Handful by C.R. Grissom
CHAPTER TWELVE
Everest
Once the adrenaline wears off, the sharp pain in the back my knee nauseates me. I’m used to pain; playing football hurts. What has my stomach folding over on itself is the thought I might be out for the season.
I’m on the table in the training room. Cleats off. The trainer cuts my game pants up the side of my injured leg but manages to avoid damaging my compression shorts. Doc Haywood holds my foot, observing the ligaments as he turns my leg left and then right. It hurts like a mofo, but I don’t make noise.
Doc and the head trainer, Garcia, grunt, sigh, and otherwise communicate with each other without words. I don’t think anything tore. I would have known. When my roommate Dex tore his ACL, he’d told me he heard the pop in his eardrums. Not the same for me, hope fills my chest about not facing ligament damage.
The doctor steps away from me, pulls at his ear, finally opens his mouth. “I think we’re clear on ligament damage, but I’ll want to have you in for an MRI on Monday morning to confirm. Make sure we aren’t dealing with fractures. You’ve got swelling, but the bruises haven’t bloomed yet, I’ll take that as a good sign. I’ll get you on the schedule at the Wellness Center. Until then, I expect you to RICE.”
What the hell? “Am I supposed to eat it or wear it?”
His lips twitch. “Rest, ice, compress, and elevate. I suspect you hyper-extended your knee. From the replay, and from my examination, that’s my best guess without imaging.”
He turns to Garcia. “Wrap it, brace it, and then ice it. Once you’re done, elevate it. After the first twenty minutes, start him on interferential.” He speaks to me. “Follow orders. You’ll heal faster. I’ll fax in a prescription for an anti-inflammatory to the Fourth Street Pharmacy. We’ll get you set up for that MRI Monday. Don’t miss the appointment,” he demands.
“I’ll do what you ask. I want to play, sir.”
“Hmm. See that you do,” he tosses over his shoulder as he leaves the room.
Apparently, Fortis doesn’t pay him for his bedside manner. Garcia has more sympathy. “I’ll set you up, Everest. Coulda been worse.” He pats my shoulder pads. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for a simple hyper-extension. In that case, we can have you back on the field in two to four weeks, depending.”
Fuck.Two to four games. I close my eyes to absorb that news. Pop them open again. Like the man said, coulda been worse.
Two of Garcia’s assistants hover in the doorway. “You heard Doc. Nguyen, get me the supplies. Hoapili, we’ll need crutches for the mountain. Hustle now.”
Garcia address me, “Knowing Doc, your prescription will be available before the end of the game. You have more friends than I got cousins—and my family procreates like rabbits—which means you’ve got enough of them to nearly fill the colosseum. You figure out who to tag for this.”
He helps me get my jersey and shoulder pads off. “Once we get you set up, we’ll get your cell to you. I mean it, arrange for someone to get your meds, Everest. You’ll need them as soon as possible.”
Kirsty’s face pops in my head, which is ridiculous considering she doesn’t have a car. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Garcia grabs a foam block and pillow from the cubbies that line the wall with different supplies. He lifts my left foot to place it on top of the block to elevate my leg at the same time he places a cushion under my leg to support my knee. “That’ll do until we fix you up.” He steps to the doorway, shouts, “Nguyen, did you have to go all the way to UDO for the supplies? Get your ass in here.”
The side of my mouth lifts. Phoebe transferred from UDO in Vegas. I lie back on the padded table, trying to wrap my brain around the fact I won’t be on the field for our next critical, in-conference games. Shit. I review the play in my head. When I planted my feet for the play, Dallas took the snap, the defensive lineman coming at me to get to him. The shift in my stance when I blocked, and my knee going in the wrong direction.
Damn.I swallow hard.
Nguyen slides into the room carrying a knee brace and a wrap-around ice pack. He passes the gear off to Garcia, who approaches the table. Nguyen remains poised in the doorway ready to do Garcia’s bidding.
“Okay, let’s fix you up.” He calls out over his shoulder, “Nguyen get McBride’s cell from his locker. And find Hoapili. Crutches are in Supply Three, not buried in the craters of the moon.”
