“Go with him,” Mateo says to me. “If you’ve made your choice, go with him. Please.”
I nod, shooting a glance at Luciano, who looks equally distraught, and I wonder how the hell they can keep on playing like this when Alejo is a question mark.
But that’s the game, I guess.
There’s always too much at stake to stop.
So I follow the stretcher, walking alongside David who gives me a tight but welcoming smile, and we head all the way back to the tunnels underneath the stadium.
I pass right by Stewart and the team.
Our eyes meet.
I know I should say something to my ex-husband, but perhaps my running across the field already said enough.
Stewart just gives me a nod.
He knows my choice.
I nod right back, more than grateful that he gave me another chance, because that chance led me to this road, right here.
And from here, I’m taking another path.
I follow Alejo.
Chapter 31
Alejo
“How is my favorite player doing today?” Dr. Valdez asks me as he bustles into the room. “Hope you’re feeling better, it’s a beautiful day. How can you not feel better when it’s a beautiful day? Look at that sunshine, spring is already here. Summer will be here before you know it.”
Short and robust, with John Lennon glasses, Dr. Valdez is a rolling ball of energy, always talking a mile a minute, which doesn’t help my brain, which struggles to keep up. He does tend to keep me awake for more than ten minutes, though.
“I’m doing okay,” I tell him. My words come slow to me. “Just kind of hard to be in here when it does look like that outside. Would be a beautiful day on the pitch.”
“Tut tut tut,” he says, bringing out my chart and peering it over. “We don’t talk about the things we can’t control. You can’t be on the pitch but it doesn’t mean it’s not a nice day, does it? Here, those blinds should be open more, you need some more sunshine to get your brainwaves going nicely.”
He hurries over to the curtains and opens them, the sun flooding in.
“There,” he says, dusting off his hands. “Where were we? Oh yes. So I’ve been going over the tests you did yesterday and, to no one’s surprise, you still have a concussion. Tricky bastards, aren’t they? They’re like my son, took a long time for him to leave the house but when he finally did, boy did his mother and I party.”
I blink at him, wondering if the doctor himself is some sort of a comprehension test.
He goes on. ”But the good news is, you’re being discharged from the hospital tomorrow. We’ll run a few more tests in the morning, of course, basic ones, you’ll be awake and cognitive for all of them. But you should be good to go home.”
“And back to the game?” I ask hopefully.
“That will take time. Hopefully for your sake, and for my sake, because I always have a lot of money riding on Los Blancos. But don’t get frustrated when it doesn’t happen right away. You don’t want to be put back in the game too soon. That’s where the real damage comes from.”
I know I should be more grateful that I’m alive. Grateful that when Mark York’s shoulder connected my head, and caused me to lose consciousness, that serious brain damage didn’t occur. It easily could have. Concussions during football are rarely talked about, but it is a full-contact sport where we don’t wear helmets, and they are very common. In some cases, life-threatening.
I’m lucky to be in this hospital bed, awake and using my brain.
But all I can think of is the game.
Getting back to it.
When can I play again?
When can I train again?
It’s March and there’s not a lot of the season left. Things will wrap up in June and this is the most crucial part, where I’m needed the most. After spending so much of last year out with the knee injury, it would kill me to sit on the sidelines forever again.
At least last time, I had Thalia.
The thought of her stings, like a sliver in your finger that you thought you got rid of. It’s small but it’s still there, reminding you at the worst times that you might not ever be rid of it.
She’s embedded deep.
“But I have some more good news,” he says to me, clapping his hands together.