The ending whistle sounded and the stands emptied as the occupants rushed the field. The banners multiplied, and the screaming and yelling increased in amplitude—if that was possible. I was swept up with them in the excitement, forgetting that Ryland’s father was still in such close proximity. I didn’t care, though; I wanted to find Ryland somewhere in the crowd and throw myself in his arms and congratulate him.
I made it about halfway to the field before a sharp pain shot into my chest, causing me to stop short. It felt like I had been burned. My hand moved to the pain, shocked to feel Ryland’s necklace red hot under my sweater. As soon as my hand made contact with it, the heat left it, taking the pain away. I looked at my hand and sweater, expecting to see welts or scorch marks, but nothing was there. I continued to stand in place as the crowd jostled me around in their attempts to pass my stationary form.
One perfectly placed shoulder was all it took to take me down. The force of the jolt sent me down hard. I threw my hands out in front of me, but not in time. My knee hit first, meeting the hard asphalt of the track that surrounded the field, a jolt of pain surging through my leg. My hands hit next, sliding against the asphalt in a deep grind that rattled my wrists. I winced with the pain that moved through my joints, waiting for my brain to catch up with me. A warm, stinging sensation spread across my knee, a telltale sign I was bleeding.
The bodies flowed past me in a steady stream I could barely see through. Knees, feet and legs jostled me around, digging my injured joints further into the ground. I looked around for some form of safety from them.
I had just caught sight of the home team’s benches when a giant tug grew out of my chest; it felt like someone had grabbed the necklace in an attempt to pull me toward safety. I followed the inward pull, my hand fluttering around my sweater to shoo away whatever was pulling at me.
I pulled myself onto the bleachers, the changing angle sending a sharp sting through my knee. My jeans had ripped, revealing a couple of bleeding cuts. My mom was going to kill me; I only had a few pair of jeans and we couldn’t afford to buy a new pair right now.
I winced as I removed the loose bits of asphalt from my knee and the palms of my hands; my hands had small scrapes, but no blood was drawn. With the asphalt gone, the cuts on my knee didn’t look so bad, but they still stung. I screwed up my face in irritation, resigning myself to sit there until the crowd thinned out and Ryland found me.
I had only sat still a moment before Ryland burst through the rambunctious crowd in front of me, his brow furrowed in worry. His chin was dribbled in dry blood, his battered lip now swollen and blue. He looked at me before catching sight of my knee and dropping down to inspect it.
“Are you all right? I got here as quickly as I could.” His hands hovered around my knee for a bit before deciding the jeans were a lost cause. He reached out, obviously intent on ripping them more.
“No, don’t!” I pleaded.
“What?”
“I need these jeans, Ry.” I hoped he would catch my meaning without my having to profess my poverty.
“I’ll buy you some more.” He smiled shyly at me before pulling his hands apart, ripping the jeans down to the seam.
Great, my mom was definitely going to kill me now. They weren’t even patchable. I highly doubted she would let Ryland actually buy me a pair of new jeans, either. The cuts weren’t even that bad; they just liked to bleed a lot.
“Did you see me fall?” I asked, wondering what he had meant before.
Ryland looked up at me, a confused look on his face.
“You got here ‘as quickly as you could’?” I asked, repeating his phrasing.
He still sat at my feet, trying to find something to stop the bleeding.
“Yeah, I was standing over there,” he said, jutting his chin in the direction he came from.
He looked around a bit, as if he were looking for someone rather than something. Seeming not to find anyone specific, he sighed and removed his Rugby jersey.
My heart stopped. His muscles rippled as he removed the shirt, sweat glistening off every part of him. I should have been disgusted, but I couldn’t tear my dumbfounded stare away from him. His muscles were more spectacular than I would have expected: large defined shapes—dare I say—chiseled into his skin. He had a large ace bandage wrapped around his right shoulder, as if he was nursing an injury. I didn’t know that he had been hurt, though; he normally told me about these things. The whole image of him standing before me was like a bad cover on a romance novel. I forced myself to look away as he wrapped the shirt around my knee.
“It’s not the most sanitary, but it will work for now.” He tied the shirt before sweeping me up in his arms, careful to hold me away from his sweaty body.
“Ry! Put me down! I can walk!”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips as he carried me out of the stadium.
I looked behind us, seeing the horde of people jumping and cheering, and felt a pain of guilt.
“You’re going to miss your party,” I whispered, knowing the pleading was evident in my voice.
He didn’t slow his pace, but his jaw hardened and his hold on me tightened.