by Sierra Hill
I honestly have no idea who’s playing tonight. All I know is what Jeff told me about the game, which is that it is a local Washington team playing against another top-ranked team, vying to move ahead in the tournament.
With my hands occupied with my beer and popcorn, I clumsily maneuver myself around my seat before I can sit down, trying not to spill on myself or anyone else. I turn at my waist and place my things on the floor next to my feet before turning back to face the court. As I do, I lift my gaze to find a very tall and very familiar face staring straight at me.
I blink twice.
When my eyes adjust again, my heart bottoms out in my stomach, the wine I drank earlier sloshing around like it’s inside a barrel tipped on its side.
I feel dizzy.
Dazed and confused.
My jaw goes slack, mouth agape in horror at who is less than fifteen-feet from where I sit. It feels like I’m in that scene in Star Wars, where Princes Leia is held immobile by the Storm Troopers and their stun-guns. If Seattle had an earthquake right this minute, I wouldn’t even feel it because I’m so shaken by the man who stands on the court.
Staring right at me as if I’m a ghost.
Holy shit.
The only boy I’ve ever loved.
The only boy who meant everything to me.
The only boy who threw me away and wasn’t there when I needed him most.
Jeff leans over and whispers in my ear, startling me so bad that I jump in my seat like it’s on fire.
“Do you know that player?”
My hands tighten into fists in my lap.
“No, I don’t think so,” I lie, glancing away from the action on the court. Away from Carver’s penetrating stare.
I have no idea what happens over the course of the next few minutes. All I hear is a rush of noise swirling in my head. Players run up and down the court and back again in front of me, shooting and dribbling – but it’s all a blur. Plays are called out, coaches yell at their teams to hustle on the court. Refs blow their whistles indicating fouls. I watch in a daze while trying to regulate my breathing.
Breathe.
You can handle this.
I’m now fully aware that the Washington team, Gonzaga, is playing against ASU. Carver’s team. I try to keep up with the game, pretending to act normal and not at all freaked out that I just laid eyes on the guy I’ve worked so hard to forget.
How is this even possible that Carver is here? I mean, I knew he played college basketball and that he attended ASU, but the odds of him playing here? Tonight? Playing in the only game I’ve ever watched live and in person?
Carver is at the far end of the court. He accepts an inbound pass from one of his teammates. My mind reels, my eyes glued to his movements, as he agilely handles the ball, effortlessly hurling it off toward another player. He runs down toward the goal post, weaving in and out of other players, receiving and passing the ball smoothly – confidently – taking it to the basket.
And then all hell breaks loose.
My brain can’t keep up with the fast-paced action. One minute Carver is ten feet in the air, the ball hitting the backboard and swooshing in the net, and the next, he’s sprawled out on the floor beneath the basket holding his mouth.
Loud gasps of air can be heart amongst the crowd; shouting, whistles blaring, players and fans craning their necks to see what’s going on at the far end of the court.
“Carver.” I whisper under my breath, as I slap at my hand over my mouth to keep myself from shouting his name out loud.
The game clock has stopped, music is being pumped through the arena speakers, and a time out has been called.
“What’s happening down there?” I ask Jeff, trying to sound calm and unaffected by what I’ve witnessed.
My eyes go wide, as I look down at my knee where Jeff’s hand has landed. “I think that player got elbowed in the face. These things happen all the time in sports. It’s just part of the game. He’ll probably be back at it in a few minutes.”
His callous tone, coupled with his touch, has me ready to jump up and deck him.
Memories of Carver and I bombard me all at once, hurling at me in a frenzied cyclone, like a busy day on the New York Stock Exchange floor.
The first kiss we shared after hiking to the top of Panorama Ridge overlooking Singing Creek. The first time he told me he loved me, with my hand held tightly in his as we rode the chairlift up to the top of Blackcomb Mountain. The thrill of cliff diving into the lake and swimming in waterfalls together, our wet bodies clinging to one another – holding on for dear life.