Despite Garcia’s disgruntled tone, he’s gentle with my injury throughout the process. I have way too much time to think about what’s happening on the field. My backup, T-Rex, a sophomore and all-around good guy, hasn’t had a lot of field time. He’s as large as a fridge, but his shorter arms earned him the moniker. I worry about Dallas, our QB, and whether the line will hold without me.
Even in the privacy of my thoughts, do I believe I’m indispensable? No. We’re a team. Eleven men head out to the line of scrimmage for every play. One person doesn’t make or break a team. They’ll stay strong. We’re a unit.
“You want to watch the game? I can turn on the feed,” Garcia rumbles, his voice low.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
He strides over to a counter and opens a drawer. He removes a remote and points it at the flat screen hanging on the wall. The game powers on. The Lobos offense lines up on their forty-yard line. Play-action pass with the QB rolling back, faking the handoff to his running back, checking for an open receiver. The QB finds the tight end flashing across the middle of the field for a twenty-yard gain. First down.
Christ.
The chain gang resets the chains at the line of scrimmage for first and ten. The Lobos set. The center snaps the ball to the QB, who rolls back and hands the ball off to the running back. Thor, our middle linebacker, takes him out before he gets more than three yards downfield.
The Lobos go for two on fourth down and our defense holds them back. Turnover on downs. We get the ball with three minutes left in the first half.
We get down to the thirty-yard line. T-Rex lacks confidence, and it shows. They send TJ on the field to kick on fourth down. His kick goes through the posts for our first three points of the game. It’s been a freaking battle for yardage. I should be on the field, not in here with a freaking elevated leg.
Shit.
Garcia comes back, removes the ice pack, then attaches electrodes to begin electrotherapy. “This’ll help increase blood flow, reduce swelling, and get a jump-start on healing,” he murmurs.
The electrodes zap and pulse. I do my best to ignore what’s happening to my knee while I watch the game.
Nguyen steps into the room with my phone. “Here you go, Everest.” He passes me the cell. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
“Thanks. I’m good.” I shove the mobile under my hip. There’s only thirty seconds left on the clock before the half. Figuring out who to tap to get my meds can wait until the Gladiators come off the field. I also need to figure out who the hell will drive the Baja home. I can’t leave it unprotected overnight in the colosseum lot.
There are a limited number of people who I’d trust to drive the Baja. I’ll have to figure it out soon. Fuck. I dislike being in a vulnerable position—forced to ask for help instead of providing it.
The clock winds down to zero. My Gladiator brothers run off the field. The noise level rises to ear-splitting when they hit the adjacent locker rooms for the defense and offense. I never noticed the deafening sound we make as a team.
The significance of being on the outside isn’t lost on me. The breath that backs up in my lungs expels. I gulp in more air. I can’t seem to get enough oxygen in my chest. I realize I’m hyperventilating and slow my breathing. Concentrate on the inhalation, then the exhalation.
Steady, I grab my phone. Ignoring the explosion of texts I’ve received, I scroll through to find Lola’s last text. I stop when I see the girl superhero emoji. Lilly. I slide to view her message; it reads:
Are you okay?
The next:
Tell me you just wanted a ride to the restroom.
The first sent this evening:
Did you remember leaving your curling iron on?
Her snark and concern pull a reluctant grin from me. Warmth spreads in my chest. This is a woman who usually adds reactions to my texts. She doesn’t compose them. I got three in the same evening. A freaking record. I add the ha-ha reaction to her first text. The curling iron reference makes me think of Baloo, our defensive end, who uses a line about abandoned and hot curling irons when he wants a subject change.
I type a reply:
Knee. Out 2–4 wks. Need a favor.
The three dots appear, then vanish. She adds the like reaction to my text. Then nothing.
I stare at my phone. Seriously? I must have hit my limit on texts from Kirsty tonight. As I’m mulling that over—doing my best not to get angry without much success—my phone rings in my hand. I answer, “Imagine my surprise when I beheld a superhero calling me.”
Her quick burst of laughter trills in my ear.
