Page 187 of Almost Ours
But it wasn’t Shane.
It was Nina.
A strange, ugly feeling twisted in my gut. Nina never called me.
Something was wrong.
I swiped to answer. “Nina?”
Her voice was frantic, the words tumbling over each other in a panicked rush. “Ryan–oh my God–Connor–he’s hurt–hit–ambulance.”
The world tilted. My body froze, and I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles ached. “Nina,” I said sharply, my voice cracking. “Take a breath. Tell me what the hell is going on.”
A shaky inhale, then her voice again–still trembling but more measured now. “We were playing Westfield. You know thatteam, right? The one with the kid who–who kept going after Connor last season?”
“Yeah,” I said tightly, every muscle in my body coiled.
“They were at it again. Cheap shots all game. And then–” She swallowed hard. “One of their players hit Connor from behind. Hard. He went headfirst into the boards.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. The blood drained from my face. My chest constricted, making it impossible to breathe.
“He wasn’t moving, Ryan,” Nina continued, her voice cracking. “He just… laid there. We called the ambulance, and by the time they got there, he was talking–but he said his neck hurt. A lot. They put a brace on him, got him on the stretcher–”
I couldn’t process the words. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
“Ryan?” Nina’s voice pulled me back. “Did you hear me?”
I forced air into my lungs, though it felt like breathing through a straw. “Yes,” I croaked. “Where is he?”
“They took him to the hospital. The one in Valleyway.”A beat of silence, then softer, “I just thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” I said automatically, my voice flat and distant.
I hung up without another word, my hand trembling as I lowered the phone.
Kyle was staring at me now, concern etched into his face. “Everything okay?”
“No.” My voice was hollow. “It’s Connor. I have to go.”
He started to say something, but I was already on my feet, throwing cash on the table and grabbing my keys.
The world blurred as I ran to my truck, Nina’s words echoing in my head.Hit. Boards. Neck brace. Stretcher.
Connor.
I slammed the door and started the engine, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Four hours. I wasfour hoursaway.
Panic clawed at my chest, suffocating and relentless.
“Please be okay,” I whispered, my voice breaking “Please, Connor. Just be okay.”
Those four hourswere the longest of my entire life. Every tick of the clock stretched into eternity, my mind a storm of worst-case scenarios. My foot stayed glued to the gas pedal, the needle on the speedometer hovering dangerously close to reckless. If there were any highway patrol cars out tonight, I’d be getting a ticket–maybe even arrested–but I didn’t care. I needed to get to Connor.
The highway blurred past me–cars, signs, trees–all of it meaningless. The only thing I could focus on was getting there.
Guilt gnawed at the pit of my stomach, a dull, relentless ache. I should’ve been there. I should’ve been the one coaching him, just like last season. I should’ve been standing behind the bench, guiding him, protecting him, watching out for him. Not four hours away, chasing a job that suddenly didn’t feel so important anymore.
