The Junior (College Years 3)
I’m feeling even more confident midway through the third quarter. We’re finally leading, and Caleb has yet to hit the field, which I’m okay with. They’re either saving him for later, or they’ve determined he can’t play any more for the rest of the game.
These are the moments that frustrate me. When I can’t communicate with him and I don’t know what’s going on. I want to know why he isn’t playing. Is he all right? Is he injured? Or is this no big deal and I’m making something out of nothing?
I lean in close to Jackson and ask, “Why aren’t they playing Caleb?”
“They might be letting him rest. They’re keeping up, and now we’re in the lead, so whatever they’re doing, it’s working,” Jackson explains.
“I just hope he’s all right,” I say, worry coursing through me.
“He’s fine,” Hayden reassures. “You know him. He’s tough.”
“Fearless,” Jackson adds.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I mutter.
When I see number 78 run out onto the field, my heart seizes up and I lean forward in my seat. He’s back in play. I bring my hand to my mouth and start chewing on my nails—a bad habit I quit years ago but only reappears when I’m super nervous.
Why am I nervous? This is no different than any other game I’ve watched this season, and I’ve never felt this way before. Is it because I know Caleb and I need to talk? Am I worried how he might react when he finds out I’m here?
Maybe…
He starts running, trying to block the other team, and I rise to my feet, my gaze trained on him and no one else. He turns, running backward, and all the air gathers in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I see the other guy just before it happens. Caleb leans right, his long body looking as if he’s in mid-air.
Just before he collides with the other guy and they both crumple to the ground.
“Oh God!” I step forward, pressing my shaky fingers against the glass as I watch Caleb lying motionless on the field.
Hayden is immediately by my side, her hand on my shoulder as we both silently watch. The announcer says something, but it’s garbled in my ears and the next thing I know, a coach is running out to check on Caleb, who is still lying there.
Not moving.
The other player sits up, and the crowd roars their approval.
“Looks like he’s going to be all right,” the announcer says.
I press my lips together, praying for my baby to be okay. He’s so big. Larger than life with the personality to match. He always acts as if he’s untouchable, doing reckless, crazy shit that’s made my heart stop more than once.
Right now, it doesn’t even feel as if my heart is beating. I’m completely still, my fingers pressed to the glass, my lungs frozen as I wait for some sign of life from Caleb.
Their coach is crouched on the ground next to him. Someone else from the coaching staff runs out onto the field to join him, and the announcer is talking about Caleb. Identifying who he is.
“Number seventy-eight also made that fantastic interception at the beginning of the first quarter. Caleb Burke has been with the Bulldogs for three seasons…”
I tune him out, watching as the coaches work over Caleb. Was he knocked unconscious? Is he awake? They’re not moving him, which tells me they’re afraid to in case of a head or spinal cord injury…
My heart lurches as if there’s a chokehold on it and I part my lips, trying to speak, but no words are coming.
Oh God.
“He’s going to be okay,” Jackson says as he walks over to the window to stand beside me.
I turn to him blindly and he pulls me into his arms, offering me brief comfort. It’s not the right man holding me, but Jackson will do for now. “Can you text or call someone?” I ask when I pull away from him. “Any of the coaching staff?”
“They don’t usually pay attention to their phones during a game, but I can try. I have a couple of numbers still stored in my phone,” he says.
All of a sudden, the crowd roars and I turn back to the window to see Caleb sitting up, his helmet off, his hair a disaster, sticking up everywhere. I rest my hand against my throat, struggling to breathe, tears springing to the corners of my eyes as I stare at him.
He’s okay.