Page 2 of Every Move You Make

“Two,” I say confidently.

“Follow my finger,” she commands, holding her index finger straight up. “Good. I’m glad you started wearing a scrum cap. You hit your head pretty hard.”

Just then, the paramedics arrive in a glorified golf cart and hop out. Katrina explains what happened and instructs them to double-check for a concussion. They stabilize my arm in a temporary sling and spine board me which seems excessive and I try to tell them as much but they insist. As I’m carried off the pitch toward the ambulance, the game resumes. I can’t see it, but I can hear shouting and general ruckus before a whistle is blown and ignored. Knowing my brothers and teammates the way I do, they’ve started throwing fists.

Bloodthirsty idiots.

An hour and a half later, I’m laying on a stiff hospital bed, waiting for my MRI results. My two sisters make themselves comfortable on the vinyl couch next to me as Angie, my oldest sister, nurses my four-month-old nephew, Dominico. Boob totally out. Ivy, my youngest sister, watches them intently.

“Look at you go, little man,” Ivy cheers softly. How can she be so comfortable with our sister’s boob so close to her face? I guess she was there to help deliver the twins. And she is a midwife—er, almost a midwife. I suppose she sees boobs a lot.

That’s enough of that. Eager to redirect my attention, I start counting the ceiling tiles.

My soon-to-be brother-in-law, Rafael, holds my four-month-old niece, Zofia, and tries to burp her. Rafael, usually our team’s eight man, is taking this rugby season off to care for his twins.

“Did the doctor come in yet?” My father, Neal, asks, walking in with a cardboard tray of coffee cups. He’s still wearing our team’s jacket—dark teal with white lettering and all of his sons’ numbers embroidered on the sleeve, including my soon-to-be brother in-law.

“No,” Angie says to our dad. “The nurse was just in here for vitals. He said the doctor will be in shortly.”

“You guys really don’t need to be here,” I grumble.

“Nonsense,” Dad says, setting down the coffee tray and taking his granddaughter in his arms before looking over at me.

"That was a hard hit followed by a harder fall. You’re lucky you can see straight.”

“They’re gonna kick you all out as soon as the doctor comes in here.”

Raf takes his son from Angie as she tucks her boob away—thank god—and gently coos, squishing Dominico’s cheeks. “How could they kick us out? Look at your concerned nephew. He needs to know his Uncle Zay is okay.”

“He looks like he’s five seconds away from passing out,” I retort.

Rafael stares lovingly at his son. “Alright, so he’s a little milk-drunk. Who doesn’t want a relaxing brew after a game?”

A soft knock sounds off, and all of us turn when the doctor enters. She’s a tall, slender South Asian woman with her black hair pulled back in an efficient bun. “Hi,” she smiles, walking toward me while rubbing sanitizing foam on her hands. “I’m Dr. Shajahan. Isaiah, is it?”

“Yeah. Hi.”

She opens her laptop and glances through my chart. “Rugby, huh? That’s a tough sport. Tell me what happened.”

Right as I’m about to tell her the details, Dane and Jonah come barreling in. Dane looks like he just wiped blood from his nose, and I can already see a black eye forming. Jonah’sblonde man bun is disheveled, with sections of hair falling loose. They’re both covered in dirt and scrapes, and their tall team socks have fallen down to their ankles.

“Is everything okay?” Dane asks, surveying me and the doctor.

“Will he ever walk again?” Jonah asks, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “Oh my god, now you’re going to have to join the wheelchair rugby team. Not that that’s a bad thing. They’re fucking animals. You’ll fit right in. But I’m gonna miss you, bro.”

“Jonah, shut up,” Dane says, shaking his head. “He can walk. His legs are fine.” He looks back at me. “Right?”

Before I confirm my legs do in fact work, Jonah cuts in when he refocuses his attention on the doctor. “Well, hello,” he smirks, tone shifting lower while holding his hand out for her to shake. “I’m Jonah. What are you doing later?”

“Working,” she deadpans, leaving his hand unshaken.

Tucking his arms back but smirking deeper, he leans against the plastic railing at the foot of the bed. “You’re pretty.”

“Jonah, shut up and get out of the way,” Angie says from the couch. She pulls out a big plastic bag of orange slices.

"Here.” My golden retriever of a brother’s eyes widen, and he silently plops himself next to her, rifling through the bag.

“As I was saying,” the doctor continues, “Please tell me what happened.”

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