Wrath: A Sinful Secrets Romance, page 55
Ezra's down, he’s sprawled on his side. I keep galloping down the steps, wanting to get close enough for better pictures.
That's when everything shifts into slow motion. I hear whistles peeling, and I realize Ezra hasn’t gotten up yet. My feet falter, and my heart starts racing. He's not moving! My eyes fly from his body to the replay on the jumbotron screen, where I am absolutely fucking horrified to see the way his ankle bent.
Jesus, that’s why he isn’t moving!
I start running down the stairs as people rush onto the field. He’s still not up! Fuck! I get a gut-punch feeling: This is really real.
I'm almost to the lower railing when I hear him yelling. It's low and guttural, making sweat prickle my skin, making my legs feel weak, like when you’re trying to run in a dream but you can’t move.
More people are jogging out onto the field now. Everybody in the stands is rising to their feet. I can hear whispers as I rush at the railing. The announcer’s saying something. Fuckit, he's not moving!
And then I hear, "MILLER!"
He's still lying on his side, with a whole swarm of people around him. He’s not moving. Surely he’s not actually yelling.
But I hear it again: "MILLER!"
Fuck, that’s Ezra! That’s him! There’s a body board now on the ground beside him.
I'm not even consciously aware of the decision. One second I'm standing at the rail, feeling sick. The next I'm diving over it, not realizing there's shrubs on the other side until I'm on them, getting scraped through my clothes.
I fall off the shrubs onto the hard grass of the sideline, and a few Bama players turn to stare. My heart is racing as I scramble up, locking my eyes on Ezra, who’s now on his back with EMTs by his head. I think I can hear him saying something, but there’s too much crowd noise to be sure. Then his back arches and he yells, “MILLER!”
Fuck! He's maybe twenty yards out. I think that I can make it if I run hard. My stomach drops into my quads, but it’s not even a decision. Ezra needs me—I’m there.
My face and chest burn and my heart pounds so hard I feel dizzy as I dart out onto the field. Once I start, some of the nerves fall away, and I run faster, harder. I'm almost to him when some guy breaks from the swarm and steps into my path, holding his arms out. I run around that fucker, drop to my knees, and bump a referee who’s crouched by Ezra.
I hear myself say, "I'm Miller!"
I feel thousands of eyes on me, but all I see is Ezra with his pale face and his clenched teeth. His eyes are glassy, and I realize his teeth are chattering. He’s shaking all over. Fuck.
I reach for his arm. "Hey there, angel."
As soon as his gaze finds my face, tears start spilling down his cheeks. He reaches for me, but I’m grabbed from behind. “Sir, you can’t be here!”
I look over my shoulder—it’s one of the refs. I feel panicked as I try to break free of his grip. "I'm his next of kin!”
“Stay back, or I’ll have you hauled off,” the man snaps as he lets me go, and when I turn back to Ez, he’s being moved onto the stretcher.
I get my first look down the length of him, and I'm gut-punched to see what has to be a broken leg or ankle. Jesus.
“Mills?” He reaches for me as the EMTs strap him down. Suddenly, everybody’s talking. The ref is telling me again I have to get off the field.
Someone with a booming voice says, "We're gonna move him, everybody back up!"
"It's okay," I call to Ez. I try to step closer, but that fucking ref grabs me again. “What the fuck?” I jerk my arms out of his grasp. “I’m not doing anything, dude.”
He lets me go again, and the stretcher is unfolding; the thing has legs with wheels that pop out. Ezra’s arm is reaching toward me, but there are lots of people between us, so I can’t see his face.
Everything is chaos as the swarm around him starts to move toward the sideline.
"You can't be near an injured player," the ref tells me gruffly. I want to fucking throttle him, but I know that won't help me. "That’s fine. But I'm going with him in the ambulance because I'm his only family here."
I start following the Ezra swarm, thinking I’ll get close to him once there’s distance in between that ref and me. But I hear, “Miller!”
It’s a hoarse yell, and it makes my chest squeeze. I jog closer. “Hey, can I get near him? I’m his family,” I say to someone in a crimson Polo.