CW rushes into the room. “Everest, I’ve only got about thirty seconds to update you. We’ve got everything taken care of.”
What? Huh?
In my ear Kirsty swallows hard enough for the sound to come through. “Hey, sorry you’re hurt. Faith and I are heading over to the pharmacy right now. Is there anything else you might need?”
CW steps to the table. Patting my shoulder he says, “I gave your keys to Gabe. He’ll get them to Beau. He’ll drive the Baja to your place as soon as he has the keys. Beau has a ’65 Mustang. He’ll be careful. He respects the vintage ride. I’ll drive you back to the house in my car. Rest, relax, we’ve got you covered,” he calls out as he runs out of the room.
Kirsty clears her throat. “Eric, we’re going to pick up cold packs and Advil in addition to your prescription. How are you?”
I’m stymied over the fact I didn’t have to arrange a damn thing, confused in a way that makes me think the electrotherapy machine has sent current to my brain, instead of my knee. It takes me a beat to answer, “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll have to get an MRI Monday to confirm.”
“I’ll add it to our to-do list,” she murmurs.
It echoes our first conversation back in December when her bag went MIA. My attraction to her was intense and immediate then, now it’s freaking off the charts. I close my eyes to absorb that truth.
Her breath stutters. “Are you hungry? We can pick up food.”
I have no appetite. I’m surprised by her apparent distress on my behalf. Don’t read too much into her reaction, I remind myself. We’re friends, which means you care when they’re in pain. Nothing more.
“Nah. Not necessary.”
“Okay, text me if you think of something you need.”
If I’m being honest with myself, she’s the only thing I need right now.
*
Two hours later,CW and I pull into the driveway at my place. Lola and Lilly are out front along with a third person. Not Beau, but it’s dark out. I didn’t bother leaving the light over the door on because I enter the house through the garage most often.
CW lurches forward in his seat. “Is that the dude from campus? The one who tried to harass you?”
Shit. Fuck. Damn.Not now. I unclip my seat belt and open the passenger door. The commotion of voices carry. “You’re not welcome here,” Faith scolds in a loud voice. “He doesn’t have time to deal with you.”
CW hisses, “Hold on. Let me help,” as he runs around to the passenger side.
“I got it.” But I don’t. I need his help to maneuver my bum leg out of the vehicle and it pisses me right off.
CW shoves my crutches at me. “Here.” He leans in and informs me in a low voice: “Calm down. I’ll take care of this.”
“No. I’ve got this.” The crutches are freaking awkward, but I clomp my way to the door as fast as I can without hitting the pavement.
Kirsty yells at him, “You shouldn’t be here. Go away.”
He’s taller than her. Hell, everyone is taller than her, but she’s blasting him with temper.
“CW, get the girls in the house.” I don’t want witnesses to the conversation.
He nods. “Faith, Kirsty,” he calls out as he wades into the melee. “Let’s get inside.”
“Bullshit,” Kirsty utters. Anger simmering, and eyes narrowed, she jerks her thumb in my brother’s direction. “I’ll go in when this one goes away.”
“Listen, shorty,” my nemesis replies.
“You listen. God, you’re more annoying than a door-to-door person selling religion.” Faith shoots her finger at him. “Scram.”
Whistling loud and sharp, I put an end to the play. “Please go inside. I’ll handle this.”
“Not when you’re hurt,” Kirsty argues.
“I appreciate the backup.” I glance at Kirsty first, and then Faith. My gaze arrows on my nemesis. “Two minutes. If I’m not in the house in the allotted time, I’ll unleash my champion.” I gesture to Kirsty. “She fights dirty.”
Her lips twitch. “Damn straight.”
“Go,” I say quietly. “I’m right behind you.”
She nods, glowering at him once more. Over her shoulder she says, “Two minutes or the ghost needs crutches, too.”
Ghost?I glance over at my self-proclaimed brother. He’s extraordinarily pale, and I can’t blame Lilly for getting her own back. His white T-shirt is two sizes too large and his black pants are barely visible in the low light. Ghostly indeed.
Faith nudges Kirsty into the house. CW closes the door after a long look at us both.
