Page 77 of Just Playin'
Coach James gives me a look, one that reveals he’s panicked that my attempt to talk Elvis from the ledge has instead inched him closer to it. Refusing to accept the shit shovel he’s handing me, I return his glare. I’m not the one in the wrong here. If anyone needs help digging themselves out from the stench, it’s Elvis, not me.
My eyes shift back to Elvis when he says, “I’ll be a minute.”
His remorse-filled eyes stop bouncing between mine when Coach replies, “No, Carlton, now or find your ass warming the bench during playoffs.”
I take his threat as idle, but Elvis doesn’t. He frees my hands from his tight grip before taking a step back. He’s barely lodged an inch of air between us when Coach James fills the gap by thrusting the bucket he stores the players’ phones in at the start of communication lockdown. I forget every silent plea Elvis’s eyes gave me the past five minutes when he removes his cell from his pocket to place it in the box. The screen is clear, meaning not only did he see the dozens of text messages I sent him, he also ignored them.
“We’ll talk about this after the game.”
Stealing my chance to tell him to break a leg—figuratively—he runs his index finger down my flaming-with-anger cheek before stalking back to his locker. His steps are as heavy as mine when I was ordered into Coach James’s office, but they have nothing on the weight that hits my chest when Coach James requests I stay in my cubicle until after the game.
He’d never say it, but supposedly I’m no longer Elvis’s good luck charm.
I can’t help but wonder who stole my title.
“UGH!COME ON,E!”I rake my fingers through my hair when Elvis foils his third play of this quarter. He’s playing like shit, and that’s putting it nicely.
With how worked up I was, I hadn’t planned on watching the game. I only switched on the TV in the locker room when the roars coming from the crowd vibrated under my feet. I’ve never heard them so frustrated before. Now I understand their pain. The plays the team is running are complex, but their opponents are responding to them as if they’re child’s play. They seem to know Elvis’s game plan before he’s even decided which play he’s pursuing.
When Elvis’s throw is intercepted by the opposition, I switch off the TV. I’d rather not know what’s happening than see the onslaught firsthand.
I’VE BARELY RESTACKEDmy supplies cupboard when a flurry of noise bursts into the locker room. My eyes drop to my watch. There are still eleven minutes left in the third quarter, so it can’t be the players making a ruckus. But if it isn’t them, who is it?
My curiosity is satisfied when a blast of air hits my face. Three big burly men throw open my door with so much force, it nearly comes off the hinges. I leap to my feet when the urgency of their visit breaks through the fog in my head. They’re carting Elvis on a stretcher. His face shows an immense amount of pain.
“What happened?”
While lifting his stretcher onto my massage table, a range of answers are flung at me. From what I can gather between breaths, he was illegally tackled midair, went down and never got back up.
“The team’s doc is on his way. He went in the ambulance with Terrence when he got a concussion.” This comes from head assistant coach, Mick Salter. “We were going to keep Carlton field-side, but he insisted we bring him here. Can you watch him until Doc arrives? We’re getting slaughtered out there.”
I’m shaking my head, but Coach Salter doesn’t notice. He just gestures for the men who brought Elvis in to exit before locking me in a room with a man grunting more in frustration than pain.
“Willow?” Elvis’s one word takes him almost ten seconds to articulate.
After breathing out my nerves, I spin around to face him. “Yeah?”
Holding his left shoulder in his arm, he shuffles to a half-seated position. “I’ve popped my shoulder out.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I’m surprised I can talk with how much I’m cringing. The low hang of his shoulder makes horrid memories race to the forefront of my mind.
My eyes snap to Elvis’s when he says, “I need you to pop it back in.”
“Nooooo.” I shake my head while drawling out my short reply as if it is an entire sentence.
He jumps off the massage table to pace closer to me, the plea in his eyes doubling with each step he takes. “Please. It’s only a partial dislocation, but if you don’t put it back in its place, it will keep hurting like a bitch.”
“The doctor is only a few minutes away—”
“I don’t have a few minutes. Please, Willow. You’re trained to do this. You can ease my pain.”
I’m about to say no again when he adds a final “please” to his reply. He truly needs my help, and he’s right, I am trained to handle dislocations, not just from my studies, but in my private life as well. My knee has popped out a handful of times the past two years. It’s why I was apprehensive about returning to dance. I nearly vomit when my knee cap dislocates. Aside from losing my parents, it’s the worst pain I’ve ever experienced.
With that in mind, I instruct, “Remove your jersey and lie down on the table, face first.”
Relief crosses Elvis’s features before apprehension overtakes them. Since he’s holding his arm into his shoulder socket, he has no way to remove his shirt.
I guess that leaves the task up to me?
