“I passed all the other tests. My vision isn’t blurry. My neck is fine. Coordination is good. And my recall kicks ass. Just try me again. Ask me who we’re playing and what the score was.” I challenge him, gesturing to a photo of his favorite soccer player from his home country. “Or Delgado’s position. He’s a striker. Impressed?”
“Yes, Blackwood. But with the headache, we still need to watch you a little longer.”
“Can you watch me at home?” I ask. I’m just eager to get the hell out of here.
Sure, I have a wicked headache, but that tracks when you’ve been beaned by a furious fastball. I’m sure it’s a hit-by-pitch headache, not a concussion one.
“Is there someone there who can keep an eye on you?” Christian asks, arching a brow.
A pang of longing sets up camp in my chest. I shake my head sadly. “Declan’s not here.”
“Ah, okay then. Why don’t you hang with me for a few more minutes?”
“But it’s so late, Christian. The game’s over. And we won. Eight to three,” I say, trying to impress him with my recall.
With a smile, he says, “Yes, we did.”
When an hour passes, Christian confers with the team doc, then returns. “You have two options,” Chris details. “I can drive your car home and hang with you for a bit then catch a Lyft from your house, or I can drive you in my car, and someone can get yours tomorrow.”
Declan.
My heart slams a little harder at the thought of him, and I wish he were picking me up right now. The desire to see him spirals higher than earlier in the week after the report. This longing digs so much deeper.
“I’ll call Reese,” I say, reaching for my phone. She’s practically family, and when I switched on my cell an hour ago, I found a million messages from her, including one letting me know I wouldn’t hear from Declan till he landed. I’d answered to assure her I was doing fine.
I’m about to ring and see if she can swing by, when I weigh other options. The guys all stopped by to visit when the game ended and said they would again before leaving for the night. I could ask Crosby or Chance. Any of the guys would do it. That’s a good thing, but my shoulders sag heavily.
Calling on friends is one thing. Calling on family is another.
As I’m debating who to reach out to, my phone rings.
It’s Declan’s mom.
“Hey, Cyndi,” I say.
“Grant, are you okay? Are you home? If you are, I’m coming over. If not, I’ll be at the ballpark in ten minutes to pick you up and take you there. We live nearby, and I just heard the news.”
My heart glows. My mom hasn’t called me in months. My boyfriend’s mom called me right away.
“Sure, I’d love a ride.”
When I hang up, I tell Chris he’s off the hook. Ten minutes later, as promised, Cyndi Marie Martin strides into the trainer’s room with a soft smile and warm, kind eyes.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says to me, making a beeline for the lounge chair where I’m resting. She drops a kiss to my forehead.
“Hey, Cyndi,” I say, happier to see her than I ever thought possible. Happy she’s here to take me home.
With crisp efficiency, she turns to Christian. “Hello! What do I need to know about our guy? Am I supposed to wake him every few hours?”
Christian shakes his head. “Nope. Concussion protocol has changed. For the first three to six hours, we don’t want them to fall asleep at all, but once you’re six hours post-hit, that’s the time to go to bed. Rest is important in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
She nods, and a few minutes later, I slide into the passenger seat of my Tesla and my guy’s mom takes me to our home. Along the way, I yawn.
“Are you sleepy, sweetheart?” she asks, touching my arm.
“I’m tired, Cyndi,” I say, then confess, “but I really want to see your son. Do you know where he is? Has he landed yet?”
She smiles softly. “Oh, sweetie. He’s on his way home to you.”
“Is he?” I ask, hoping that’s true. “Is he going to be here soon?”
“He is. He’s on the team plane right now. They just landed. He texted me when we got in the car, and I’m sure he texted you too. He should be home very soon.” She tells me more, mentioning Reese and Holden and Declan and phone calls and texts, but my head still hurts, and I want to be home.
I can walk myself up the stairs, thank you very much.
But Cyndi is insistent, hovering by my side. “I’m going to make sure you get in bed. No watching TV or playing on your phone,” she says.
“I’ll behave. I promise.”