by Saylor Bliss
Number 87 is branded everywhere.
Posters are waving in the still-humid air, and children are standing in chairs with giant foam fingers pointed and shouting, ready to see Breezy work his magic.
It never ceases to amaze me the lengths some fans will go to for that one player who steals their heart. The amount of loyalty someone can have for another human being they haven’t ever met in real life . . . but that’s the way of life in football.
It’s normal.
It’s expected.
It’s crazy.
Cal jogs onto the field, turning and tossing a hand up in the direction of Carson and Griffin. I wish I could see them. I wish I were there with them, but no . . . I’m stuck here in bed like an invalid.
Making his way to the center of the field, he listens briefly while the quarterback calls the play. The huddle breaks, and Callum lines up wide left, leaning forward on the balls on his feet, ready for the snap.
They need to get at least to the thirty-yard line for a shot at a field goal. Forty-three yards to go, with no time outs left in the half. He will have to get out of bounds to stop the clock.
The ball snaps, and Cal cuts back to the sideline. The pass is on the money. He turns up field just as the ball glides into his arms. Tucking the ball tight, he turns, and we get a prime example of why he is called Breezy Johnson. No one can touch him. He floats up the field on feet as light as wind, breaking two tackles and diving out of bounds at the forty-two-yard line seconds before the tackle.
The offense hurries to the ball, not taking time for a huddle and keeping the defense on their toes. No time for them to gather themselves. Cal lines back up to the left once again. Defense is man to man coverage. The crowd holds their breath, waiting to see what will happen next. Will they make it to thirty? Will he go all the way?
Everyone on the field knows where the ball is going.
Everyone in the stands has their suspicions.
Cody, the quarterback, takes the snap again, firing out to Cal on a screen play. He clears the corners, but the safety makes the stop after an eight-yard gain. Second and two on the thirty-five-yard line. If they wanted to take the chance, they could try for a field goal now, but Noah, the FG kicker, hasn’t been having the best season this year.
I wouldn’t take the chance.
I mean, it’s only two yards, and I know Cal can get the first down.
Easy peasy.
Then again, I may be a bit biased.
The play clock is winding down. Seconds tick by slowly. It’s midway through the fourth quarter and the Bucks are down by three. We need this score.
If nothing else, to tie the game up.
It’s Cal’s time to shine. He’s already gotten 184 yards receiving with three touchdowns. Defense is playing like hell, though. They need to just keep throwing the ball to Cal because the defense can’t stick him.
No one can.
He moves like a breeze down the field.
Cal lines up slot right, hoping to get a mismatch with the linebacker, but the strong safety rolls over to help. They aren’t stupid. Every member knows which guy needs the most coverage, and they will do anything to stop him.
The ball snaps, and Cal slants across the middle. The linebacker dropped deep. He slips the safety easily, then glides down the field to receive the pass. Cal spins left, looking for the ball, and his step falters. I see it happen.
Like when you see something, and your mind can’t process it so you have to do a double take.
He wanted a double take, but he was moving too fast to get it.
In the next second, my world implodes around me.
6’ 3”, 240 pounds of all-American linebacker barrels down on him hard. I can feel the hit in my bones. My pancakes threaten to come right back up, but I swallow repeatedly, refusing to let them.
I see the hit over and over in my mind, and then I realize that’s because it’s on replay across the screen. Some dickhead announcer is boasting about the Giants having a chance to win now, and I wish I could reach through the screen and choke the shit out of him.
Cal’s head hits the ground first, followed shortly by the rest of his body as it folds around him on the hard, grassy terrain.
Over and over.
Again and again.
The station broadcasting chooses this moment to go to commercial, and I am up pacing the room. I call Griffin. He doesn't answer, no doubt just as worried about Cal as I am right now.
I try my mother's phone next, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Bitch.
