Then can I see you after the game tonight?
Ugh. The game. You want me to come to another one?
You came to the last home game.
Yeah, but I was singing, I said.
You don’t want to come watch me play? He posted a crying emoji.
Football games ran late. That was valuable time spent reading or sleeping in preparation for more studying the next day. I really did need to get my head in the game—the school game, that was.
But how could I tell Tate no? This was Homecoming. The entire school would be there.
Speaking of the game, I couldn’t discount the conversation I’d overheard between Charly and Carson. Maybe Tate already knew something. Have you talked to Charly lately? I asked.
I make it a point not to. Why?
I wasn’t sure what to tell him. What could I say, I overheard them talking in the hall? That might be helpful if I had a clue what she and Carson were talking about. Something about a linebacker from Lincoln, MLA’s biggest rival, being at the game tonight. The whole school knew that, though.
From the sound of things, Charly was dating one of Lincoln’s team members. I wondered if that was who she’d cheated on Tate with, since she’d said something about Tate being the reason she couldn’t get with whoever it was before.
Mentioning her dating someone new probably wasn’t the best thing to bring up when Tate was prepping for a big game. Ignoring my better judgment, I texted, No reason. And yes, I’ll be there.
Whatever it was, we could worry about it later.
I worked like I’d never worked before. I read through my AP English Neoclassic assignment and took as plentiful notes as I could within the time frame. They weren’t up to my usual standard, but then again, nothing was these days. I plowed through my Calculus work, the unreasonable online quiz for A-PUSH, and hummed my warmups at as low a volume as I could to avoid wasting time going to my practice room. My turn to audition for Professor Granger’s feature wasn’t until October. I still had time.
I had to tuck my phone in a drawer to keep from examining the messages that kept barraging me. One was from Camryn, checking in. I hated to ignore her—she’d never do that to me—but I really needed to concentrate.
Another was from Dad. He and Laurel were planning on coming to the game tonight and asked if I’d like to sit with them. We hadn’t talked since our little heartwarming chat in their basement. Though things seemed to be resolved, and the bitterness I’d harbored for years had all but disappeared, I wasn’t so sure about joining them. I couldn’t bring myself to say no, though. At least the crowd would be too noisy to have much conversation. After our last chat, I considered that a plus.
Cam texted: Beckham and I are talking about driving up there for spud harvest. What do you think?
I groaned again. Spud Harvest was a legit thing in Rexburg, Idaho, land of potatoes and kids whose parents farmed; it was a Spring Break in the fall, where kids got one week off school in order to work in the fields. But potato harvest wasn’t a thing in Seattle. If anything, she and Beckham would only provide more distractions than I already had.
I’m not sure. Why don’t you guys go somewhere cool, like Disneyland?
Like we can afford that! Come on, Bail, I want to see you!
I know! I’m dying to see you too, but I’m pretty busy, I texted, hating myself for saying the words. They were entirely true, though, and it was time I said them a little more often.
I see how it is. She added a smiley emoji, but I sensed there was an underlying dissatisfaction under her message. That was the problem with texting. I couldn’t tell her emotions from just the words.
I made it through the rest of my homework before heading to the bistro for some dinner. With a quick stop to bundle up in my hoodie and beanie, I scurried outside.
The sky was ablaze over the field, putting the bonfire a few weeks ago to shame. The late September air had turned chilly. Kids and teachers bustled to the stands, huddled in sweaters and hats. Some even draped blankets around their shoulders like some kind of marauder’s cape.
I ducked my chin into the neck of my hoodie, stuffed my hands into its pouch, and stepped toward the track. Dad and Laurel were waiting by the concession stand. Dad wore his old college sweatshirt. Laurel’s blonde hair tufted out in waves beneath her beanie. She waved to me, giving me an enthusiastic smile. “Isn’t this exciting?” she asked. Dad removed his arm from her shoulder to pull me into a hug.
“Hey, Bailey Bug. Ready to watch our main man play football?”