“What do you want?” I ask tersely.
“You haven’t called.” He throws his arms out with apparent exasperation. “We need to talk.”
“Whatever game you’re trying to play here won’t work. Go away.” I’m firm. I’m done.
“My name is Shane McBride Parrish. I’m your brother.”
“So you say.” Anger spikes within me. I do my level best to suppress the emotion. “Do you have proof?”
“Come with me to the storage unit.”
“So says every serial killer,” I scoff. “Get lost,” I say, turning toward the door.
“What will it take for you to believe me?” he asks, nerves showing in the way he rubs his thumb against the back side of the key fob in his hand.
I have to give him credit for pushing the issue. My size usually intimidates. Yeah, sure, I’m currently using crutches, but they could be used to defend myself.
“Give me your cell number. I’ll text you my birth certificate,” he says, his voice filled with exasperation.
I pull out my phone, not quite believing he’d give me his contact info. Shane rattles off a number. I dial; it rings in his pocket. I disconnect the call. I’ll definitely search the area code when I’m alone again.
I take a step, prepared to go through my front door. “I have to hop on in there or Rocket, my pint-sized Gladiator guardian, might take you out.”
“What happened to you?” Shane asks with strain in his voice.
Not sure if his tone is caused by my unwillingness to believe him or part of the brotherly con, I answer, “Knee hyperextension. It happens. Everything that flips out of whack goes back to normal with time and focus.”
Lilly opens the door like she’s about to come out and kick Shane’s butt. I roll my lips inward at the image—a feisty protector—possibly capable of kneecapping someone, if provoked.
“Perfect timing, Lilly. It’s hard to manage the door and crutches.”
“You need to elevate your leg,” she remarks, aiming a dark scowl at Shane’s retreating back.
“Let’s wait until I’m horizontal to do that.”
Her grin flashes. “I don’t know about that, you played stepstool for me once. We’ll make sure you’re able to do that again soon.”
“Why?” I ask innocently. “Do you need a lift?”
She tosses me a “Hmm,” over her shoulder.
Set, step, swing—clomping behind her, I enjoy the view. I know I shouldn’t stare, but there have been few perks to this day.
Lola and CW sit on one of the couches in the living room. Dex and Kelly went away for the weekend. I’m sure Chrysler will wander home at some point.
Kirsty points to the unoccupied couch. “Sit. Please. Faith, please grab Everest some water. Caleb, we need to ice his knee.”
Since my entire leg throbs, I go to the couch. I position the left crutch to take some of my weight as I ease down.
Kirsty grabs one of the cushion backs from the opposite couch. “Lift your leg, please.” And moves the coffee table, and positions the cushion on top. “Now rest.”
My leg throbs. I want a shower and my bed. In that order. If I’m a good patient, maybe they’ll leave.
Lola returns with a glass filled with water and ice. “Is that guy stalking you?” she asks. Concern in her voice.
How to answer truthfully? I delay the inevitable by drinking deep. Fuck it. These are my friends. “The thumbnail version is he claims to be my brother.”
“Yeah, he said. There’s no possible way,” Kirsty disagrees. “There is no resemblance, and what’s the freaking point?”
“Well, he could look like his mama,” CW states as he passes me an ice pack.
“Does your family know?”
I place it on my knee. I really don’t want to talk about Shane. “Yes. I told Mom after his first contact, and she told my sisters. Can we talk about this later? I really need a shower and bed.”
“You can’t shower on your own. You could slip,” Lola chides.
I spear a glance at Kirsty as a joke. Mostly.
She shrugs. “Only if you have a loofah and a stepladder.”
I grin at her.
Her lips twitch.
“I’ll go with him,” CW snickers. “No bathroom accidents on my watch.”
Lola laughs. “That sounds wrong. Like Everest isn’t potty-trained.”
I snort out a laugh.
Kirsty checks her watch. “Will you eat something before your next round of meds?” she asks gently.
“No, thank you.” I’m not used to being taken care of, which makes me feel inside out, like lining up against an opponent’s offense instead of the defense.
