A knock came at the door, but it didn’t open until I called out. Sheena’s head popped through the door before she swung it open and came in. “Sal, how are you feeling?” she asked, a small plant in her hands. She’d been the one who had ridden over in the ambulance with me after they’d carried me off the field like I’d broken my spine.
“I’m all right,” I told her. “I feel like I’ve been beaten with a sledgehammer, but it’s okay.”
She smiled and set the plant on the rolling table next to the bed. “I’m happy to hear that. What did the doctor say?”
“It’s a concussion, but since it isn’t my first one they want to keep me overnight to be on the safe side.”
Sheena let out a slow whistle. “You gave us a scare. That’s for sure. Is there anything I can get you?”
“I’m fine, but do you think you can have someone bring me my bag or at least ask Jenny if she can keep it for me? It’s in the locker room.”
“Sure, Sal. No problem,” she agreed.
Then I asked her the question I’d been wondering about for the last two hours. “Do you know if we won?”
“We did. Genevieve scored in the last three minutes.”
Well at least this crap hadn’t been in vain. “That’s great,” I said.
“It sure is. She’s the next generation, isn’t she?”
The next generation. She was only five years younger than me, for the love of crap. It wasn’t like I was about to croak or needed to invest in a wheelchair anytime soon, jeez.
“Yeah, she is,” I gritted out, annoyed. I wondered if she knew what Cordero was planning.
We looked at each other awkwardly, at a loss for what else to say.
She smiled and glanced at the door. “Well, if there’s not anything else, I should head back now. I wanted to make sure you were fine.”
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“I’ll leave my number on the pad over here in case you need me, and I’ll make sure your bag gets picked up,” she assured.
I somehow smiled using only the minimal amount of facial muscles. “Thanks, Sheena.”
She left, and I sat there in the quiet room alone, finally letting myself think about how much this concussion sucked ass. I knew what was going to happen. They were going to make me sit out of practice, and at least one game depending on what the doctor suggested and what the Pipers’ trainer decided.
I would have hung my head low except I knew it would be painful. Sure I didn’t want to die; I understood how important it was to put my health first. But when it came down to it, this was the last thing I freaking needed.Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.Ugh.
One minute of wallowing was what I usually allowed myself. I made the most of it.
As soon as the sixty seconds were over, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was lucky my injury wasn’t worse. I could have died, right? In the end, this concussion wasn’t the end of the world.
Then I reached over and grabbed the phone next to the bed, even though it made me a little dizzy; I dialed my mom’s number first. When she didn’t answer, I left her a voicemail, and then called my dad who I knew would have been watching the game at home. Dad could have been in church and still found a way to watch my game. He always did.
“Hello?” he practically shouted into the phone.
“Dad, it’s me, Sal.”
That time he did yell, away from the phone at least, saying something that sounded like “It’s her!” in Spanish. “Are you okay?” he asked in that worried tone only fathers were capable of.
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just a concussion,” I assured him.
He spat out some more curse words in Spanish, and I could faintly hear my mom in the background telling him to control himself. “I almost fainted, you can ask your mom,” he exaggerated. “You’re really okay? No brain damage?”
“No brain damage, I promise I’m all right. I wanted to call and tell you before you booked a plane ticket here. I’ll survive.”
Dad let out an audible exhale. “Gracias a Dios. You get that hardhead from your mother—“