It got bad enough that the refs finally called a penalty for excessive celebration. The Steelers’ bench didn’t care - they knew they were going to lose this game, so they might as well enjoy themselves hurting one of the opposing team while they were losing.
The refs then signaled an injury time out, because Lance still hadn’t gotten up yet. He was definitely awake, though. I could see his hand in the air from here, and he was waving over to the Patriots’ sideline.
Morris looked over at me and shouted “Come on, Calloway, let’s go.” He and I and a couple other trainers rushed out on to the field to tend to Lance. As we started onto the field, Lance dropped his hand back to his side haphazardly.
The first time I had been on the sidelines at a professional football game a couple weeks ago had been surreal, just seeing all the thousands of people there, hearing all the sounds they created. It was intense.
Being on the field was another level of intense. At least on the sidelines you could pretend that no one was watching you, but here on the field, everyone was looking directly at you.
And during an injury time out, they were focused entirely on the medical staff and the player. Which meant…Lance and me.
Ugh. The irony. Still, I had a job to do, and I was here to do it.
When we got to where Lance was still lying on the field, I immediately dropped to my knees and looked at his face. Lance’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing.
At least that was good. “Lance?” I asked tentatively. His hand had been up earlier, waving us on, but he had dropped it by now and I wasn’t even sure if he was conscious.
I sucked in a breath and held it, scared out of my mind, but then Lance opened one eye. “Charlotte? Heeeeeey, there,” he said, all suave and everything or as suave as you could be lying on a field in a football uniform.
I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, Lance, I’m here. You dummy, I thought you were unconscious.”
“Always trying to get your hands on me, aren’t you? Come here, Charlotte.” He motioned toward me. The crowd, seventy thousand strong and unable to see what was going on, grew quiet as the staff worked on Lance.
“Yeah?” I moved closer so he could tell me where he was hurt. The rest of the trainers were prodding at Lance’s legs and abdomen, searching for the problem.
“You’re looking mighty fine on this Sunday afternoon, Charlotte,” Lance whispered to me. “If all these people weren’t around, we could have a sexy picnic right here.”
I had to resist punching him so hard at that point, but at the same time I probably couldn’t wipe the smile off my face long enough to do it. “You jerk,” I whispered, “are you even hurt? Or was all this just a ploy to get me out here and embarrass me?”
“Oh, I’m hurt, alright,” Lance groaned. I moved back and he spoke louder to all the trainers. “It’s my right knee. It just buckled under the rush. That guy really got me good.”
“Can you stand up?”
“Not on my own power, no. Help me up.” I looked over at Morris, and he nodded, and gingerly the staff helped Lance to his feet. The crowd of lusty Patriots fans roared their approval, and Lance managed a weak wave to them all around as we slowly walked toward the sidelines.
Morris looked at Coach Armstrong and shook his head, and Armstrong nodded to Oliver Lee, standing next to him. Lee put his helmet on and jogged out on the field. The crowd roared with approval, but they definitely sounded angrier than before.
As we lay Lance down on the training table we kept on the sideline, Hudson Asher came up to him carrying his helmet, clear fury in his eyes. “You get better right this second, you hear me?!” He practically shouted in Lance’s face.
Lance grimaced, and nodded, but didn’t say anything, resting his hand on Asher’s shoulder. You could see Asher turn all number of shades of red and storm off, right over to Coach Armstrong, 30 feet away.
I couldn’t make out any of the words Asher was saying, but he was clearly cursing up such a blue streak at the coach that Coach Armstrong just turned to him and pointed at the locker room. Asher stormed off and Armstrong focused back on the field.
Morris turned to me. “It’s his knee, Charlotte, get in there and see what you can find.”
I moved over to Lance’s right knee and put my hands on it, very lightly, trying to feel around under the skin for what could be wrong. It didn’t feel quite right.
Morris looked at me. “Season or career?”
The question left me cold. That was the kind of question no one wanted to answer. Morris was asking me point blank whether Lance would play again next year, or never again.
“I can’t tell just from this initial look, sir,” I started, “but it could be either one.” I tried to speak softly so Lance couldn’t hear me, but from the way I heard his head hit the table in anger, I knew he had.
I wished I could get closer to him, take his head in my hands and tell him everything would be alright, but I couldn’t do that out in public, in the middle of the game.