Offside

“She’s fine,” Doctor Winchester answered. “A few cuts and scrapes, but nothing serious. She’s all healed up now.”

“Where is she?”

“It’s about two in the morning on a Wednesday, Thomas,” he said. “She’s probably at home, asleep.”

I nodded, glad she wasn’t here in the hospital and still banged up or anything. Then a single question became really fucking important.

“How long?” I asked. Speaking more than just a couple of words at a time was pretty taxing.

The doctor looked over to the nurse before fixing his gaze back on me.

“What was the last date you remember?”

“Um…January thirtieth?” I guessed.

Winchester looked at me for a bit.

“It’s March fourteenth now,” he finally replied.

For a moment, I panicked.

“Same year?” I asked.

“Same year.”

I relaxed a little as I tried to digest some of this. That was like…six weeks. Six weeks of being totally out of it. Six weeks of lying in a bed, not using my muscles at all.

“I can’t move much,” I said as I looked up to him.

He nodded.

“Your body has been shut down for a while now after suffering significant trauma. You were almost pronounced dead at the scene, and we lost you once on the table as well. We had to induce coma just to keep your body in check long enough to try to fix you up.”

“Did I break a lot of bones?” I asked. I wondered about my legs because they definitely didn’t feel right.

“I think we should wait until your dad gets here,” the doctor said. His hand patted my leg, which made it feel all tingly. Everything felt all tingly, like my whole body fell asleep.

I guess it had.

“He’s on his way.”

Even through the blurriness inside my head, I had the feeling this was not going to be the most pleasant of encounters. I didn’t know the extent of the damage yet, but I was obviously pretty fucked up, and that certainly meant I wasn’t playing soccer in the next season. I gritted my teeth. I didn’t care what he would say—Nicole was okay, and that mattered more…

“Thomas?”

I awoke to someone prodding my arm. I didn't realize I had drifted off. It was Doctor Winchester doing the poking, but Dad was there, too—standing on the other side of the bed.

“Can you talk, son?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, and then tried clearing my throat. “Kind of.”

“Your vocal cords haven't been used for some time,” Doctor Winchester said. “It will take them a while to get going normally again.”

“How do you feel?” Dad asked with all the concern in his eyes a parent should have. His hand went to my head, and then he bent over and looked into my eyes with his little penlight.

“Weird,” I answered. I didn't really know how I felt.

“You were hurt pretty bad,” he told me. “I'm considering myself pretty lucky to be talking to you at all. For a while there…”