The guy frowns at me, and Ezra moans my name again, and then the crowd is cheering, everybody on their feet, just fucking roaring in a way that’s almost scary. Ezra sticks his arm up, giving a wave, and the crowd roars louder.
Then we’re on the sideline and his teammates are all shouting to him. I realize he’s strapped onto the stretcher; I can tell he’s scared because his hands are clawing at the straps.
Finally, there’s space beside him as the swarm disperses, coaches and refs returning to position as we’re left with mostly EMTs and game staff. Tears fill my eyes as I plant myself right by his head.
“Hey there, angel.” He looks pale and heavy-lidded as his eyes find mine, and then—just like before—the tears start sliding down his cheeks.
“Oh, angel. I’m so sorry.” I lean down, fighting the urge to kiss him, he grabs onto me. “Please, Mills! Don’t let them take me!”
Oh, fuck.
“I can’t go there!” he moans.
“Yeah you can, Ez. You can go to the hospital. Because I'm going to go with you."
His teeth are chattering again. He’s breathing fast. He whimpers, "I don't want to."
“I know. I’m so sorry.” Tears are streaming down his face as he blinks up at me. I realize his hair's sweat-pasted to his forehead. Someone must have pulled his helmet off before I got here. I’m reaching for his forehead when a woman shouts, “We’re on the move!”
I put my hand on his arm as they start pushing his stretcher. Its wheels bump over the grass, and he’s gritting his teeth, looking like he might pass out from pain.
“You’re doing so good, Ez. Keep hanging in there.”
Ezra’s losing his shit, but he's being quiet about it. I can see the skin around his collarbone tug inward like he's struggling to breathe. He looks down at himself with eyes peeled wide, and I notice there’s a sheet over his legs.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, leaning down. “I’m with you.”
The announcer booms over the speaker system. There's so much whistling and cheering as we reach the tunnel that it makes me feel disoriented. Then we're moving faster into the cement tunnel. More people jog toward us—looks like different paramedics.
"Mills?” Ezra’s hand finds mine, gripping so hard. “I CAN’T GO."
"Yeah you can, Ez. You can do this. I swear. You’re so fucking brave. I'm gonna be sure it's all okay. I’ve got you."
He pulls our joined hands to his chest. "You promise?"
“Oh yeah. I fucking promise you that, baby.”
There's commotion as the new EMTs take over. The offensive coach seems to appear out of nowhere, telling Ez he'll be at the hospital after the game. Ezra nods and whispers “thank you” as the last few people from the field leave.
Everything from there on is a whirlwind. Lots of questions for Ez, and he doesn’t like it; I can tell because his hand grips mine so hard it hurts. The EMTs wheel him through another cement corridor, past a chain-link gate, and they load Ez into an ambulance.
“I have to go,” I tell them, and they let me up. I end up in a chair about two feet from his waist, forced to buckle in so he can’t even see me due to how he’s lying on his back with EMTs around him. The ambulance starts moving, and they turn on the sirens. I can tell he’s trying to be calm, but as they start an IV, he grasps the stretcher’s edge and starts to breathe hard.
“I’m right here, Ez. When we get out, I’m gonna be right there beside you.”
The two EMTs are flitting all around him, and I feel so fucking helpless, so I just keep talking to him, even as one of them comes between the two of us. Finally the woman moves. Things settle down a little, and he reaches toward me. He’s strapped to the stretcher, now wearing an oxygen mask.
I lean forward and stroke his knuckles. “I love you, my angel.”
At his feet, they’re doing something. He looks fucking scared and pained. I hate it so much. I want to unbuckle, get close so I can whisper to him, stroke his hair, but then the ambulance is turning sharply. Then the ambulance is stopping.
The rear doors swing open, and they lift his stretcher out. I climb down as they pop out the stretcher's wheeled legs. I try to get beside him as they rush him through some automatic doors, but I can't quite get into his line of sight. The EMTs are moving quickly down a hallway with white walls and waxy floors and cool air that reminds me I’m sweating.
I feel sick with shock about this—that this happened to him.
The hall dead-ends into a large room I don’t get a chance to see before an EMT is pulling a blue curtain back. They wheel Ezra into a triage space. One of them says, "Good luck, Mr. Masters. You played a great game."
