Page 57 of On Merit Alone
“I…I?—”
“I…I—” Charlie mocked, cutting me off. Slapping a hand down on the seat and making me jump, she said. “Youlikethat man and something is going on and we want to know what. Come on, Cap. Everyone else is busy, just tell us.”
It was my turn to snort. Even as my heart began to race, and that smiling face appeared on the very outskirts of my mind, I couldn’t help but balk at the incredulity of their requests.
Tell them? Tell them what?
Whatever I already told them was the truth. Me and Irawerefriends. Yes, he sometimes made my face burn and unleashed butterflies in my stomach, but that stuff also happened before a big game or a particularly nerve-racking interview. He wasn't special or anything. No. It wasn't him who was making me feel like this. It was just the novelty of the situation. Of having a friend.
And I was going to tell Emily and Charlie as much, until the chorus of hisses shot through the air of the bus. The sound was familiar, even without context. Those were the sounds of spectators. And just as I suspected, as I popped my head above the seats and took a look around the bus, my eyes landed on a congregation of girls toward the right side, all huddled around one seat.
They were watching a game.
More than that, something had happened in the game they were watching.
Hair on the back of my neck prickled as awareness of the date and time came rushing to my mind.
Ira.
He was playing—Theywere. The Defenders were still playingin the tournament. Another home game. I’d been following the live scoring on social media all night, but in the hustle and bustle of travel, I’d forgotten to turn on the livestream when we got settled on the bus. Now I didn’t even take the time to turn on my own screen, instead opting to climb over the bus chairs to lean over the seats and get a closer view of my teammate’s tablet as it played the game.
Taking in the situation on the screen, I resisted the urge to groan.
They’d been down for most of the game, trailing right behind by two or three points. The game was tied, and the pressure was high. It was one of those games that you could almost tell was the big one. They needed four games to win the series, but sometimes the series was really won in one momentum-setting decision.
This was that game. The game to turn the tide. The one to set the tone. And they were only a turnover, a shot, a hot streak away from pulling ahead or falling behind.
We were in it, and there was still hope. Yet, no one was breathing… because Ira had just gone down. Pushed a little too hard as he went up for a shot, he was now on the ground, where he had been for a considerable amount of time.
I’m pretty sure I could hear my own heartbeat, feel the rush of my blood through my body, and taste my breath as it iced over in my lungs. My skin prickled with anxious awareness, and my brain felt fuzzy as all I seemed to be able to focus on was the little spot on the screen where such a big man was crumpled on the ground. Hurt and unable to get up.
He’d tried, oh, how he tried to get up. Pushing people away with his elbows and trying to lift up with his arms alone, but the trainer just pushed him back down firmly.
It was never good when the trainer made it out on court. Everyone knew that. Ira knew it. I could tell by the way his tightly clenched fist tapped slowly against the ground as if the repetitive motion could curb him from making any harsh movements.
Seconds, hours, days seemed to pass before, finally, the clusterwas moving.Hewas moving, unfurling upward as he rose slowly to his feet. His profile showed in the camera screens as he wrapped an arm around his trainer and another around the assistant.
The crowd began to cheer, relieved to see he was up and breathing. Their cheers quickly turned into groans of confusion and panic as he began to limp with assistance toward the tunnel. Ira just waved to the crowd as he left.
But didn’t turn back.
Didn’tcomeback.
“He’s out,” someone whispered. It took me a while to register that it was one of us as a kaleidoscope of other things seemed to swirl in my mind.
He’s hurt.
He’s pissed.
He’s out.
Shit.
Detaching myself from the girls, I stumbled over to my own seat, yanking my phone from my backpack and quickly pulling up Ira’s contact.
Me
Hey…