There were six of us. Mom taught us to be self-sufficient. She didn’t wipe our noses when they ran, or not much. We all pitched in to keep the wheels in motion. My baby sister Marla, learned how to fold clothes at four. Not well, but she got the hang of it in time. If I had to count the times I had to run to the drug store to pick up sanitary pads and tampons for one of my sisters, I’d need a calculator.
Now I’ve got CW offering to help me in the shower for fuck’s sake. I’ve got Kirsty playing the role of a special teams coach and team doc all rolled into one firecracker of a woman.
She offers her hand to help pull me up off the couch.
It would be so easy to pull her into my lap instead, but she’d probably slap me unconscious. Besides, we haven’t taken the path where that sort of game might play.
“Shower first,” my tiny medic orders. “We’ll get you in bed, then you’ll take more ibuprofen, and get some rest.”
I nod, resigned to overeager helpers.
Within the next forty minutes, I’ve showered, and have pulled on a pair of clean athletic shorts over the knee brace. My leg is sufficiently elevated on stacked cushions from the living room couch. I’m tucked into bed with a blanket thrown over me. A tall glass of water sits on my nightstand, courtesy of Kirsty.
Chrysler ducked in to check on me. Today was his girlfriend Annie’s birthday, they went out after the game. Satisfied I didn’t need anything, he went to bed.
CW, Faith, and Kirsty, stayed at my place to keep an eye on me. CW rolled his eyes at me when the women weren’t looking. At least he understands.
I stare at my half-open door. Kirsty insisted it couldn’t be closed in case I needed help and my voice stopped working or some ridiculous thing. This is a new side to her. It’d be sweet if I were the kind of person or had the kind of injury requiring a level of care you don’t even get in hospitals.
My family wouldn’t give me this much attention.
A shadow stops at my door. When the shadow furtively steps in my room, I recognize Lilly, and pretend to be asleep. Tracking her movement, I’m wondering what she’s up to right now.
From the corner of my eye, I watch her move to the side of my bed to open the bottle containing my prescription. She closes her fist around the pill and gently uses her opposite hand to rub my arm, leaning close to my ear. “Everest, I’m sorry to wake you. You need your pill now,” she whispers.
“Why are you whispering?”
She startles and slaps her free hand over her heart. “I thought you were sleeping,” she grumbles. Her voice low.
“What can fill a room but takes up no space?”
“A riddle. Seriously?” she scoffs. “I have no idea.”
“Light. Will you turn on the bedside lamp for me?”
Kirsty rummages under the shade, trying to find the switch.
I hear the click a second before the light switches on low. When I rise to a sitting position, the ice pack shifts, and I move it off my knee. I open my hand for the pill.
Kirsty drops it to my palm and passes me a full glass of water. She must have refilled it while I slept. I remember emptying the glass before dozing off. Now nature has run its course and I have to use the bathroom.
“Where is everyone?” I ask after swallowing the pill.
“Caleb and Faith fell asleep on the couch. I don’t want to wake them.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“This isn’t my first all-nighter.” She picks up the warm gel pack. “I’ll switch this out and let you get back to sleep.”
“Kirsty. Go to sleep. I’m fine.” I push the blanket off and start to swing my leg off the cushions.
She squeaks. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she whispers angrily.
“Using the bathroom,” I admit with exasperation. “I am potty-trained.”
Horror blooms on her face. “Wait. Let me wake Caleb.”
“Don’t you dare ask CW to help me,” I say patiently. “Please pass me the crutches. I won’t keel over. I’m an athlete—we get hurt, and we heal. I don’t need help using the toilet.” I pat her head for emphasis.
“You didn’t just pat my head,” she states ominously.
“Lilly, I need to empty my bladder.” I raise both hands in surrender. “I’m cranky and I’m not used to help. Cut me a break and kill me later.”
She crosses the room in a huff. Returning with my crutches. “Here.”
Before I stand, I motion for her to lean down. When she does, I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you for watching over me and for making sure I take my meds on time.”
She sighs. “You were hurt, and it took forever for Faith to get an update on your status. I worried about you.”
My chest goes tight at the thought of Kirsty having concerns over my injury.