Dreaming of His Pen Pal's Kiss - Jessie Gussman Page 0,3

idea of this pen pal, and writing to this man, stirred threads of excitement that she hadn’t had when her dad had handed her the addresses to the other people.

She had a feeling...this man was going to be different.

Chapter 2

The dream began the way it always did.

He was on the field, and he’d just caught the ball, both hands wrapped around it, tucking it in the crook of his arm, securing it, in the split second before he made the ninety-degree turn and headed straight up the field.

He always caught the ball in the dream.

He never fumbled it, either.

Considering how the rest of the dream worked out, it was always slightly amazing that the beginning of the dream was so positive.

But he got to the inevitable part where his legs wouldn’t work.

There was no pain. No blood. No ripping metal, shattering glass, screaming. Nothing. Even the stands were silent.

In the dream.

But his legs just wouldn’t move. He couldn’t get them to go. He could see the defense converging. See the helmet lowered for the hit that would end his career. Feel that sharp twist of nerves in his stomach, the one that overrode the aggression and determination and grit that had gotten him through junior high and high school and college ball. Although he hadn’t been drafted, he’d been signed as a free agent and had clawed his way to a starting position, the first time in his life he’d been paid to play football.

Then, through hard work and determination, he’d become the best at his position. The best tight end in the league.

His hands were sure. He never dropped the ball, and he wasn’t afraid to lay out, to create big blocks for the running back behind him. Every single skill that was necessary for him to excel in his position was a skill he mastered.

But in the dream, his legs wouldn’t work.

He stood frozen, helpless as the defenders reached him. A linebacker first. A big hit, but he’d stay on his feet. His legs wouldn’t move, but the defenders couldn’t get him down.

Not at first.

A smaller cornerback hit him next, fast and tough, but he still didn’t fall. Didn’t touch the dirt. The play wasn’t dead.

Not until the second and third linebacker slammed into him, and in the dream, he didn’t feel the pain, the hits didn’t hurt.

Until they did.

And somehow, he was on the ground, bleeding, and the worst part, his leg, the thigh bone bent at an odd angle, blood soaking his uniform, the horrified eyes looking out through the other team’s helmets.

And then the horrified eyes of his buddies on his own team. His friends. His homies. The guys he did everything with. In season and out of season. Man, he even vacationed with some of them.

But now, in the dream, he lay on the ground, his leg twisted, and the pain began, shooting up and down his leg, out his arms, through his fingertips, pounding in his head, but the worst pain was his heart.

Because when he looked at his buddies and held his hand out, asking for a hand up, they looked at him in horror, shaking their heads and turning away.

Suddenly, the stadium was empty, and he was there alone, bleeding and unable to move, unable to get up...

And there was no one to help.

That’s when he woke up. That’s when he always woke up.

Even after a little nap in the middle of the day, sunlight streaming in through the hospital window, beeping coming down the hall, his door half cracked... The lights were out, but the hospital never slept.

Therefore, neither did he. Not even at night. People bustling in all day long—he was a hot commodity after all, and no one wanted to see anything happen to him.

They didn’t know that the dream, or nightmare as it was, had become his biggest fear.

Being alone.

He stirred, shaking the last remnants of the dream from his head, and the paper that lay on his chest, the one he’d been reading when he dozed off, crinkled.

He gripped it, not in a normal way, and he made his fingers relax.

Funny, he was in the hospital because of a car accident, but that was never a part of his dream.

The injury, and the traction devices on his leg right now, were not from a football injury but from the car accident.

His dream always had it messed up.

Running a hand down over his eyes and across his cheeks where the stubble scratched his palm, he took a