Page 78 of Caught Up In You

I must have a panicked look on my face, because Owen takes a furtive glance around, then drops a quick, soft kiss on my forehead and nudges me toward her.

“I’ll see you after the game,” he says, then gives me quick a swat on the ass as I turn to walk away.

CHAPTER 29

OWEN

The game is a good one, if you’re rooting for the Cardinals. The girls have three goals to the Blue Jays’ zero. Betsy even drew first blood with her goal in the first three minutes.

And then she drewactualfirst blood when she slid in for a kick and took a girl out at the shins. It didn’t seem like a legal move for a nine-year-old athlete, but the ref didn’t blow his whistle, and Archer applauded like she’d just won an Olympic medal.

My job has been mostly slapping on Band-Aids and handing out ice packs, which the girls have needed more and more in the last third of the game. They’re getting hot and tired and sloppy, and the Blue Jays are desperate to avoid a shutout.

I’m reaching for a bottle of water when I hear a dull thud followed by a scream. Out of the corner of my eye I see Betsy go down. Hard.

I react instinctively. I bolt from the bleachers, my brain making sense of what I saw as I run. A Blue Jay going in for a goal. Betsy trying to head the ball away.

Betsy taking a cleat to the forehead.

I sense Archer and Madeline behind me, but I get there first, dropping to my knees beside her in the grass.

Betsy’s eyes are open, and she squints into the sun as she groans and reaches for her forehead. There’s already a goose egg blooming there, red now, but it’ll surely be a festival of colors later.

“Betsy, are you okay?” I say, my training warring with the increasing panic in my chest. I force myself to focus on the fact that she’s conscious.

“Yeah,” she says, and she starts to sit up, but I place my hand on her chest to keep her on the ground.

“One sec, I need to check you out first.” I think my voice sounds steady, the pleasantdon’t worrytone I use with kids every day. But in my head it’s too loud. Too forceful. I hold up fingers and ask her how many, which she answers with ease. I ask her what day it is and her mom’s name and watch her eyes as they follow my finger.

She passes every test.

“Betsy, baby, are you okay?” Madeline grabs her daughter’s hand and squeezes.

“Yeah,” she says. “But that really fucking hurt.”

Madeline gasps. “Elizabeth Jane!”

Archer, who’s squatting beside Madeline, chuckles. “She got kicked in the head, Mads. I think she’s allowed an F-bomb.”

“Can I sit up now? This grass is tickling my ears,” Betsy asks, and I help her sit slowly, watching for any dizziness or unsteadiness.

She seems fine.

“Okay, well, you may have a concussion, so you’ll need to be observed,” I tell her, the words transporting me back in time to another exam. Another kid. Another mother.

“Does that mean I can’t go back in?” Betsy asks.

Archer puts his arm around her and helps her up. “There’s only nine minutes left and we’re up by three, killer. I think you can sit the rest out.”

“Nooooo,” Betsy whines, and tears finally gather in her eyes.

“Kicked in the head? Fine. Benched? Tears,” Madeline says with a nervous laugh as she slings her arm around Betsy’s shoulders. The child is sandwiched between Archer and her mother, rolling her eyes and staring forlornly at the scoreboard.

“She’s got the heart of champion,” Archer says. “And the forehead of a heavyweight boxer.”

Everyone is laughing and joking as they lead Betsy off the field, but I’m rooted to the grass. My heart rate is climbing, my chest tightening. My feet and hands begin to tingle. As my breath starts coming in faster gasps, I try to ground myself, trying desperately to remember the techniques my therapist gave me back in residency, but they’re all just out of reach.

I scan the field, my gaze jumping from Betsy to Archer to Madeline to the scoreboard to the parents on the sideline to Wyatt, who is smiling at me, though her brows are knitted together.

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