“Our main man?” I asked, feeling self-conscious. Did he know? I had let on that I cared more about Tate than a casual friend or stepsister would during our phone call the other night, after Tate’s heart hiccup in the gym. But I’d been genuinely worried about him, and my guard had slipped.
“We know, you know,” Laurel said. “About you two. Tate told us.”
Oh great. So it was going to be that kind of visit.
I raised my brows and offered a fake smile. “Should we find somewhere to sit?”
“Tate talks about you a lot, you know.” Laurel sidled in as we made our way to the stands. The idea set off fireworks in my stomach. I wished she was someone else. How different would this be to get to know his mom if she was married to his real dad instead of mine? I was torn between wanting every juicy detail Tate had spilled to her and maintaining my distance.
“Cool,” I said, dying to know more but refusing to submit to the shame of asking.
She moved in and put her arm around me. “He says you’re the most spirited, beautiful girl he’s ever known.”
My mouth went dry. If our parents didn’t think Tate and me getting together was awkward, then did it really matter if anyone else did? I attempted again to brush off Charly’s nasty comments earlier, though I still had an uneasy feeling about whatever she and Carson were discussing. Were they planning something to happen during the game? Maybe I should have told Tate after all.
“He says he’s never heard anyone sing like you do. That your voice belongs on every radio in the country.”
I dipped my chin. “Wow, he said that?”
“Laurel doesn’t make stuff up,” Dad said over his shoulder. He climbed a few more bleachers. “Here. How about this? We’ve got a good view and we’re close to the stairs.”
“Looks good to me,” Laurel said. She shimmied around several people who’d gotten there before us. The marching band played a jaunty rendition of “Eye of the Tiger,” sufficiently amping up the crowd’s energy. Laurel sat down, then patted the stands beside her. My dislike was lifting. She had apologized, after all. Why couldn’t I give her a chance?
I decided to be polite. “Thanks. I really liked meeting Ally too, the other night.” I worried she would be a sensitive topic, but Laurel brightened.
“Oh, Ally is such a sweetheart. She was so glad to meet you too. She called to talk to me this morning. She so enjoys being around others in her facility. She’s so well-situated there.” Laurel gave another chipper smile.
“She seemed happy,” I said, shivering in the coastal breeze. With the sun sinking, the air grew colder by the minute. A blanket would have been an outstanding idea.
A voice carried over the stands, announcing the visiting team from Lincoln High and the Mt. Rainier Knights.
“Looks like we’re about to start!” Dad said, raising his voice over the rousing crowd. I settled in beside him and Laurel with a feeling of unexpected peace. No, this wasn’t Dad, Mom, and me like it used to be—though I couldn’t say we’d ever attended any sporting events together whatsoever. Mom was like me. Not really into that kind of thing. But even though Mom wasn’t here, that was okay.
Another girl named Megan Sharp stepped out and sang the national anthem, and then the kickoff began.
Tate positioned himself on the field, poised for battle in his helmet, pads, and uniform. My heart picked up speed. I found myself watching his every move, the way he stealthily ran, kept an eye on his
teammates, and caught the ball with such exactness.
He’d explained the rules of football to me at the end of one of our study sessions. Bundled up against the fall’s chilled air blowing in off the mountain and the lake, I found the game to be more entertaining now that I knew what was going on.
With a score of twenty to twenty-eight, tensions were high. Lincoln High, MLA’s biggest rival, in their colors, we in ours, their cheerleaders prancing before their crowd. Charly, Jenn, and the other girls raised their pompoms in unified salute as well.
Tate shouted a call. One of his receivers broke through Lincoln High’s defense and booked it toward the end zone. Tate wound up, ready to throw the ball, when he lost his footing. He stumbled backward. Attempting to avoid a fumble, he hugged the ball to his chest tightly. The play was over.
Yet, at almost the same moment he staggered, Lincoln High’s linebacker barreled toward him. With Tate’s back to the opposing player, Lincoln’s linebacker drilled into him, clocking him hard against his back. Their collision was jarring. I released a gasp, covering my mouth with my hands.
