Page 1 of The Girlfriend Game
Prologue
“Zeke? Can you hear me? Open your eyes, man.Openyour goddamn eyes.”
I can hear the panicked words spoken from my teammate, Carver Edwards, kneeling next to me, but I can’t see him. Normally, the lights of the arena are so bright they’re nearly blinding, but my vision has gone dark and everything is pitch black. My vision has completely disappeared and I am freaking the fuck out.
I hear his voice and understand the words, but I can’t respond. Words muddle together and get stuck in the back of my throat. Carver’s voice sounds like he’s speaking to me from the far end of a mile-long train tunnel; muted and overlapping with the blare of a train whistle that whooshes loudly through my ears.
There’s a quiet murmur from the crowd, mixed with the hushed whispers of my teammates on the sidelines that oddly creates a massive cacophony of noise inside my head. It competes with the deafeningly loud and racing heartbeat in my chest.
Badum. Badum. Badum.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t see.
What is wrong with me?
Terror streaks through my head as Carver shakes my shoulders, my body jerking with the motion. As if dislodging the cloak of darkness, my eyes pop open to find Carver sagging with relief at my side.
“Thank God. You fucking scared me.”
Suddenly, Marek Talbert, the team’s GM, Coach Green, and our team doctor appear at my side, all shouting questions at me over one another.
“Where are you hurt?”
“Is it your heart?”
“What happened?”
Under normal circumstances, I’d push them away, telling them to fuck off and stop treating me like a baby. But all I’m able to do right now is stare at them, my head seized with paralyzing fear; as if something foreign has overtaken my body, restraining and imprisoning me in its controlling grip. I’m unable to move or respond. I open my mouth to try to speak, but nothing comes out. I try moving my arms, my head, my legs. Nothing.
Okay, now I’m really freaked out.
I blink and blink again, trapped inside a world that’s quickly turning hazy as I lose focus. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but it can’t be good.
“Zeke. Talk to us. Tell us what’s going on.”
The question comes from Marek, whose calm composure is a stabilizing force for this team. Rarely does he get riled up or lose his cool, but he can’t hide the trace of trepidation running through his voice, which does little to comfort me in this time of need. Confusion and fear hit me all over again as my eyes roll back inside my head, and then everything goes black.
When I wakeup in a hospital sometime later, I’m surrounded by beeping machines and a medical team that is constantly in and out of my room, checking my vitals, poking and prodding, and asking questions I can’t answer. All I want is for them to tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.
“You’re awake,” comes a soft voice from the right side of my bed. I slowly turn my head against the scratchy pillow, which reeks of bleach and Lysol, to peer at a nurse standing at my bedside. “Hi, Zeke. I’m Carla, the nurse on duty. You’re safe now and we’ve given you a sedative, so you’re probably feeling very groggy. That’s normal. But the doctor wanted me to tell you he’ll be in soon to speak with you.”
My mouth feels gritty, and I lick around my lips, the arid texture like sandpaper against my dry tongue.
Nurse Carla seems to anticipate my needs and hands me a tiny cup with a straw. “Here you go. I’ll move your bed up so you can take a few sips.”
The motion of the bed has my head spinning in a dizzying motion. I catch myself with a hand against the cold metal rail of the hospital bed to keep myself steady. The nurse throws a hand out against my shoulder, boosting me back upright.
When my vision clears, the white spots slowly dissipating, I glance down at the end of the bed looking for a place to focus. I notice my feet poking out underneath the blue hospital blanket, which is clearly not made for six-foot-seven basketball players.
Nurse Carla giggles affably as she takes note of the same thing and reaches down to cover my toes with the blanket, shrugging apologetically.
“At least the bed is long enough,” she teases, but then turns as heavy and purposeful footfalls echo from the doorway. My head swivels toward the door to see the doctor striding confidently through the doorway. He’s an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a full beard. Holding a tablet in his hands, he gives me a brief head nod in greeting, and his eyes glide over me before he flips his glasses up on top of his head and his eyes land on my face.
“Good evening, Mr. Forester. Sounds like you took a doozy of a spill out on the court tonight.”
I squint, screwing up my forehead at his comment. “I guess…I can’t remember much.”
“Hmm…” he hums, tapping some notes into the tablet before assessing me with concern etched on his brow. “I see…well, we’ll continue to run some more tests, but so far, the tests we’ve done have all returned negative and inconclusive. The EKG indicates nothing with your heart. You’re in great shape there.”