My chest tightens with an emotion I can’t name. Bittersweet loss of something once so beautiful that’s turned into a dusty memory.
My summer memories are packed full with Carver Edwards.
Those thoughts are sidelined as I see the team’s trainer and the medics carrying out a stretcher, as they hover over him, assessing his injuries. He’s surrounded by people, as his teammates watch in silence. It must be a scary proposition for them, wondering if he’s seriously hurt, or maybe concussed. There’s movement from the crew, and then the men depart as Carver is lifted and carted off down the long corridor with deafening applause.
The game continues for the next five minutes, the crowd noise amplified in my muddled brain, as my thoughts are back in the locker room, wondering what’s going on with Carver. Suddenly I become aware of a man standing in front of Jeff and me, wearing a polo shirt and khakis.
The man speaks directly to Jeff, as Jeff rises with a broad smile and shakes his hand. “Jeff, so glad you could make it tonight.”
“Hey, Thomas. Thanks for the tickets. It’s an amazing experience to watch from courtside.” He looks over his shoulder at me and motions. “By the way, let me introduce you to Logan Shaw.”
He extends his hand down to help me stand and I take it without a second thought.
“Logan, this is my pal Thomas Coleman. We went to school together. He’s the arena physician who gave us the tickets tonight.”
Ah, that makes sense. “Nice to meet you, Thomas. Thank you so much for the seats. I’m having a lot of fun,” I reply on autopilot, sounding much like a Cyborg.
The man turns back to Jeff and leans in so that no one else around us can hear what he’s about to say.
“Listen, Jeff. I need your help. The kid they just brought back – Carver Edwards. Looks like his nose is broken, which I’m able to reset. But he also knocked out one of his teeth. I don’t know the extent of the damage, but he might need some emergency oral surgery.”
He stops for a moment and glances around, one hand on his chin, brow scrunched in concern. “I really hate asking this of you, since you’re here on fun and not on business, but I don’t know anyone else on emergency call tonight and your practice is relatively close. Would you mind coming back and having a look at the kid? See if it’s something you could do? I’d owe you big time.”
My heart thuds so loudly I’m worried it can be heard over the thumping pop music being played from the arena speakers. I feel dangerously close to puking. Or fainting. Or maybe both.
Jeff gives me a weary glance, and then bends his head forward as if resigned to the fact that our date just got cut short. I know Jeff. He’d never walk away from a patient in need of his care. It’s one of his many admirable qualities.
He places a gentle hand around my shoulder and pulls me in toward him, giving a guarded smile back to his friend. I’m as stiff as a starched shirt. “Lucky for you – and Carver Edwards – I have the finest dental assistant with me tonight. He’ll be in good hands.”
Jeff has no idea what kind of problem this will cause. How difficult it will be on me. How uncomfortable the locker room will be when I walk in and talk with Carver for the first time in four years.
No matter what happened between us, I can’t shirk my professional responsibilities or say no to my boss, given that he’s the reason I’m even here tonight. But I’m under no illusion that our patient will be happy
to see me or to receive my help.
“Do you mind?” Jeff asks, his puppy dog eyes pleading with me for my support.
“Of course not.”
Thomas blows out a breath in relief. “Great. Follow me then.”
Picking up my purse, leaving behind my unfinished beer and popcorn, we follow Thomas down the long corridor into the bowels of the arena. We’re stopped by a security guard, who motions us through when Thomas flashes his ID badge.
Sucking in a deep breath, I work to steady myself – giving myself a secret pep talk that I desperately need before facing the guy I never expected to see again. Trepidation single-handedly sends me into a panicked frenzy. From the outside, I probably look icy calm and assured.
On the inside, my tummy flutters with nerves. Butterflies have made way for a flock of angry birds that have set up residence, their wings flapping in spastic patterns. That pukey feeling from earlier has returned.
I stand behind the two men as we enter the locker room, my eyes scanning around in search of a trashcan. There’s a distinct possibility I just might hurl.