I notice his face—pale and wide-eyed.
Before they’re out of sight, a woman in a white coat steps into the curtained space. I guess it’s the white coat and the hospital curtains that set him off. It happens so fast. One second, Ezra’s on his back, his jaw clenched and his eyes looking so desperate that my chest aches for him.
Then he’s up. He’s trying to get off the bed—but almost as soon as he moves, he starts howling. All at once, the doctor’s shouting, and more people burst in through the curtains. Blood is blooming on the sheet over his leg as people try to hold him down and Ezra tries to fight them.
I feel all the heat drain from my body. My hands are shaking, and I’m flushing, and I don’t know what to do. He’s fucking bellowing as people work on his leg. He’s shouting for me, and I don’t know what to do!
I can tell they’ve drugged him when he lies back on the stretcher panting. I move to the bed’s rail beside him. “It’s okay, angel. I’m sorry.”
Two people in scrubs are still bent over his leg; someone else is cutting off his jersey. There’s a young guy sticking leads onto his chest and shoulders.
Whatever sedative they hit him with, it worked. All he can do is stare up at me, his face pale and slack, his pupils small black dots in his dazed green eyes. His hand lifts, but it can’t even find mine—so I grasp his, wrap it up in both of mine and lean down near him.
“I love you, Ezra babe. You’re gonna be okay, my angel.”
Tears start down his cheeks in little rivulets, and I think he’s in pain because he shuts his eyes and winces as he tilts his head toward me. “Mills,” he mumbles.
“I’m here, angel.”
“I wanna…go.” He opens his eyes, his face twisting as he breathes with his mouth open. His hand squeezes mine. “Please.”
And then he’s biting his lip. He’s moaning as his left hand grips the bed’s rail. Someone else comes in—another doctor—and Ezra is peering up at me. He’s saying, “Josh.” He looks high as a kite, but his back arches as someone does something to his lower half. I realize they’re cutting off his pants.
“It’s okay, angel. I’m right here.”
His eyes shut, and he’s crying, muffled and quiet. It makes me want to break things, so I snap at the guy next to me. “It seems like he needs more pain medication, no?”
Someone down by his leg agrees, and on her orders, the young guy gives him more. After that, his body doesn’t move. Even his head rests still and heavy on its pillow. He just looks at me as tears drip down his cheeks, and I wipe them and tell him, “I love you.” He looks so pained and sad.
My stomach is nothing but knots.
“You okay?” I whisper as some people take an X-ray of his leg.
He shakes his head—this tiny movement. I notice that his eyes look weird. There are chills on his arms. Something dings, a machine, and someone pulls the mask off his face. Ezra never moves his eyes off mine as a nurse fits him with new oxygen tubing.
“You’re being so brave, angel.” I stroke his hand. “Everything is gonna be okay, I promise.”
“I wanna go home,” he says. His lips are barely moving. “Call Luke.”
I’m relieved when his eyes drop shut and a few of the nurses leave our area. A minute later, a tall, white-haired surgeon comes in. He’s affiliated with the Rose Bowl, he says. He stays on-call during the game in case a player gets hurt. The guy seems to be a fan of Ezra, so he’s pretty nice when he talks to me. He says basically that it’s an ankle fracture.
“Not so complicated till he moved and made it compound” —the man gives a look that’s almost like an eyeroll— “but it’s nothing we can’t fix. The X-rays don’t look too bad.”
Ezra’s eyes lift open just after the surgeon leaves our space.
“Mills?” he whispers.
Since there’s no one in here right now, I lean down and kiss his temple. “Yeah, my angel?”
“I don’t feel good.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tears are blurring my eyes. I wipe them and stroke his hair back off his clammy forehead. “You want me to get somebody?”
“No.” It’s whimpered. Then his lips are trembling. “Don’t leave. Please?”
“No way. I’m never leaving, angel. I’ll be here till you leave. Then I’ll take you home and take care of you, okay?”
His eyes look so miserable. When nurses come back in to start the pre-surgery prep, he’s dozing again, so I tell one of them he’s pretty scared of hospitals.
“When he wakes up, somebody needs to get me. And not make him wait. You know what I mean? It’s a big thing for him. Serious.”
