Page 35 of Dream Chaser
“She shouldn’t fucking have to!” he screams and jams his finger toward the ref’s face. Logan swats it away before it makes contact. “You motherfuckers better sleep?—”
“Links!” Tessa yells. “Not like this. Let’s go.”
“Baby, they stole from our fucking boys. I can’t just let them wal?—”
“You can, and you will.” She fists his shirt.
“But—”
“Let’s go, old man.” Logan nods to us.
The whole fucking team walks onto the field, and the security team looks like they are gonna shit themselves.
“Links!” Cohen yells. “They’re loading Warren and Grimes into the boo-boo bus.”
I look around, searching for them. I could have sworn they were just here.
Fucckkk!
Chapter 9
Philly General
Izzy
Idon’t cry—ever. But what I just witnessed—what they got away with on that field—was not only horrific, but criminal.
The second the final whistle blew, I could feel it in my chest, like a vice clamping down. We didn’t rush the stands. We didn’t scream at the refs. We didn’t storm the field. We stood frozen. Watching. Processing.
Grimes and Warren were with the team doc. Both of them carted off under a hail of boos and jeers, like they weren’t human. Like they didn’t just get attacked on live television.
Now we’re in the fluorescent hell of the emergency room waiting room, and the white noise hum of machines and beeping monitors feels like it’s vibrating in my molars.
Lexi sits beside me, eyes locked on the swinging double doors. Her leg’s bouncing a mile a minute.
“I’m gonna throw up,” she mutters.
“Me, too,” I say and clear my throat. It’s sore, raw from screaming. “The rest of the girls are heading our way. Dad saidthey were letting the team shower fast, and then they’re all heading this way.”
She nods, but neither of us moves.
Minutes crawl. Someone sobs softly across the room. A nurse walks past with red-streaked scrubs. I grip my phone like it’s a lifeline.
And then the doors swing open, fast and wide, and the paramedics push through with Grimes on one stretcher, Warren on another behind him. Both alert. Both in visible pain.
“Oh my God,” Lexi breathes, launching to her feet.
I’m already in motion.
Warren gives us a tight nod, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to cuss out the pain. His wife, Dylan, is with him. Their … other? Hell, I don’t know what to call him. Their … Dean is on his phone, cussing up a storm, but almost silently. Grimes gives us a thumbs-up, and Lo is beside him, face tear-stained, and she’s pissed.
We walk alongside them until they’re wheeled off behind yet another set of doors, this time with nurses barking questions and scanning vitals.
Skinner and Boone arrive next, flanked by Hart and Logan Links. Hart and Skinner look like hell—mud-slicked and hollow-eyed, bruised and grimy.
We wait through the initial evaluation. A doctor comes out and reassures us that nothing is life-threatening. Cuts and abrasions. Concussions. Grimes may need a few stitches under his chin. Warren’s shoulder is dislocated, and his ribs are bruised to hell.
We’re told it’ll be a few hours.