“What was that?” Laurel said beside me.
The crowd erupted in displeasure. Tate’s teammates swarmed around him, in a forest of helmets. The ref blew his whistle again, and Coach Derek urged the team back.
“Cheap shot!” Dad shouted, joining the angry fans shouting and yelling at the ref, who tossed a flag, blew his whistle, and called out, “Late hit. Fifteen-yard penalty.”
“Is he okay?” I shouted to no one in particular.
“Of course not,” Dad stormed, shouting across Laurel. “That player hammered in after the play was already finished. He wasn’t tackling to stop the play. He did that like it was some kind of personal attack. Talk about a personal foul.”
My panic and worry escalated. A personal attack? I couldn’t help thinking about Charly and Carson’s discreet conversation in the hall earlier. My eyes scanned for Charly with the other cheerleaders, who stood hugging their pompoms. I couldn’t see her. But now that the team had been ushered away from him, I could see Tate.
He was on the ground. I couldn’t tell whether he was clutching the ball or gripping his chest. Too late, I noticed the ball a few feet away on the yard line.
Laurel must have seen it too. “His heart,” she moaned. “He’s not getting up, Steve. He’s not getting up.”
I bolted to my feet in an instant. Her words struck fear right through my core. She was right. His heart rate would be escalated from playing, period. Add a jolt like this one, when Tate’s back was turned, when he wasn’t prepared for it, and his heart might not be able to bounce back the way a healthy person’s would.
I pushed my way down the stands, hurrying to the paved track and across the field to Tate. Dad and Laurel hurried in my wake. Tate lay sprawled on the ground while Coach Derek struggled to remove his helmet. Sweat collected on his face, and his skin was deathly pale.
Laurel’s pace increased. She passed me, making it to Tate first. Coach made way for her to push through. Crouching, she stroked Tate’s hair. Relief whammed right into me the minute I saw his face. He was breathing, blinking. He was alive.
“I’m fine,” he said. “It was—”
“Don’t you dare say hiccup,” Laurel said. “Those don’t knock you to the ground. That linebacker had no business...” Her words trailed off in a huff. “I told you football was the worst thing you could be pursuing.”
Coach Derek checked Tate’s pulse. He glanced at his watch and frowned at Laurel. “His heart rate is unnaturally high.”
Dad knelt in next, taking Tate’s wrist in his hand. He glanced at his watch, concern deepening on his face. “Laurel,” he said. “His heart rate is flying.”
Tears stung my eyes. How stupid could he be, playing something like this with his heart the way it was? Was it going to give out? A racing pulse was not a good sign, and I couldn’t help the way fear made me shudder.
On top of my worries, guilt settled in with its own force. I should have mentioned the conversation I’d overheard to him. Would that have made a difference? Was Charly behind this personal foul?
“Get him off this field,” Laurel demanded.
A pair of medics charged toward Dad, but Tate struggled to his feet and waved them away. Clutching his chest, he staggered with Dad’s help to the sidelines. Anticipation filled the air as the rest of the onlooking team, the cheerleaders, the guests in the stands held their breath with wonder and worry. Slowly, clapping over Tate’s recovery started within the audience until their applause filled the whole field.
Coach Derek shouted a call to his team, but I missed the words. I wasn’t sure what happened to the team once their quarterback was unable to play, but undoubtedly, they would have someone who could step up and fill his place.
I hurried beside Tate, and he grasped my hand. “Bailey,” he said with a weak smile.
“You’re crazy,” I told him. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be...fine,” he said.
My lower lip trembled. “Tate, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault this happened.”
This amused him in his distress. “You donned a Lincoln uniform and clobbered right into me?”
“I overheard something in the hall earlier today. I—”
I wasn’t able to finish. Dad pulled up to the parking lot’s edge. Laurel and I helped Tate climb into the back of Dad’s car, and we rushed him to the emergency room.
