Playing the Game

40. Please Get Up, Gray

Vera's heavy sigh beside me sends the tiniest wave of comfort as she turns toward the field.

The trainer is saying something and there's a subtle nod from Grayson, a tidal wave of relief flooding my system as I watch him move his head.

He's moving.

The trainer takes a small step back, raising to his feet before sticking out a hand. Grayson reaches up, one hand in the trainer's and the other in his coach's. They both pull, helping him to his feet as the crowd erupts. The applause is deafening, but it's got nothing on the silence it held before.

I turn toward the aisle, ready to rush the field and throw my arms around him, to selfishly claim all his warmth for myself, to let the beat of his heart calm the frenzy of bundled up nerves wound up in my gut. But my eyes catch Vera, a hand quickly swiping below her eyes before she takes off behind her family.

This is their territory. He's their son... Cece's brother. And I'm...

"Mia," Vera turns around, a hand outstretched in my direction. "Are you coming?"

I'm nodding like a frantic bobble head, throwing a hand in hers and feeling a bit of that warmth I'm craving as I quickly follow behind her. She doesn't let go of my shaking hand as we shuffle down the stairs, one never ending step after another. Seriously, have there always been this many steps? I've run this stadium more times than I'd like and I've never felt so many steps before.

When we finally hit the bottom, Danny is saying something to the staff. I'm pretty sure we've made it to Christmas by the time the guy is stepping out of the way, another staff member holding out an arm and directing us toward the hall.

Vera's hand remains wrapped around mine, her ability to somehow know exactly what I need right now providing me with the reassurance I'm aching for.

When we're ushered into a small room, one of the trainers emerges. Vera's eyes connect with mine, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before she lets it go, sliding her arm into her husband's as they step forward. The words concussion protocol and baseline test float around, something I'm all too familiar with. We all have to do it. Every athlete at the start of the season goes through baseline concussion testing. It's their way of measuring how bad a hit is, and when we're cleared to go back.

But knowing what's happening isn't making this any easier. I'm still riddled with this shake that just won't go away. My breaths still clinging to panic mode even though I watched him walk off that field.

When I turn away, my eyes catch Cece sitting on a bench, eyes glued to her hands. I take a breath, settling the bundled up pieces inside as I make my way toward her, taking a seat.

"Is he going to be okay?" She asks, her eyes clinging to mine.

"You remember that ego you said your brother has?" I bump her shoulder, coaxing a nod out of her. "He's far too prideful to let anything take him down."

She smiles up at me, a small nod of understanding falling over her.

"Besides," I add, wrapping an arm around her. "He walked off the field on his own. They wouldn't have let him do that if it was serious."

"You think so?" There's hope in her voice, a plea.

"Yeah. They've got too many cautionary measures to take."

"Okay," she nods. "That makes me feel better."

I'm glad she can feel a bit of reprieve. If only my own words would help settle my nerves. But there's only one thing, one person, who can do that. And he's currently being evaluated. The word makes my stomach tighten. I don't like this. No, I fucking hate this. I just want to see him. I want to hear him make some ridiculous joke, I want to wrap my arms around him and feel his lips graze my forehead as he tells me everything is okay. I just want him.