Beside me, Thomas is giving Jeff a quick assessment of the situation, most of which I’ve tuned out because my attention is on the low, agonized moans coming from an anterior room toward the back. Hushed whispers circulate through the sweat permeated room. Considering this is the first time I’ve been on the inside of a men’s locker room, I’m impressed with my first observations. It’s very luxurious, with wood paneled lockers and soft lighting overhead. But décor aside, there are distinct odors that still linger, not easily covered by bleach and Febreeze spray.
Inhaling through my mouth, I bring my perfume-spritzed wrist up to my nose to mask the obnoxious scent of mildew, stinky feet and B.O.
A pained wail penetrates the room, dragging my attention away from the odor. My body instinctively jolts and tightens in recognition of Carver’s sounds of agony. I’ve only heard that loud shrill once before, during our second summer at camp.
We’d been screwing around down by the lake dock, swimming and diving off the edge into the water. I don’t know how it’d gone unnoticed before, but there was a rusty nail protruding from the wooden ladder we’d been using all day. Carver was climbing up the rungs, clowning around, his head thrown over his shoulder laughing at something I said, when suddenly I heard his scream ripple across the water.
His left hand had been punctured by the nail at the base of his index finger. Blood gushed everywhere and he’d turned sheet-white. His friend Brandon and I had helped him up on the dock and I ran to the get the camp nurse, while Carver nearly passed out from the agony.
That’s the exact sound I now hear coming from the other room, although his groans are much deeper than they were so long ago. I cringe in advance of what we’re about to see, knowing it won’t be a pretty sight.
Jeff walks in front of me but turns back suddenly when he notices I haven’t moved from my spot.
He cocks his head. “You doing okay, Logan?”
I shake my head, clearing the memory, nodding as I follow him past the shower stalls and to a doorway marked Medical. Taking another deep breath before we step in, I resolve to stay in control of my thoughts and facial expression. I will not cower or collapse. And I certainly won’t vomit.
But nothing can prepare me for what I see.
The door swings open with Jeff and Thomas partially blocking my view. All I can see is a pair of very long, sweat-drenched legs, sticking off the end of the exam table. One of the black Nike basketball shoes he wears has been kicked off, exposing the red sports socks. I used to tease him about his big feet. They were enormous, and too big for him. Like a puppy dog’s paws, who has yet to grow into them.
When I get a look at the rest of his body, it’s obvious he finally grew into his size thirteen sneakers. Up close like this, he looks massive. A writhing, angry giant.
Unable to see his face yet, I brace myself against the door frame, not really listening to Thomas introduce us. But then Thomas turns toward me, allowing me an unobstructed view of Carver, and he of me.
“I’m sorry, remind me of your name again?”
I realize Thomas is speaking to me, but it takes a gentle nudge from Jeff for me to speak. “Oh...uh, it’s Logan.”
“Ah, yes. Carver, this is Dr. Connell’s assistant, Logan.”
Thomas looks at me again, presumably for more of an introduction.
I chime in, “Shaw. Logan Shaw.” I try to force a natural smile, but I’m sure it looks more like a crazed clown.
I’ve never been a fearful girl. My brothers cured me of that when I was a kid. That will happen when a seven-year-old finds a snake in your bed or dog shit strategically placed in your shoes. Yeah, my brothers were assholes. Still are.
But right now, in this instant, my limbs quiver nervously. I have no idea how Carver is going to react to seeing me. Will he hate me? Scream at me to leave? Call me despicable names in front of my boss and his friend? I should just turn and leave on my own accord so I don’t create a scene.
I close my eyes and wait for it, ready for the attack. But nothing comes. If Carver does have a reaction, it’s covered in a mask of pain. He just stares at me with blank eyes, looking right past me. His eyes flutter closed, his long lashes fanning across his cheeks that are splattered with caked and dried blood.
Then he goes limp on the table.
Thomas turns with an amused look. “I guess the pain meds just kicked in.”