Chapter Sixteen
The ER didn’t mess around when it came to heart conditions. The unfortunate people in the waiting room who’d been there who knew how long before us looked on as the nurses admitted Tate through the doors right away. I watched helplessly as they asked him question after question, as they hooked him up to tubes and wires and to a machine that beeped loudly and far too fast. I’d seen EKGs before during health class back in Reno and while learning about the cardiovascular system during human biology. The lines tracking his pulse shouldn’t have been so close together.
“Over two hundred beats per minute,” the nurse mumbled. She leaned over Tate. “Listen, Tate. We’ve got to get your heart rate down, all right?”
“Do what you need to,” Dad assured her, clutching Laurel’s hand. Laurel added her enthusiastic nod, and together, the nurse and the doctor guided Tate’s gurney away. That was it. We were left alone.
A male nurse, with dark skin and kind eyes, appeared. “Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Ingram?”
“Monroe,” Laurel corrected. “Yes?”
“Sorry. Mrs. Monroe. Tate Ingram’s mother?”
“Yes, that’s me. What can we do?” The plea in her voice was unmistakable. I wanted to hug her. To help her somehow. I couldn’t imagine how hard this would be for my mom if I ended up in the emergency room over a life-threatening situation. The worst medical procedure I’d undergone was having my wisdom teeth removed, and that wasn’t exactly daunting.
“Doctor Honeycutt will do his best to help your son. Why don’t the three of you come with me. I’ll take you to a more comfortable room where you can wait.”
“Thank you,” Laurel said.
Down the hall, past the nurse’s station, the nurse led us to a separate examination room to wait. Undoubtedly, they needed the other open area for the next patient waiting.
Magazines sat on the small table beside the uncomfortable black chairs. Laurel didn’t sit, but instead paced the small space, wringing her hands in front of her. Dad tried to comfort her, but she shook him off, so he settled next to me.
“He’ll be okay, bug,” Dad told me, and this time I didn’t mind the coddling, babyish moniker. Fear had taken place of my heart. I had watched as the nurses hooked Tate up to machines, watched his pulse come to life on the monitor. I relived the moment of the attack, the way that linebacker had barreled into Tate without warning or reason.
Unless he was dating Charly. Unless she’d put him up to it.
Logically, I knew I couldn’t jump to a conclusion that serious wit
hout knowing the facts, but what else was I supposed to think? There was nothing I could do about it, though I was tempted to confront her via instant messaging.
That would do no good, either. This was Charly we were talking about. I thought again about seeing Tate on that gurney. Seeing the lines from his heart on the EKG, and its lines scratching out far closer together than they should have been. Maybe if Charly saw that she might get a clue about what she’d done.
“Has this happened before?” I asked. “His pulse skyrocketing?”
“Not this bad,” Dad said.
“You know, he was only ten months old when his heart first showed signs of trouble,” Laurel said, still pacing back and forth between the door and the small sink beneath a cabinet on the wall. “So little. He had a hole in his heart, and it ripped mine out to hear it. Open heart surgery on your baby boy is the last thing any mother wants to go through. I prayed harder for him during that surgery than I’d ever prayed before.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I told her. Sympathy strung its way through my system. How awful and frightening that must have been. Laurel was a strong woman.
We settled into silence as worry made a rhythm inside my head. Unable to help myself, I dug the pad of paper out from beneath the stack of magazines and jotted down the words rambling over and over.
Never wanted you.
Never needed you.
Now I can’t live without you.
Your heart is mine, and you can’t lose it. That means I will too.
And I don’t want to lose you.
I’d never written a song of my own before, but a melody filtered in along with each word. I began humming it under my breath while more words prattled out onto the paper. The writing, the melody, was therapeutic. It gave me something to focus on, something to control when I felt so powerless.
I texted my mom. I texted Camryn. I replied to well-meaning texts pouring in from Jenn, from Mia, from numbers I didn’t even recognize. I replied to every single one. So many people offered their thoughts and concerns. So many people wanted to know if he was okay.
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