I dial Griff again and then sit on the edge of the bed as the announcers come back on the screen. Cal still hasn’t moved. Trainers surround him on the field. I can only imagine what they are thinking right now. I see one of the coaches call for something across the field right as Griffin’s voicemail picks up.
“Call me, Griffin. I need to know what’s happening.”
I hang up and slide my feet into some flip flops, the only thing that fits my feet anymore without making them swell up to the size of cantaloupes.
“Hi, Siri.”
“Google taxi cabs near me.”
“Searching Google for taxi cabs near me. Here is a list of taxi cabs near me.”
I glance down at the list and click on the first one with a phone number. I’ll be damned if I sit here and wait for him to wake up on the field. I’ll be damned if stay here period.
Grabbing my purse, I lock the bottom lock of the front door and pull it shut behind me. The cab said he would be here in fewer than five minutes.
I guess being in this big rich ass house does have its advantages.
Chapter Eighteen
Callum
The gray haze begins to lift slowly. I hear multiple voices around me, all calling my name, demanding I open my eyes and speak. I peel them open and then blink repeatedly. I’m surrounded by my teammates, coach, and refs. The trainers peel back my eyelids one at a time, checking my pupils, looking for the sure sign of a concussion.
"Hey, Cal? Can you hear me, son?" I search for a face to match to the voice, but I can’t focus on any one person. Each figure looming over me sways back and forth, doubling and then coming back into one single being. "Cal?" Coach asks again. I nod slightly so he knows I hear him, but I can’t find his face.
I lay my head back and squint hard, trying to focus my thoughts. What the hell just happened? How did I let him hit me? I never take a tackle. Especially not when the field is wide open.
“Do you know what day it is?” one of the trainers asks, and I nod again. “Can you tell me?” he asks, and Coach laughs a little, but it sounds off. It’s a nervous laugh. He’s worried that I’ve been hit too hard. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened in the game, but luckily, it isn’t the case right now.
“It’s Tuesday, the ninth of October, and our president is still Obama. Fuck, how hard did that fucker hit me?”
The fog dissipates slowly. Lifting my head up a little, I can see the stands through a gap in the sea of bodies surrounding me. “Good, good. Let’s not worry about the hit right now. How about instead, we get you to your feet and to the sideline? You good to walk?” he asks, and I nod, not really listening. My head is dizzy as fuck, but my brain is trying to catch me up on the events of the last ten minutes.
Then it hits me.
“Shit,” I yell, and everyone around me jumps. “No . . . no . . . no,” I repeat, trying to get my body to cooperate and get its sore ass up off the ground. I don’t have time to be lying here.
“What’s wrong, son? Take it easy,” Coach yells through the crowd of bodies surrounding me, and I wish I could. Nausea overwhelms me. I think I might be violently sick right here and now.
“Can’t, coach. I need to go.”
"Cal, relax. You took a hard hit. Let the doc check you over. I think you might have a concussion.”
“Fuck my head, coach,” I growl. “I need to get to him.”
“To whom?” Coa
ch asks, followed by the trainers on the field.
“Cal? Who do you need to get to?” They ask, and I curse myself six ways from Sunday for not telling Coach about Carson being here. He no doubt thinks I want to wrap my hands around the line backer’s neck right now.
“My boy, I need to get to my boy. Don't you hear me, goddamn it? Quit pushing me back down.”
“Cal, you can't get up right now. Just lie back and let the doctor check you out first.” “I don’t have time for this, coach. I need to check on my kid. I saw him collapse. I fucking saw it.”
“Your kid? Damn, Breezy you did take a hit.” Cody injects his sarcasm into the crowd, and a few of the other players laugh, but I don’t pay them any attention. My gaze locks onto Coach Morris.
“Carson was here. In the stands. He slipped or fell or something, and it distracted me. That’s when the ass wipe pummeled me from the side. I saw him go down, and now he’s not there.”
