I chomped down on my lip, seemingly fighting back pain when, in fact, I was fighting back the immense emotion that swept over me at the sight of my two brothers. The act of them choosing to leave the match mid-play to carry me off the pitch and not subject me to the scene of a stretcher was overwhelming.
These brothers of mine truly would do anything for me.
On the sidelines, we were swarmed by the team medic, a ref, the pitch emergency staff, our dad and, eventually, our raging, wildfire sister.
Vi was covered in an enormous Bethnal Green poncho and looked ready to burst. “Where was the fucking red card, Ref?” Her screams were in no way intimidating or threatening, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. “That was utter shite and you know it! Get some fucking glasses, you twat!”
I winced as they settled me onto the hard stretcher on the ground and prepared to carry me away. Everyone was talking at me, including my dad. He was touching my knee and looking earnestly at my eyes with a million soundless questions. His lips were moving—everyone’s were—but I couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying. The blood rushed loudly in my ears as hot sweat dripped down my mud-stained face, blurring my vision. All I could do was stare down at my offensive knee.
My dream-crushing knee that just ruined any chance I had at a contract offer.
“Fuck!” I screamed loudly into my shoulder, feeling utterly betrayed. I slammed my fist down onto the hard plastic of the stretcher just as some blokes lifted it and began escorting me off the sidelines. “I blew it,” I whispered on an exhale as I glanced back at Tower Park.
Tower Park.
This pitch was a place that had been my home for most of my life. From going along with my dad as a child while he attended practises with potential recruits, to now playing on it myself for the past six years. This was my career. I became a man on this grass. And now, I was being carried off of it…like a baby.
My eyes glazed as I took note of the fans all standing up…even the visiting fans. The men had their hats off and placed respectfully against their chests. The women had their hands cupped over their mouths in shock. Down below, the players had all taken a knee, even the ones on the sidelines. My chin wobbled as I admitted that for the first time in my life, I hated this fucking game.
When I finally pull my hands off my face because of the muted noise, I find myself in a small exam room surrounded by glass. I look out the closed sliding door straight in front of me and see my family gesturing wildly at the doctor who received us when we first came in.
A throat clears from beside me and I jump. “Um, sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Dr. Porter, and I’m going to be prepping you for your MRI.”
I frown and turn to eye the petite woman who barely looks old enough to drink. Her red, curly hair sits in a mess atop her head and she touches it self-consciously.
“Doctor?” I ask while wiping away the moisture on my face and trying to hide the fact that it’s a mix of mud, sweat, and tears.
“I just look young. I’m not.” Her insecurity fades instantly with her sharp and clipped tone like she says that phrase every day and hates it.
A loud shout snaps my attention from the doctor. I look back and see my dad running his hands angrily through his grey hair. He looks haggard and out of control. A shaken Vaughn Harris isn’t a common occurrence. He has two primary emotions: protective and demanding.
The first time I ever saw the man crack any level of emotion was last year when my sister gave him a gift of our mum’s poems. It was a peculiar sight and one he made us swear never to speak of again. So the sight of him flailing at the doctor makes me positively ill.
“They can’t come in here,” the redhead says. I turn back to catch her watching me. Her brows are knit together in sympathy beneath a pair of large cheetah-print glasses.
Disturbed by her perceptiveness and a little by those ridiculous glasses, I narrow my eyes and murmur, “I don’t care.”
She purses her lips, clearly unconvinced by my response. “It was kind of a mess out there, so we brought you to the ICU. Only doctors and patients are allowed in the exam rooms.”
Hearing her say ICU and patients sounds ominous. A sudden burst of panic grips my chest over what all of this could mean for me.
I’m not ready for it. I’m not ready to have a screwed up knee for the rest of my life. I’m not ready to admit this could be the end of my career. I’m not ready for change. I want to be Camden Harris, footballing star and sex god to women. That’s the life I signed up for. That’s the goal I want. Pun intended.
I refuse to feel differently. I refuse to let this injury take over everything I am and everything I represent.
I need a distraction. Now.
I turn back to take in the doctor more fully as she moves toward me. She’s dressed in blue scrubs and bright neon green trainers. Inch by inch, I assess that she’s a shorter frame, probably no more than five foot four. Since I can’t get a good read on her body beneath those annoying scrubs, I focus more intently above her neck as she pushes buttons on the monitor near my bed.
Her face is sweet and innocent, but not necessarily na?ve. Her brown eyes are too sharp and confident to be completely clueless. They definitely contradict her cherubic facial features that make me feel a bit soft and funny on the inside. I don’t typically have this reaction to women’s faces. Normally, I’m more interested in their body stats.
Large arse.
Large tits.
Small waist.
Down for a shag.
That’s my checklist when I roll into a club. The logic behind it is that any average-looking girl can look hot with loads of makeup and dark lighting. I’m more concerned about how they look naked and spread out on a bed as I drive into them. I’m not ashamed of my taste and preference in women. Appreciating a soft, luscious bounce beneath my touch is my rite of passage as a bloke.
But this girl before me has little to no makeup on, yet I find my body instinctively reacting to the soft curves of her face. Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I picked up a girl in broad daylight, so this all feels a bit strange to me. Then again, nothing about what’s happening to me today is typical.
Suddenly, I see a rosy hue crawl up her cheeks as she catches me watching her. My brows lift in a “what’d you expect” sort of expression. Her gaze narrows in contemplation, and I swear I see a tiny spark that tells me she’s not all together put off by my perusal.
The side of my mouth tilts up.
Camden Harris, you’ve just found the perfect distraction.
Maybe if I lie still and let this pretty, bare-faced girl invade all of my thoughts and senses, I won’t turn into an emotional ninny over what’s happening to my knee.
I wonder where else she’s bare? I think to myself, desperate to be reminded that I am still me somewhere beneath this mess of a body.
She shuffles closer to my bed and reaches over top of me for something on the wall. The scent of lemons, toothpaste, and fresh rain fan over me in her close proximity. It’s a mouth-watering combination. In the past, I’ve tried to steer clear of redheads because they’re usually the crazy ones. But lord, between this one’s scent and her pretty face, I’m quite certain that won’t be necessary.