Page 160 of It Happened on a Sunday
But he’s there now, and he’s got forty-five minutes to get on that field. I’m keeping my fingers, toes, and everything else crossed that he makes it—and not just because I spent half an hour on the phone with one of his teammates this afternoon arranging a surprise.
On the plus side, my scans and bloodwork came back great and I’m in a new room that not only signals my much lower likelihood of dying but allows more than two visitors. It also means I should definitely be home to greet Sly tomorrow.
“Hey, Sloane! Look at this!” Bryan calls from his spot in the corner, where he’s got two computers, an extra-large monitor, his tablet, and his phone set up to watch Sly’s progress to the stadium. Because, apparently, whether or not Sly makes this game has captivated the nation.
“New updates are coming in on #Slywatch!” he tells me excitedly. “His hashtag has knocked yours into second place.”
“I’d watch myself with that one,” Pauline warns. “Sounds like he might be a bigger diva than you.”
“You’re just grumpy that right now he’s a bigger diva thanyou,” I reply with a roll of my eyes.
“Oh, please. Clothes don’t make the diva,” she drawls, reaching up to pat her wig before remembering she isn’t wearing one.
In fact, right now she looks completely un-Pauline-like in a pair of dark blue jeans and a plain white tee. She still looks amazing, but she’s definitely out of her comfort zone. Especially since abuela Ximena is sitting next to her in a very similar outfit.
“Let the rest of us see!” Bianca says, weaving her way through the complicated maze of chairs currently taking up almost all of the space in my hospital room. Sly’s family has come to watch the game with me, and so has my entire team minus G, who is currently sitting right outside my half-open door so he can hear the updates.
Bryan turns the monitor around, and I watch a video of Sly, in his full quarterback regalia, racing down the plane stairs to the car Marco arranged to have waiting for him.
“Who’s recording that?” Marco asks, sounding annoyed.
“Who isn’t?” Bryan tells him breezily. Seconds later, a series of photos hits the monitor of Sly diving into the car and driving away.
“How long until the game starts?” Lucinda asks from her spot near the door where she’s stocking a cooler with drinks. Beside her is a folding table full of sandwich platters, chips, and fruit.
Yes, we’re breaking a couple of rules having this little party, but the charge nurse has been really cool about it. None of us wants to miss this game, and it seemed like a lot more fun to watch it together. Besides, an hour after my scan, I was bouncing off the walls with boredom. Even though someone finally found my phone for me to entertain myself with, scrolling isn’t really my modus operandi. Never takes long before I see my own face on screen.
I’m doubly worried that Sly is about to blow up his entirecareer. Been there, done that, don’t recommend it.
The car starts moving, and I assume the updates end because Bryan turns the monitor back around. At the same time, though, the TV where we’ve been watching pregame coverage scrolls a breaking news footer across the bottom of the screen as they switch to a live helicopter shot of Sly’s car speeding out of the airport.
“Seriously?” Mariana peers over the top of her romance novel. “He’s breaking news now?”
“It must be a slow news day,” Camila tells her with a grimace. “This is going to feed right into his complex.”
The rest of us are busy watching Sly’s car whip in and out of traffic as the minutes count down on screen. Considering it’s San Diego on the biggest game day of the year so far, things go pretty smoothly—at least until they get about two miles from the stadium. Traffic slows to a total standstill, and Sly gets stuck behind a long line of cars exiting the freeway.
“How long does he have?” abuela Ximena asks, clutching Pauline’s hand while my mentor squeezes right back. The two of them have taken a definite liking to each other.
“Twelve minutes to kickoff,” Bryan shouts from his corner spot. “This is amazing, Sloane! You can’t buy this kind of publicity.”
“I don’t want to buy anything,” I tell him as I lean toward the TV and force myself not to bite my nails, a habit I gave up when I was fourteen. “I just want him to get there! How much farther?”
As if all of America is asking that same question, the helicopter moves higher and takes its coverage wide to show just how close Sly is to the stadium—and how far away. Both roads going in are absolutely packed. People on the streets are carrying GO, SLY, GO signs, and the entire area is a clusterfuck of traffic, vehicular or otherwise.
“He’s not going to make it,” Lucia says, shifting nervously inher chair.
“He’s going to make it,” I tell her, because I refuse to entertain any other possibility.
A couple of minutes later, the TV coverage moves to “The Star-Spangled Banner” and other pregame stuff, and the entire room lets out a groan.
And somewhere between the signs and the shouting, the helicopter and the hands in the air, I start to think Sly’s not just running toward a game. He’s running toward the life we almost didn’t get.
“That’s okay,” Bryan shouts. “I’ve got it over here!” He turns the monitor around and shows us that someone in the car behind Sly is broadcasting his progress on Instagram live.
My heart takes up permanent residence in my throat as Sly’s car moves about a hundred feet in the next five minutes. Just when abuela Ximena concedes that Lucia might be right, the TV coverage switches back to Sly’s car. We watch, mouths open, as he practically rolls out of it—already in full pads and uniform—and takes off running.
“How far is it, Bryan?”