Coach Morris pushes past the doctor and the trainers, offering me his hand. He is the only person in St Louis other than Griffin who knows about Amelia and Carson and everything that happened before I came here. I had to tell him. I was working myself to death in the gym and on the field, and he took notice. At first, he asked if I was on something, which is completely ridiculous because they test us regularly, and then he told me to come clean or I wouldn’t be playing.
I didn’t really have a choice.
I had to play.
I had left her behind so I could do just that, and I’d be fucking damned if I didn’t do just that. Thankfully, he understood, and after that, he became my confidant both on and off the field.
The doctor is yelling at him to leave me on the ground, but neither of us listens, and after the rest of the team sees Coach stepping up, they offer help too. The stadium breaks out into applause, hooting and shouting my name, cheering the fact that I am standing and walking, even if I am leaning heavily on my team.
Normally, I'd be eating up all the attention, but right now, all I can think of is Carson. My gaze locks onto the spot he was sitting . . . empty.
Abandoned.
“I have to go. Now.”
“Cal. I'm telling you to relax. I know you are concerned, but this is your livelihood, your career at stake.” I nod, knowing he's right, but not really giving two fucks at the moment.
“Can you at least find out which hospital they've taken him to so . . . you know what? No. Put in the second string.” Coach gives me a look, and I shake my head. “Don’t argue with me on this. You have to understand, Coach. Carson had cancer. Leukemia. He battled it for three years straight. He’s been in remission for the last two years, but he did that exact same thing when he was first diagnosed at two years old.” Everyone looks at me with wide eyes, baffled with the words coming out of my mouth.
“Who the hell is Carson, and how the hell did you manage to keep him hidden from us this whole time?” One of the guys on the sideline asks.
“That's a long story. One for another time.”
After a few more minutes and with adrenaline pumping, I manage to get away.
“Let me at least drive you,” Doc says, and I agree.
“Okay. Might be best. I'm still a little rattled.”
The drive to Citizens feels like an eternity. When we finally arrive, I'm still in all my gear with the exception of my helmet. The nurses at the circular information station are all staring and whispering to each other. I don’t give two fucks right now. Yeah, I’m Callum fucking breezy Johnson. Yes, I’m the best fucking wide receiver in the league, but right now, I am a scared father/brother/friend, and I want to know how my boy is.
“Carson Parker. Where is he?”
“Are you related?”
“Yes. I'm his father.”
“Are you sure?” Am I sure? What the hell kind of world do we live in? Do people still act this way? Yeah, I know I’m about as white a bleached bedspread and he is all chocolate and caramel rolled into one, but the kid is mine. Period. Someone had better show me to his room right this fucking second, or I’m liable to lose my cool. Hell, at this rate, I could easily blame it on a concussion and get away with it.
I'm about to lose my cool when Amelia steps out of the room down the hall. “Never mind, ma'am. I see his mother now,” I growl, wanting to call her everything but a child of God. She’s lucky my mother raised me to have better manners than that.
Are you sure? I whisper to myself in a nasally high-pitched voice.
Stupid bitch.
Rushing to Amelia, I pull her in for a tight hug, wrapping my arms around her and never wanting to let go. Her nails dig into my back as she sobs against my chest.
“How is he?” I ask her, pulling back. The bitch nurse mumbles something under her breath, but I ignore it, not wanting to waste another second on the trash up front. None of that matters right now. The only thing that matters is Carson.
“We don't know yet. They've got him settled into a room, waiting for Dr. Hill to get here. I’m so glad you’re okay. When I saw you hit the ground, my heart stopped. I rushed out the door to get to you.”
“How did you end up here?” I ask, trying to piece everything together.
“The hospital called. I’m the only person listed as his next of kin. Griffin lost his phone somewhere and couldn’t call me. The cabbie made a quick detour and brought me here instead of the stadium, but I’ve been worried sick about you. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. I saw him fall. I turned for the pass and watched as Carson fell backward. Is he okay?”
