But the mind sees what it wants to see.
“Not here,” I mumble, turning away. “She’s not here.” My eyes close, and I feel like I’m sinking through the stretcher into warm water.
“Hey—Langley, stay awake for me, okay?”
Doc’s voice sounds far away. Her grip on my hand is my tether. I’m a hot air balloon floating above the stadium, watching it all from on high. She calls at me from the ground, her hands cupping her mouth as she shouts through the din.
“Ryan, stay awake…”
I groan, wanting to do as she says. I’m a team player. I always do what I’m told. Doc says stay awake.
“Ryan…”
I’m a hot air balloon, and I’m floating…floating…
14
Monitors beep and hum all around me, their lights blinking in the semidarkness. The IV in my arm itches like crazy. I want to scratch at it, but that will likely work it loose. Again. I already did it once tonight, which annoyed the nurses.
Yeah, I’m a terrible fucking patient.
And I hate hospitals even more than I hate airplanes.
I spent half my life in one as a kid, watching my dad fight a slow losing battle with cancer. It’s hard to unpack the trauma associated with a place that gives life as often as it takes it away. For the longest time, I just had the memories of a grieving nine-year-old to inform my impressions. Time and distance have lessened my sense of primal fear, but there are some memories that embed themselves deep within the DNA.
Like the fact that all hospitals have the same smell. As soon as my stretcher rolled through the doors of the emergency room, I felt like that scared nine-year-old again. It’s the faintly metallic smell of medical-grade cleaner that lingers on every surface. Mix in the scent of starched hospital sheets, add in a whiff of stale coffee, a whisper of drying paint, and you’ve got the hospital bouquet.
It’s noxious.
Stifling.
Triggering.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
I look down at my left knee. It’s wrapped up in a brace and propped from below by a pillow. My right leg is hidden under the thin hospital blankets. The bare toes of my left foot stick up, pointing to the ceiling. Apparently, I’m supposed to sleep like this, lying on my back with the brace on. I never sleep on my back. I don’t even know if I can sleep on my back.
This night is gonna suck.
At least they’ve assured me I’ll be discharged in time to join the team on the return flight to Jax. I don’t want to be left behind. This night has been traumatic for me beyond the knee injury. I don’t want to be alone.
As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, there’s a knock at my door and Sully enters.
“Hey, there he is,” he says with a wide smile. “How you feeling, man?” He steps around my bed to drop down into the empty chair.
“Whoa, you look like shit,” Morrow says from the door, following him in. His words are teasing, but his eyes are hardened, his mouth set in a frown rather than his usual smile. He’s still blaming himself for the bad pass that got me clipped.
“I’m fine,” I reply to Sully’s question, looking at Morrow. “Tired but fine.”
Jake comes through the door last, my backpack slung on his shoulder and my overnight bag in his other hand. “My darling wife sent me with gifts,” he says, holding up both bags. “Jeez, you look like shit, man. Probably smell like it too. Want your deodorant?”
He doesn’t even wait for me to say ‘yeah’ before he’s dropping both bags onto the other empty chair. He goes digging through my backpack, pulling out my Old Spice and tossing it over to me. I freshen up my pits as Sully helps himself to the pitcher of water on my bedside table.
“How’s the leggo?” says Sully, gesturing to my swollen, aching knee.
“Doc says I have a second-degree sprain of my MCL,” I reply.
Jake helps himself to a seat at the end of my bed. “What does that mean exactly?”
“How long are you off the ice?” Sully rephrases.
I shrug. “Doc says I’m looking at about four weeks of RICE. We don’t want the tear to get any fucking worse.”
We’ve each had enough injuries between us to know the RICE regimen: rest, ice, compression, elevation. I have to control the swelling. The rest is just pain management while the body heals itself. Doc walked me through it all twice before she left, which I appreciated since they slipped me some good pain killers down in the ER.
Sully gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Four weeks is nothing, man. Easy time.”