“Hey, Katie Holmes,” he said softly. “I’m really glad you’re in my life. I think we can do great things together.”
“Hey, Sean Donovan,” I said, forcing back a tear. “Me, too.”
Kate
Dru was curled up on the sofa next to me with a bag of chips in her lap and a bottle of beer in her hand. She held the bottle by the neck and pointed it at the television.
“So, which one is lover boy?” she asked. I’d told her about my overnight get-away with Sean. She had been calling him “lover boy” ever since.
“Sean is at the top of the screen,” I said. “On the left.”
“And what’s his job again? Other than taking innocent young women to a remote cabin to reenact the Kama Sutra?”
“To run down the field and catch the ball,” I said, giving her a sideways grin.
“Really? That’s it? How hard can that be?”
“It’s pretty hard when you have a bunch of four-hundred-pound football players chasing you down,” I said.
I brought the beer bottle to my lips and watched intently as the center hiked the ball to Matt Murphy, who fell back and scrambled to give Sean time to run down the field. Leon Lewis was blocking for Murphy, keeping the tacklers at bay.
I’d watched a lot of football games in my life and knew the sport inside and out, but I’d never watched a game holding my breath as my eyes tracked one player before. It was incredibly unnerving.
Sean shot from the line like a rocket and ran down the field, then cut across the center. Murphy launched a long bomb and Sean ran perfectly under it. The ball fell into his arms at the exact moment a player from the opposing team freight-trained him from the left side.
Freight-trained meant that he was hit blindly, without having the chance to brace for impact. It was like getting hit by a train out of the blue. You felt the impact and the next thing you knew, you were waking up either in the locker room or in the hospital.
When the plowed into Sean, the ball shot straight up in the air and Sean was knocked hard to the ground. He rolled a few times, then, then clutched his left shoulder and writhed in pain.
“Holy shit,” Dru said, grabbing my arm.
I couldn’t speak because my heart was lodged in my throat. I watched in horror as the refs pushed the players back and the trainers rushed onto the field to attend Sean.
When they took off his helmet, I could see the terrible look of shock and pain on his face. His eyes were squeezed shut. He was gritting his teeth. I could tell that he was hurt badly. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do but watch.
Kate
They rushed Sean to New York Hospital directly from the field. ESPN reported that his shoulder was severely dislocated and his collar bone was broken in two places. He also had three bruised ribs and possibly a concussion. It was too early to tell, of course, but the ESPN commentators predicted that Sean would be out for much, if not all, of the season.
I felt helpless. I couldn’t call Sean or get in to see him.
I only knew what the public knew, which wasn’t very much.
The next day, the surgical team that had put Sean back together held a press conference at the hospital. I draped my Sports Insider credentials around my neck, stuffed my hair into a Kings baseball cap, and went to cover the press conference. It was probably as close to Sean as I was going to get for a long time.
I stood off to the side during the press conference, holding out my phone to record the doctor’s comments. Sean came through the surgery fine, he was awake and alert, they hoped for a speedy recovery, but they could not predict how long he would be out of the game. That’s all. Thank you for coming.
I glanced around at the faces of the other reporters there. It was just another story to them. Their faces ranged from apathy to mild interest. I envied them. They were just there gathering fodder for the reports they would later file. They weren’t connected to Sean Donovan in any other way. They weren’t all on the verge of tears, nor had they lain awake all night wishing they were in Sean’s arms.
I was the only one who knew the real Sean Donovan.
In a crowded room of a hundred people, I felt totally alone.
After the press conference, I was forwarding the sound file to the office from my phone when I heard a friendly voice call my name. I looked up to see Leon Lewis smiling down at me.
“You’re Katie,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant, like a bass drum. He gave me a toothy smile and stuck out a huge hand that engulfed mine when we shook. “I’m Leon.”
“I know,” I said, forcing a smile. I realized that I was wearing my press credentials on a lanyard around my neck. If