There’s another aid in the room, who moves from the counter and hands Thomas a small towel. Thomas hovers over Carver’s head. He then places his hands on the bridge of his nose, takes a loud breath and then does some twist of the wrist, snapping Carver’s nose back into place. The sound reverberates through the small room and Carver’s head jerks off the pillow – his expression clearly dazed and confused, the sound of his guttural groan reaching inside me all the way down to my toes.
The sound of that gasp transports me back to the first time he entered my body. It’s the same masculine sound, but in a very different context.
I move out of the way to the end of the table at Carver’s feet, keeping my distance until I’m needed. I watch Thomas and Jeff as they hover over Carver’s head and examine his injuries, Carver floating in and out of consciousness. My eyes take in his long, muscular form lying on the table, twitching in pain.
Carver’s head pops up again, his chin pointing down to his chest. He stares right at me. The words come out in a garbled, mumbled sound.
“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
My eyes grow wide and they jump to Thomas and Jeff, who are staring at me in question. Because Carver’s question is clearly steeped in accusation.
Jeff pipes in, completely unaware of the personal reasons for Carver’s inquiry.
“Carver, this is my assistant, Logan Shaw. She’ll be assisting me tonight as we determine the severity of your oral injuries and devise a plan to fix the tooth that’s been knocked out.”
As if Carver has completely forgotten the reason he ended up in here, he slowly raises his hand to touch his mouth, but not before Jeff intercepts it.
“Your nose was broken, Carver. And your tooth knocked out from the blow you sustained. But we’re doing everything we can to get you back on your feet, with minimal downtime.”
Carver’s thoughts seem to rally as he tries to rise up on his elbows, shifting his legs to dangle off the table.
“I gotta get out there,” he slurs, either from the mouth full of saliva and blood, or the pain medication causing his speech impediment. “We gotta beat the Zags.”
Carver surges forward, but Thomas grabs his shoulders, gently prying Carver back onto the table, laying him down and placing his head onto the pillow.
“Don’t worry, son. Your team is doing an admirable job out there. Let’s just work on getting you patched back up so you can move on to the next round. First though, we’re going to need your consent to take you offsite to Dr. Connell’s clinic. Are you able
to sign for yourself, or would you like us to call someone for you?”
I’m about to blurt out his father’s name, but Carver interrupts.
“No, I’ll sign it. Just do what you have to do to get me back out there.”
Jeff and Thomas give each other inquisitive looks, sympathy on their faces. We all know that Carver won’t be playing again tonight. Not only is he high as a kite, but they can’t risk him going back out on the court and potentially bleeding again. He may also have a concussion and has to be watched carefully.
Jeff clears his throat and speaks to Carver, his voice soft and reassuring, “We’ll do our best, Carver. You just lie back now and let us do our job.”
“Will you stay with me, Lo?” Carver mumbles, his eyes penetrating my gaze with so much emotion I have to look away for fear of breaking down.
Once again, the doctors look at me as if I’ve just grown two heads.
I shrug my shoulders, pretending that I’m just as clueless over Carver’s question as they are.
“Sure, Carver. I’ll stick around.”
He gives me a drugged-out, stupid grin. “Okay. Thanks, babe. Love you.”
And then he falls asleep.
I cringe, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I hope and pray Jeff and Thomas don’t think twice about what Carver just said in his drug-induced delirium.
Because if not for the drugs, I know without a doubt, Carver wouldn’t be calling me babe or spouting his love for me. Not after all that happened.
Chapter 4
Carver – Fifteen Years Old
Swimming when you have a boner is problematic.
It’s not only uncomfortable, but it requires that you remain in the water much longer than necessary – effectively turning into a prune. And in this case, no matter how much I want to get out of the water, I can’t leave until she does.
She’s the one who put me in this state of physical discomfort to begin with.
I’ve been at Camp Cheakamus Adventure for two full days now and I think I’ve had an erection for the past forty-six hours straight. And Logan Shaw is to blame for my condition.
