?”

The fog dissipates slowly. Lifting my head up a little, I can see the stands through a gap in the sea of bodies surrounding me. “Good, good. Let’s not worry about the hit right now. How about instead, we get you to your feet and to the sideline? You good to walk?” he asks, and I nod, not really listening. My head is dizzy as fuck, but my brain is trying to catch me up on the events of the last ten minutes.

Then it hits me.

“Shit,” I yell, and everyone around me jumps. “No . . . no . . . no,” I repeat, trying to get my body to cooperate and get its sore ass up off the ground. I don’t have time to be lying here.

“What’s wrong, son? Take it easy,” Coach yells through the crowd of bodies surrounding me, and I wish I could. Nausea overwhelms me. I think I might be violently sick right here and now.

“Can’t, coach. I need to go.”

"Cal, relax. You took a hard hit. Let the doc check you over. I think you might have a concussion.”

“Fuck my head, coach,” I growl. “I need to get to him.”

“To whom?” Coach asks, followed by the trainers on the field.

“Cal? Who do you need to get to?” They ask, and I curse myself six ways from Sunday for not telling Coach about Carson being here. He no doubt thinks I want to wrap my hands around the line backer’s neck right now.

“My boy, I need to get to my boy. Don't you hear me, goddamn it? Quit pushing me back down.”

“Cal, you can't get up right now. Just lie back and let the doctor check you out first.” “I don’t have time for this, coach. I need to check on my kid. I saw him collapse. I fucking saw it.”

“Your kid? Damn, Breezy you did take a hit.” Cody injects his sarcasm into the crowd, and a few of the other players laugh, but I don’t pay them any attention. My gaze locks onto Coach Morris.

“Carson was here. In the stands. He slipped or fell or something, and it distracted me. That’s when the ass wipe pummeled me from the side. I saw him go down, and now he’s not there.”

Coach Morris pushes past the doctor and the trainers, offering me his hand. He is the only person in St Louis other than Griffin who knows about Amelia and Carson and everything that happened before I came here. I had to tell him. I was working myself to death in the gym and on the field, and he took notice. At first, he asked if I was on something, which is completely ridiculous because they test us regularly, and then he told me to come clean or I wouldn’t be playing.

I didn’t really have a choice.

I had to play.

I had left her behind so I could do just that, and I’d be fucking damned if I didn’t do just that. Thankfully, he understood, and after that, he became my confidant both on and off the field.

The doctor is yelling at him to leave me on the ground, but neither of us listens, and after the rest of the team sees Coach stepping up, they offer help too. The stadium breaks out into applause, hooting and shouting my name, cheering the fact that I am standing and walking, even if I am leaning heavily on my team.

Normally, I'd be eating up all the attention, but right now, all I can think of is Carson. My gaze locks onto the spot he was sitting . . . empty.

Abandoned.

“I have to go. Now.”

“Cal. I'm telling you to relax. I know you are concerned, but this is your livelihood, your career at stake.” I nod, knowing he's right, but not really giving two fucks at the moment.

“Can you at least find out which hospital they've taken him to so . . . you know what? No. Put in the second string.” Coach gives me a look, and I shake my head. “Don’t argue with me on this. You have to understand, Coach. Carson had cancer. Leukemia. He battled it for three years straight. He’s been in remission for the last two years, but he did that exact same thing when he was first diagnosed at two years old.” Everyone looks at me with wide eyes, baffled with the words coming out of my mouth.

“Who the hell is Carson, and how the hell did you manage to keep him hidden from us this whole time?” One of the guys on the sideline asks.

“That's a long story. One for another time.”

After a few more minutes and with adrenaline pumping, I manage to get away.

“Let me at least drive you,” Doc says, and I agree.

“Okay. Might be best. I'm still a little rattled.”

The drive to Citizens feels like an eternity. When we finally arrive, I'm still in all my gear with the exception of my helmet. The nurses at the circular information station are all staring and whispering to each other. I don’t give two fucks right now. Yeah, I’m Callum fucking breezy Johnson. Yes, I’m the best fucking wide receiver in the league, but right now, I am a scared father/brother/friend, and I want to know how my boy is.

“Carson Parker. Where is he?”

“Are you related?”

“Yes. I'm his father.”

“Are you sure?” Am I sure? What the hell kind of world do we live in? Do people still act this way? Yeah, I know I’m about as white a bleached bedspread and he is all chocolate and caramel rolled into one, but the kid is mine. Period. Someone had better show me to his room right this fucking second, or I’m liable to lose my cool. Hell, at this rate, I could easily blame it on a concussion and get away with it.

I'm about to lose my cool when Amelia steps out of the room down the hall. “Never mind, ma'am. I see his mother now,” I growl, wanting to call her everything but a child of God. She’s lucky my mother raised me to have better manners than that.

Are you sure? I whisper to myself in a nasally high-pitched voice.

Stupid bitch.

Rushing to Amelia, I pull her in for a tight hug, wrapping my arms around her and never wanting to let go. Her nails dig into my back as she sobs against my chest.

“How is he?” I ask her, pulling back. The bitch nurse mumbles something under her breath, but I ignore it, not wanting to waste another second on the trash up front. None of that matters right now. The only thing that matters is Carson.

“We don't know yet. They've got him settled into a room, waiting for Dr. Hill to get here. I’m so glad you’re okay. When I saw you hit the ground, my heart stopped. I rushed out the door to get to you.”

“How did you end up here?” I ask, trying to piece everything together.

“The hospital called. I’m the only person listed as his next of kin. Griffin lost his phone somewhere and couldn’t call me. The cabbie made a quick detour and brought me here instead of the stadium, but I’ve been worried sick about you. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. I saw him fall. I turned for the pass and watched as Carson fell backward. Is he okay?”

“He looks pitiful, but I don't let him know that. He's already scared, so let's not make it seem any worse than it already is. I can’t believe we are dealing with this again. When will he catch a break?”

“I know, Amie, I understand.” I clench my fists at my side, saying a silent prayer before walking in. She’s right. He doesn't look good. His normal caramel colored skin is ashen and he is sweating, even though the room is cool.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “How'd you like watching the game?” He smiles a weak smile and nods with all the enthusiasm he can muster. I look to Amelia. I'm about three seconds from losing my composure when Dr. Hill comes in.