She nods like she understands, and I can only pray she does. I text my mom and Carl and stroke Ezra’s arm while they bustle around him, doing things—I don’t know—to his body, putting on more wires and stickers.
His eyes peek open once or twice, and I say, “Just look at me, angel. It’s just me and you, okay? I’m with you.”
He nods once. One of the nurses pushes something into his IV, and his hand goes limp.
“We’re ready,” she says. “Time to wheel him back.” Her brows scrunch. “You are…? I don’t think I got your name.”
“Josh Miller,” I tell her.
I’m surprised when Ezra’s eyes open. “My husband,” he says, the words only slightly slurred.
The woman’s eyes pop open wider. “Oh, okay.” She smiles, looking mildly amused.
I laugh. Ezra’s eyes pull open again. He gives me this goofy little smile, and then they take him.
Six
Josh
We’re apart for a little over three hours. In that time, I talk to Mom and Carl, text with Luke McDowell, field a visit from Bama’s head coach, and receive Ezra’s luggage from the players’ hotel—plus a bunch of food that Luke and his man, Vance Rayne, had delivered. I get an automated-looking text informing me the surgery’s wrapping up and feel a wave of gratitude that Ez did okay.
I figure it’ll be a bit before they call me back, so I’m bringing the first bite of some yummy-smelling pasta stuff to my mouth when a nurse calls me back to recovery. I box the food up in a millisecond and sling all the bags I have over my shoulders. I can’t get down that white hallway fast enough.
My heart is racing as I step into the recovery room, and more so when I see that it’s partitioned by the same curtains that I think freaked him out before. But when the nurse ushers me into his space, Ezra’s still sleeping. He looks like Sleeping Beau on the bed, his head tipped back slightly with a towel rolled under his neck. His leg is propped on pillows, wrapped in what looks like a mile of ACE bandages. I notice he’s still got the oxygen tubing on. His body—all except that leg—is wrapped up in white blankets.
“We brought you back before he’s fully awake, so I’ll be monitoring him as you wait here,” the nurse tells me.
I’m so grateful my throat closes up, and it takes me a second to thank her for letting me back early.
I ask a few questions about the surgery, which apparently went well, and then Ezra’s muscles start to twitch and his eyelids start to flutter.
The nurse lets me get right by him, ease my arm through the rail so I can rub his shoulder and whisper to him as he wakes up. I’m prepared for the worst, but he just seems confused and sleepy. I tell him a few times that he had a surgery and it went fine, and I’m not going to leave him. At one point, he smirks and slurs, “Are you my husband?”
That makes me laugh. “Yeah, angel. I’m whatever you want.”
The surgeon comes in while Ez is dozing, giving me a full report on what he did to Ezra’s leg and telling me he’ll set up followup care in Alabama. He says we have to stay here overnight, but we can probably leave tomorrow. Then our nurse starts actively trying to wake Ez up. She hands me a cherry-flavored slush to feed him with a plastic spoon, and he blinks at me with his glassy eyes as he swallows the cool slush. After that, he’s more awake, and he’s peering around the room. I tell him again what happened, and he shuts his eyes, whispering something nonsensical about bubble gum.
“I’d love some bubble gum,” I whisper back, just to keep things conversational.
He rasps, “Can you hold me, Josh?”
His dazed eyes lift open, and he looks somehow both pained and high off his ass. I’d do anything he asked at this point—okay, really at any point—so I convince the nurse to let me lower the bed’s rail on his unhurt side. I think Ez is sleeping when we do it, but his eyelids tremble open, and he tries to hold his arm out for me.
“You’re okay…I’ve gotcha, angel.”
I scoot my chair right up to the bed’s side, wrap an arm over his upper chest, and press my face against his shoulder. Ezra’s hand comes up to wrap around my forearm and, again, he does this sweet thing where he leans his head toward me—like he wants to snuggle up to me and can’t, but he’s still trying.
It strains my back and shoulder to hold this pose, hugging him from the side, but I don’t mind it. I guess he’s still waking up, because a few times, he shudders, or he’ll startle awake. Each time, when he feels me wrapped around him, he drifts back to sleep.
