False Start - Jessica Ruddick Page 0,82

By that point, a lot of people had already started filtering—or stumbling—out of the stands. There was a collective gasp several rows up, and I looked up just in time to see a drunk girl land on her ass on the concrete stairs. I winced on her behalf. That was going to hurt tomorrow. But she was probably lucky she didn’t get arrested, considering security had been right next to her. Sheesh. She looked like she was a freshman.

Though a lot of the other homecoming court members had already left, Blake and I stayed. He grinned at me. “Always stay until the bitter end. Am I right?”

I nodded. “Always. Just glad that this time the bitter end is for the opponent.”

“It usually is.”

“True,” I agreed. “We’ll conveniently forget about the game…” I trailed off as I watched our backup quarterback bobble the ball in his hands, nearly fumbling. By some miracle, he managed to recover and send the ball sailing down the field. The throw was high, arcing up, which gave the defenders plenty of time to get down the field. Carson jumped, easily claiming the ball. The defender who had also been trying to catch the ball hadn’t stood a chance, even though he had committed pass interference. I nodded as the ref threw down a flag at the spot of the foul.

As Carson turned to run, a defender rushed him. Carson dipped his shoulder, no doubt planning to plow through the guy. That might have worked, except another defender rushed up behind him. Goddamn it. Where the hell is our offensive line? The defender slammed into Carson’s back just as the first defender went in for the tackle. He led with his helmet and crashed into Carson’s arm, probably in an attempt to force a fumble. Carson got sandwiched between them and went down.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“It’s okay,” Blake said. “He still has the ball.”

I wasn’t worried about a damn fumble. It looked like Carson was hugging the ball to his chest, but I knew better—he was cradling his arm. He didn’t hop up like he normally did. Something wasn’t right.

A teammate jogged toward him then waved his hand toward the sidelines. The trainers rushed onto the field.

Oh no, oh God, oh no.

When Blake put his arm around me, I realized I was shaking. “Hey,” he said in a soothing tone. “Don’t worry. Carson is one of the toughest guys on the team.”

That was what I was worried about. Carson was tough and had a ridiculous pain tolerance, so if he stayed down, then something was very wrong.

***

Carson

THE SECOND I heard the crack, I knew it was bad. Motherfucker! The pain was excruciating, but that wasn’t what bothered me. My main concern was that Coach wasn’t going to let me go back in the game with my arm bent like that.

I had the errant thought that I should use the hand on my good arm to massage the crooked arm straight again. But before I knew it, the trainers were hovering over me with concerned looks on their faces.

“Just stay still, Carson,” one of the older ones named Hank said. What the hell did he expect me to do? I couldn’t move with the wall of bodies around me. Hell, weren’t they supposed to leave some oxygen for me? Fuck. Give me some goddamn air.

Hank undid my helmet strap and pulled it off. Nope, not better. The brim of the helmet had blocked out the sun, but now it was blasting right into my eyes.

“It’s definitely broken,” someone said.

No shit. I could have told you that.

“I’ll be fine. Tape it up.”

The trainers all stared at me. “Tape isn’t an option for this one.”

Fuck. I’d known that, but it was worth a shot.

“Can you walk?”

“It’s my arm, not my leg.”

“All righty then,” Hank said. “Let’s get you off the field.” He leaned down to help me up, but I waved him off. Using my unbroken arm, I pushed myself up off the ground. I wasn’t careful enough, and my bad arm got jostled. I nearly stumbled as a wave of pain hit me. Holy fuck.

The crowd cheered once I was on my feet. Grinning, I waved to them with my good arm, and the roar got louder. The grin fell off my face when I saw the flatbed golf cart waiting for me on the side of the field. Oh, hell no. They might force me off the field, but I sure as hell was leaving it on my