Page 2 of Penalty Kiss
Someone says, “Cam—” but it’s underwater, distant, a radio between stations. My knee doesn’t get where I send it. The ceiling jumps down to meet my face. There’s a cool kiss of concrete, and a smear of red that means my face has chosen gravity over dignity.
Lights out.
Sound arrives before light. Hums. Beeps. A lullaby for the concussed.
I surface to fragments: blue gloves fanning my face; alcohol sting; a voice I know doing the concussion script with a steadiness that should be comforting and only makes the shame creep hot down my spine.
“Where are you?”
“Tunnel.” My tongue misfires. “I… think.”
“What period is it?”
“Done.” I try to grin; it feels like someone else’s mouth. “We win. Shutout.”
“What’s your name?”
“You know my name,” I mutter.
“Say it.”
“Cameron.” The way my dad says it when he’s not taking questions. “Wilder.”
“How many fingers?”
“This again?” I squint. The world ghost-tracks. “Two. Maybe three.”
They load me, talk around me, lower voices like my pride is ICU fragile. Hands on my shoulder. A towel pressed to my eyebrow. Ice in a plastic bag that crackles like thunder.
“Hospital,” the team doc says and my chest barks out a laugh that sparks like battery acid.
“It’s protocol, Cam,” he defends.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
The room tilts again. The lights are knives. I shut my eyes and fall.
I open my eyes to a ceiling that’s too white. My vision swims, then steadies. There's a hairline crack on the ceiling now that runs diagonally like a lazy river. I catalog because it’s easier than trusting memory: the sting of antiseptic in the air, the rasp of cheap sheet against my shins, the ache stitched into my skull.
Where—?
Panic hits like a sharp slap. My chest locks up and my fingers twitch for something to hold. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know—
“Hey there,” a woman says, close. “Easy.”
I turn too fast and the room skews again. A nurse stands at my bedside. Glossy mouth. A badge I should be able to read except the letters slide. She smiles like we’ve met. Maybe we have. I search her face and my mind gives me nothing. A blank where a file should be.
“Don’t force it,” she says softly, hand at my wrist, counting. “You’re safe.”
“Where is safe?” It comes out rough. “Where am I?”
“Presbyterian,” she answers. “Neurology floor.” Then, she adds, “You’re here for observation after a head injury.”
I work a swallow down. “Game… Six.”
“Mm-hmm.” A small smile. “Then a lot of sleep.” She lifts her other hand. “Also, a lot of charming the night shift in your sleep.”