“He looks pitiful, but I don't let him know that. He's already scared, so let's not make it seem any worse than it already is. I can’t believe we are dealing with this again. When will he catch a break?”
“I know, Amie, I understand.” I clench my fists at my side, saying a silent prayer before walking in. She’s right. He doesn't look good. His normal caramel colored skin is ashen and he is sweating, even though the room is cool.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “How'd you like watching the game?” He smiles a weak smile and nods with all the enthusiasm he can muster. I look to Amelia. I'm about three seconds from losing my composure when Dr. Hill comes in.
Chapter Nineteen
Amelia
“Miss Hart, I’ve got the blood test back, and I hate to have to tell you this, but the cancer has returned.” All air in the room has been sucked out when he delivers those last four words. I start shaking my head, refusing to believe what he is saying, and yet… I know.
I can see the difference in Carson already.
Just like last time.
He was running around, being a little boy, getting into everything, and in the next moment, everything changed. Within a week, he had lost ten pounds and could barely keep any food down.
“Chemo?” I ask, but Dr. Hill shakes his head.
“We won’t be able to start the chemo this time. Not yet, anyway.”
“Why? I don’t understand. He needs the chemo to kill the cancer.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there were a way, but unfortunately, his body isn’t strong enough to handle chemo or radiation at this time. I’m not sure how much you know about the process of chemotherapy and the way it actually works, but essentially, chemotherapy and radiation therapy generally affect cells that divide rapidly. They are both used to treat cancer because cancer cells divide more often than most healthy cells.”
I nod my head. I already know this. Hell, anyone stuck in a hospital for twenty-four hours a day can tell you how boring it gets. When I get bored, I read. It doesn’t matter what I’m reading, just as long it can occupy my mind for a little while. I can’t imagine how many brochures I read on cancer and chemo the last time Carson was in the hospital.
Hundreds, if not thousands.
“However, because bone marrow cells also divide frequently, high-dose treatments can severely damage or destroy the patient’s bone marrow. Without healthy bone marrow, the patie
nt is no longer able to make the blood cells needed to carry oxygen, fight infection, and prevent bleeding. In short, without a bone marrow donation, Carson will not be able to have chemo or radiation therapy.”
“So what are you saying? We just sit here and wait while the cancer leeches the life from him one day at a time?” I’m yelling and crying. My arms are flailing around the room in the chaotic dance they never fail to do when I get upset. Walking across the short distance of the room, Cal wraps me in a bear-tight hold and kisses the side of my head.
“What about this bone marrow transplant? Why can’t you do that?” Callum asks Dr. Hill, and I lift my head from his chest, waiting for an answer.
“Of course we can, but first, we need to find a viable donor, and that can take time. I will put his information into the national database today and see if there are any donors whose HLA is a match.”
“HLA? What the hell is that?” Callum asks, and I’m thankful he did because I can’t for the life of me remember what the abbreviation means.
“Human leukocyte-associated (HLA) antigens are the proteins on the surface of our cells. The set of proteins called the HLA type is identified by a special blood test. Most matches aren’t usually more than a twenty-five to thirty-five percent perfect match unless the patient has a biological twin sibling, which, as you know, Carson does not.”
“And people just donate these cells?
“No. You can’t donate the cells alone, but you can donate the marrow in the bone that contains the cells needed.”
“Okay, well sign me up. Ill donate. Whatever it takes to get him well,” Callum states seriously. I could never have imagined I would hear those words come from his mouth. It is a no brainer for me to donate. I mean, Carson is my little brother. Hell, I have raised him as my own for the last five years. I would give my heart if it meant that he got the chance to live a pain-free life, but I never expected Callum to feel the same way.
“It’s not that simple. We would need to test you and see if you are a match before we are able to start the donation process. The test is simple, just a swab of the inside of your cheek, but I must caution you. The recovery process after the donation procedure can be strenuous. You may not be able to play ball.”