Page 104 of The Late Hit
He pauses, not moving. His gaze seeing my open eyes, he lets out a breath of air. “Son.” His eyes fill with unshed tears. “It’s damn good to see your eyes open.”
My mouth is as dry as the Sahara. I try to wet my lips, but it only makes things worse. Taking the hint, Dad stands up and grabs the pitcher of water sitting next to the bed. He pours a cup before bringing it to my lips.
“Slow,” he instructs.
I resist the urge to gulp down the cup of lukewarm water.
“What happened?” I croak, my voice raspy.
“A lot has happened, son.” He chuckles, but it isn’t full of humor, it’s almost like a sad chuckle. “You were blindsided by an illegal hit. The safety was kicked out for targeting, but somehow you held on to the damn ball and scored the touchdown.” He pauses, beaming down at me with a proud smile before he continues. “The extra point was good, tying the game. Lafayette miffed the kickoff. We recovered. Coach made some smart decisions—I’m talking shit you don’t see until the pros. And Grant caught the game-winner.”
“Hell yeah, he did,” I respond, not the least bit surprised.
Coach Campbell is a helluva coach. I don't know why he's still coaching college and not in the NFL yet. Dad’s and my moment is interrupted when Mom comes through the door. She stops dead in her tracks, mouth gaping open.
“Quinton,” she says my name, running toward me. “Oh, my baby. It’s so good to see those chocolate-brown eyes.”
“Hi, Ma,” I grit out. Her voice is loud, and my head is killing me. She releases me from her hold, but her hand finds my arm.
Dad stands from his chair. “I’m going to grab the doctor,” he says, head down, avoiding eye contact with us.
Mom just stands there staring at me, tears welling in her eyes. It’s hard for me to look at her though. I’m trying hard to play dumb about the conversation that they don’t know I overheard. A few minutes later, Dad comes in with an older gentleman—I'm assuming he’s the doctor—and our team doctor Dr. Anderson.
“Quinton, I’m Dr. Patel. How’s the pain, on a scale of one to ten?” he asks, scanning over my chart.
“A seven,” I answer. I don’t know. I hate when doctors ask you to rate your pain. There isn’t a definition for each number. I’m more than a little uncomfortable.
“Seven is certainly to be expected with a head injury like the one you sustained. You suffered a moderate concussion, but we have no reason to believe there are any other brain-related injuries,” he adds.
Thank fuck it isn’t anything severe. I can deal with a concussion. What I can't deal with is a brain injury that’s going to keep me from playing.
“What about football?” I ask, bouncing my eyes from Dr. Patel to Dr. Anderson.
Dr. Anderson takes over the conversation, resting the chart he’s holding in front of him. “You won’t be able to play in the conference title game—”
My body immediately reacts to his statement, trying to sit up higher in the bed.
He raises a hand, stopping me from speaking.
“But as long as things go well over the next week, and given we win on Saturday—”
“Which we will,” I mutter.
Dr. Anderson gives me a small grin before continuing. “Andwhenwe win, we don’t see any reason why you won’t play in the playoff game.”
A relieved breath escapes my lips.
“We’ll let you get some more rest,” Dr. Patel states, turning to leave.
“Wait,” I add before the doctors have a chance to leave the room. All eyes look at me. “Why’d it take me so long to wake up?”
“Your body needed the rest,” Dr. Patel answers. “Your body was just exhausted, so it let your mind rest a little longer. There were times you’d stir and we thought you were awake, but your eyes never opened. We monitored you closely, and no red flags popped up.”
Nodding my head, I accept the doctor’s answer. The two men leave the room, leaving me with just my parents, who are avoiding each other, staring only at me.
“I-I I’m going to get some rest.”
“You do that, son. We’ll be back later to check on you.”
