Page 81 of Hello Quarterback

I could see the color draining from his face as he sat back, his eyes pressed shut. “No.”

I wasn’t sure how that was possible, because there were only two people capable of riding a horse and one of us had to drive. Not to mention that I didn’t trust myself to drive where there wasn’t a road.

But Gray returned, leading both the horses with their leather reins in one hand. I slid into the middle seat, and he got in, holding on to the reins through the open truck window. Blister and Acres ran alongside the truck as he drove the mile or so back to the house. It was painfully slow, especially sitting between two silent men. The countryside didn’t feel so pretty and peaceful anymore.

It felt stressful. Remote. Too far from help. “Is there a hospital in Cottonwood Falls?” I asked.

Before Ford could answer, Gray said, “Fletcher’s on his way.”

Of course. Ford’s brother was a doctor. He’d know what to do.

I held on to that little piece of hope, even though I could see blood soaking through the shirt wrapped around Ford’s foot.

I didn’t know much about football, but I knew you couldn’t play on an injury like that.

What if Ford’s dream of winning the Super Bowl was over, all because I suggested playing around in the creek?

And if I was thinking that, I knew he had to be as well.

Suddenly, “love” felt so flimsy, like vapor wisping through my fingertips, impossible to grasp, to hold on to.

Gray pressed on the brakes by the barn, saying, “Mia, drive Ford up to the house. Get him situated in the dining room for Fletcher. I’ll put up the horses.”

I nodded, scooting over as he got out and began leading the horses to the barn. At least now I had a purpose instead of sitting stiffly, silently, next to Ford.

He was on the right side, eyes closed, fists clenched in his lap. All the bouncing and jerking of the pickup over rough ground had to be painful for him, on top of all the emotional turmoil.

How had it been only hours ago that I was learning to ride? Living the high of newfound love?

It all seemed so distant now. I’d never felt lower as I put the truck into gear and started up the driveway. Ford still hadn’t said a word to me. Not that I blamed him. He looked like he was going to be as sick as I felt.

I drove the rest of the way to the house and got out of the truck. I wanted to help him get inside, but he got out of the pickup on his own. He made it just a few hops before he swayed.

“Come on,” I said, going to him and forcing him to accept my help, just like his dad had done. Another reminder that I didn’t know Ford all that well yet. Maybe I’d never get the chance.

Begrudgingly, he held on and hopped beside me until we got inside. I helped him to the table like Gray had asked, and he sat down in one of the worn wooden chairs. I tried to imagine what Fletcher might need, going to the kitchen and searching through cabinets and drawers until I found a pile of rags and a bowl to fill with cold water from the sink.

I dipped a rag in the water and handed it to Ford, who looked paler than ever, a little green too. “Put this on your forehead. It should help with the nausea.”

He didn’t move, eyes trained on the ground.

“Take it,” I said, my voice coming out harshly.

He looked at me, and I knew, deep down, I’d remember that look for the rest of my life. His eyes were dark blue, bottomless pools. No hope, no light. It was all... gone.

But at least he did as I asked, sitting back and resting the rag over his forehead. My phone began to vibrate in my belt bag, but I ignored it, worried about Ford.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I asked. “Maybe I can find some ibuprofen or Tylenol.”

The front door opened, and we both shifted our gaze to see who’d arrived. I’d expected to see Gray, but instead, Fletcher was swooping purposefully inside, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, not scrubs or a lab coat like I’d expected of a doctor. He carried a black leather bag with him.

“What happened?” he asked as he reached us. Without waiting for an answer, he knelt before his brother, slowly unwinding the shirt covering his wound.

Ford’s voice was weak as he said, “I stepped on something at the creek. Barbwire, maybe some glass. I don’t know.”

“So you’ll need a tetanus shot just in case,” Fletcher said. His expression was grim as he studied the wound. “Stitches also. Do you have a contact for your team’s doctor?”

Ford nodded, adjusting his hip to get his phone out of his pocket. He searched through the contacts and said, “Sent it to you.”

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