Page 14 of Deceit & Destruction

I stare at him for a beat, a million questions running through my head. But I push them all to the back of my head.

“You haven’t told me if she is okay.”

Lowering his hand, he slides his eyes back to me.

“She’s a little banged up, but she’s okay.”

I release a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

“She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt,” I reveal.

He stares at me thoughtfully for a moment, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, well, the driver’s side took the brunt of the crash. Reggiano isn’t wrong when he says you got lucky.” His gaze lowers and fixates on my arm. “Mike—”

I cut him off. “What about her baby?”

His brows pinch together.

“Webber,” I probe.

“They’re keeping her overnight to monitor the baby, but so far everything looks good. Mike, there’s something I gotta tell you.”

The guy keeps staring at my arm, so I finally follow his gaze—after all the damn thing hurts like a bitch. That’s when I notice the soft cast that encases my wrist and my whole fucking forearm.

My stomach plummets at the sight. There’s no way the man upstairs hates me this much.

I bring my gaze back to Webber, silently hoping he’ll tell me it’s nothing to worry about. That it’s just a sprain and the cast is a precaution. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but if my arm is broken, any chance of me getting on the field this year are completely off the table. It doesn’t matter how much money I make selling drugs. I can hire five fucking tutors and pass all my classes with flying colors, and it won’t make a difference. If my arm is out of commission, I’m fucked.

“Tell me,” I demand.

He hesitates, his eyes darting all around the hospital room. It’s all the confirmation I need and yet I still insist he say the words.

“For fuck’s sake, Webber, tell me!”

Reluctantly, he drags his blue eyes back to me. Another guy would be gloating right now. He’d say karma is real, that this is my fucking penance for giving him the drugs, but Webber looks as distraught as I feel.

Like it’s his life on the line.

“It’s broken,” he rasps, his tone full of sorrow.

I close my eyes. It’s crazy how one incident can change everything. How two words can set a guy’s dreams up in smoke.

“It should heal in six to eight weeks. You’re really lucky, man,” he continues. “It could’ve been a lot worse. The doctor says if the break would’ve been a millimeter to the right, you would’ve needed surgery. Tomorrow they will put a fiberglass cast on.”

I force my eyes open.

“Did you just say I’m lucky?”

He nods.

“Yes, a cast is a lot better than them having to put pins in your arm. It’s a lot better than being fucking dead too.”

I grind my teeth.

That’s easy for him to say. His future isn’t compromised.

I’ll never get in front of the scouts.

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