“Love,” I whisper, but I don’t think he can hear me with this mask on or the fact that my voice is barely audible. I want to ask where Noah is, but I’m not surprised he’s not here. He has a life away from us now, one led by someone I can’t stand.
“Everyone is about to be on TV. Do you want to watch?”
Quinn doesn’t wait for my answer. He pulls the cart closer so I can see. As far as televisions go, this one is fairly small and looks extremely outdated, but on the screen is the band’s manager, Mira, with my dad and uncles standing behind her. I love Mira. She really takes care of the band and has increased their staying power. My dad says there was a time when they struggled with a manager, but since hiring Mira, they’ve been very happy.
“Good afternoon. I want to thank you all for coming out. I know it’s a bit chilly, but I promise to keep this short and sweet. Over the past week, there has been a lot of speculation about 4225 West. I can assure, as you can see behind me, everyone is okay. However, Harrison James’ daughter, Peyton, was involved in a near fatal accident last Sunday. As many of you will recall, Chicago Bears quarterback, Kyle Zimmerman, was also involved in an accident. His passenger was Peyton. As erroneously reported by ESPN, the passenger in Mr. Zimmerman’s car did not pass away on the scene.”
My eyes go wide and according to one of the machines I’m hooked up to, my heart must be racing. I don’t know how I didn’t realize I was in an accident… is that why I can’t move? Mira continues to talk, and I try to focus on what she’s saying, but my mind is wild with questions.
“It is also with great pleasure I can report that Ms. Powell-James is conscious and her status has been upgraded to critical but stable. I will give you my normal spiel and tell you the family requests their privacy during this time, but we all know there is no such thing anymore. We are willing to answer any questions you may have.”
“Will Zimmerman face any charges?” The camera person doesn’t pan to the media gathered, making it impossible to find out who is asking.
“From the family, no. We are unaware if the authorities are pursuing anything. Next?”
“What about the driver of the truck?”
“Yes, he was cited. His charges are pending. Next?”
“How long is Ms. Powell-James expected to remain in the hospital?”
“Her injuries are significant.”
I grunt to get Quinn’s attention. He turns the television down and scoots over to me. “Do you need the nurse?”
I shake my head and point my eyes toward my mask. He removes it slowly. “What happened? Why can’t I move?”
Quinn returns the oxygen mask. “You were in a really bad accident, Peyton. We thought you were going to die.”
I close my eyes and try to turn away but my body is a prisoner to my injuries and I can barely move. Either way, I don’t want to look at Quinn right now. I don’t want to see what his eyes will tell me… I’m not the same person as I was before.
16
Noah
“Again, Westbury, and maybe this time you’ll try hitting Cunningham,” Coach yells, even though he’s standing right next to me. Standing behind the center, Alex Moore, I call out my cadence.
“Louder!”
I start over, increasing the octave of my voice per Coach’s instructions. “Set, set, hike,” I holler. With the ball in my hand, I step back and stumble over my own feet before falling to the ground.
“Goddammit, Westbury.” Coach picks me up off the ground by my facemask. He’s yelling so hard, spit is flying into my face. He’s asking me what’s wrong. He wants to know if I’ve suddenly forgotten how to play.
“No, sir.”
“Get out of my sight.” He pushes me toward the sidelines. Normally I would stay and prove to him I’m exactly the player he drafted, but my mind is not on the game. Every part of me is in Chicago, and he knows this. I don’t know if this is some mental tough love thing or what. If it is, it’s not working.
I forgo the sideline and head right to the locker room. I need the quiet so I can think and reflect on my on-field performance. Mentally, I should be stronger. I should be able to block what’s going on with Peyton out of my mind and focus on my job, but I can’t get over the fact that I want to be there with her.
My phone sits on the top shelf of my locker. I pick it up and press the home button. Each notification is from Dessie. Since our fight and subsequent break-up, she’s been calling and texting non-stop. Most of them I ignore, especially because it’s easy to tell when she’s angry, which usually means she’s been drinking. Her messages range from being sorry to offering to share me with Peyton, telling me that she doesn’t care whether or not I used her to pass time. Where she came up with that idea, I’m not so sure. Subconsciously, I think that’s exactly what I’ve done.