FINE. FINE. FINE

FINE. FINE. FINE
Adam's Pov

We’re on the way to the hospital in an ambulance. The siren howls above me like a wounded animal. The flashing red lights smear across the metal ceiling, and I count the flickers, trying to find some sort of a pattern in them, trying to feel less like I’m falling apart.

I knew it. God, I knew this would happen.

I’m out of the game.

I still haven't gotten used to the thought. All the hours, all the drills, every drop of sweat— it feels like it all collapsed into that single moment of failure that wasn't even my fucking fault.

I can still feel it; the rough grass biting into my palms, the weight of the crowd’s silence when I went down, the moment I felt it was all over.

I would give anything to go back.

“Can you feel your toes, Mr Pierce?”

The voice feels like it materialized with how much I'm in my own head. I don't startle though, just turn towards the medic and mutter, “yes, I can.”

And that’s the problem. Not only can I feel my toes, I can feel everything. My ankle throbs in time with the siren, every pulse a reminder that my chance has slipped through my fingers. That my teammates are out there playing and I'm being driven away from the game.

The medic nods, distracted, and adjusts the strap across my chest before going back to her phone.

She doesn't realize that this is the end of something I’ve built my whole life around.

I’ll probably spend the night in the hospital but I don't care. It's just a sprain but It's not like I have something better to do. My evening’s cleared up so why not? In fact I welcome it, I don't want to go back to the dorm.

God, I feel sorry for myself.

Did Em see? Does he know? Did he see me fumble— fucking blow it— right there in front of everyone? I'd be calling me right now?

Maybe he’ll come to the hospital. Maybe he won’t. I can’t decide which I want to happen.

If he did come, it would mean that he was at anyway, even after the last rocky couple of days.

And if he didn't, then he wouldn't have seen the worst moment of my life and I can collect myself before facing him so I don't burst into tears the minute he starts talking.

But it's out of my hands anyway. I don’t have my phone. It's still in my locker and I didn't even think to ask for it as I was being loaded away.

So now it’s just me. There's nothing to distract me. I'm here, left alone to the torment of my own thoughts.

And so I spiral.

Just fucking spiral.

My mind is a kraken, dragging me down into the depths of my insecurities, no matter how obscure. I have time to say.

What if this injury ends everything? What if I don’t come back from it? What if my leg never heals, after injuring it twice? Fuck, what if Em stops caring once the spotlight isn’t on me? What if he suddenly becomes okay with the distance I've put between us and even widens it further?

I've already lost my chance. I don't want to lose Emerson too.

I stare at the ceiling again, knowing if I wasn't strapped down, I’d probably smash my head against the wall just to make the noise stop.

But other than that, I’m fine. Yes, I am. Fine. Fine. Fine.

The medic glances at me, her brows furrowed, but she doesn't say anything. Outside, the city lights blur past, indifferent to my plight.

I close my eyes. My body aches, but it’s the quiet that hurts more; the realization that the noise of the game, the crowd, the life I've built, has been replaced by this sterile emptiness.

Maybe permanently.

_
Emerson’s Pov

In all this, on the verge of tears, I think of Adam.

It’s the only thing that keeps me from breaking completely. His name, his face, his laugh. . . just him.

I call in every single memory I have. He’s like a rope tied around my wrist, tugging me back from the edge every time the fear threatens to drag me under. A safety blanket keeping the fucking monsters away.

Is he missing me? Does he know I'm missing?

He might not. He might still be out, celebrating with his team, amidst bad decisions and loud music. Maybe he hasn’t even noticed I didn’t come back to the dorm because he’s not in the dorm. Maybe he’s lost in the adrenaline, the post-game glow, surrounded by friends and fans, and I’m a thought he just hasn't had the time to get to yet.

Nobody has come back in to check on me.

My stomach has begun to grumble and my mouth is reminiscent of a fucking desert. I've barely slept, because it feels like I'm offering my fucking neck on a platter if I do.

I try to listen for footsteps, for voices, for anything. But there’s nothing to hear. All there is the buzz of the bulbs, and every time one flickers, getting dimmer or outright dies, it feels like a countdown, like I immediately have less time.

My body aches from the way it's bound. My shoulders burn from hours of stillness and my wound is still open.

I have no concept of time anymore. The light never changes. There's never a cool breeze, the air never shifts. But I know it must be getting towards evening again, close to a full day now.

A full day of waiting, of hoping, of trying not to fucking believe the worst.

At first, the panic came in waves, crashing over me, pulling me under, sometimes even leaving me gasping for breath.

But now it’s constant, a low thrumming that matches the rhythm of my heart. It’s not even panic anymore. It morphed. It's something deeper, quieter. A kind of steady terror that has settled into my bones.

I don't know which is fucking worse.

I talk to myself sometimes, whispering nonsense just to hear a voice. I tell myself bullshit, because it’s the only thing that keeps me from screaming.

Things like, “I still have time.” “Someone could still find me.” “Adam will soon notice, I'm sure.”

And I tell myself I’m fine, the biggest lie of all.

I can't even fucking roll over. I'm stuck, staring at one fucking square. Anytime I shift, it feels like the ropes cut deeper and deeper so I just lay here, marinating in my own fear.

The world is out there, spinning. People are going to work, laughing, having drinks, and picking up their kids. But in here it's stagnant. Here is just me, tied down alongside my thoughts.

I think of Adam again; of his hands, of his nose, his lips. I imagine those hands feathering over me, holding me, cradling me.

The panic flares again, hot and sudden at the thought that maybe I’ll never experience that again. I have to force myself to take deep breaths and chant my matra because I can't assure myself that it's not true.

“You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

The words taste like ash, but I keep saying them over and over. Because if I stop, I’ll start fucking screaming.