Page 38 of Wild Card
“How bad?” I look for his reaction, half-afraid he’ll lie to me. I might if the situation was reversed. Looking him in the eye and telling him his season was over would be a nightmare. Worse if it was his career.
“Well… it’s not good but it’s a miracle it’s not worse. You’ve got some really fucking terrible road rash, but you at least had a leather jacket on. You’ve got a badly bruised jaw and some orbital bone trauma. They reset your shoulder, and you have a hairline fracture in your hip. You didn’t need surgery, thankfully. They’ve got lots of instructions for you though. If you want to get out of here and back on your feet, I suggest you listen to them.”
The knowledge burns through my gut like fire. Because it means I won’t be playing this weekend, or any other weekend for several weeks at least. Maybe not the season. It means sidelines and rehab. A miserable stretch of shit I don’t want. Tears start to well in my eyes, and East walks up and puts his hand on my arm.
“A few months out is better than dead, brother. So just keep it in perspective.” Now he fucking sounds like our father. The famous Westfield serenity even in times of stress—at least publicly speaking. But I feel anything but calm right now. The way my life is headed, I’m not sure if it’s better.
“Ice!” Wren returns and holds it up in a pink cup she procured from the nurses’ station. She pours half the ice into the cup that’s sitting on my table and turns the straw toward me like I’m a child.
“Thanks.” I stare at it for a minute because I’ve forgotten why I even wanted it in the first place. Why it matters in the face of everything else.
“You told him?” Wren looks into my eyes, the pity there obvious.
I take another sip and the cool water coats my tongue and throat, bringing a little relief to the least of my problems.
“Just the basics of the accident.”
“Is there more?” I frown.
Easton scrubs a hand over his face before he speaks again. “You know about the tape?”
My gut manages to drop lower. It’s practically in hell at this point, dragging the rest of me with it. I’d managed to forget the sex tape that’d been leaked in the midst of all of this pain. That’s been one blessing of hurting this badly, I guess.
“Yeah…” I admit.
“Well… That’s why I’m here instead of Mom. Dad was gonna come but when it was serious and not critical, I told him I’d come. With coaching and everything… You know. Mom wanted to be here, but I figured with everything it’d be more than you want.”
“Right. Thanks.” The last thing I need is my mother here lecturing me about a sex tape and motorcycles. Telling me I need to finally grow up and settle down.
“I’ll have to fly back tonight, but Wren can stay a few more days if you want. Waylon and Mac offered her a room at their place. Xander and his girlfriend have been in and out checking on you. They just went home for a bit to shower and get some sleep.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t change your plans for me. I know you’ve got practice and Wren’s got the business to run.” I shift in my bed, trying to find some comfort on the stiff mattress. East leans forward and helps me move some of the pillows again, and it takes a little of the pressure off my aching lower back.
“You need someone with you. Especially when they send you home. You don’t want to be alone.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ve got friends to check in on me. An assistant. The ability to have food delivered. I’m good.”
East gives me a skeptical look, and I know what he’s thinking. It’s not wrong either. I have a lot of friends who are more acquaintances than anything. Happy to come to a party or a game, and travel if I want some friends to head to the mountains or beach for a long weekend. But they aren’t the kind of people you call when you need someone. Those people, the ones I can count on, all play on the same team as me—fellow Phantom football players—and while they would jump to help me, they’re all mid-season and overwhelmed with practice and games.
“I really think—” Wren starts.
“I’m good. If it gets bad, I’ll call Mom,” I mutter. Moving my mouth too much hurts right now, I assume from the swelling in my jaw.
“If you’re sure.” Easton frowns again, marring his otherwise serene face. One that looks like mine and yet not quite the same. Less angry. Younger. A touch less rugged.
Another thought hits me. One that’s stupidly vain. If I fucked up my face, my jaw… there’s no fucking telling what I look like now. It’s low on the list of reasons to be depressed at the moment. I shouldn’t care at all, but half my sponsorships are based on my looks.
“Mirror?” I ask.
East frowns and shakes his head, so I look to Wren. Wren looks at him, a reluctant one that sends a whisper of anxiety through my nerves.
“Mirror,” I repeat, and she reaches into her bag and hands me a small compact.
I open it up and bring the mirror up to my face with my left hand, the one that fucking hurts less. When I see myself, I feel like I might throw up. Everything looks bloody and swollen. My whole head is wrapped in bandages and huge parts of my right cheek and jaw are obscured by the gauze they’ve put there. The colorful green and purple stain of the bruise spreads beyond them and under my eye where I look like I’ve gone way too many rounds in the ring. I click the compact shut and hand it back to Wren.
“There’s a lot of swelling and bruising right now. They said the bruising will likely get worse before it gets better. They’ve got ice packs for you to put on them in intervals. The nurse said she’ll be back here in a few to explain things to you now that you’re awake. They didn’t think you’d need surgery, but they said you could decide once the swelling goes down if you want plastics to work on you.” Wren expands on the explanation Easton had already given.
“Plastics. Jesus!” My stomach turns. “My porn star career is gonna be short-lived if I’m that fucked up.”
