A WHISPER OF UNEASE

A WHISPER OF UNEASE
Adam's Pov 

They won. They won the game.

The team pulled through, and came out on top. They were victorious, and there wasn't any confusion. It wasn't close. The Lions had an obvious win.

My teammates have been in and out all day today. And when they describe the game, or talk about it, they tell me that we won. It was our win. We did it. Us. 

But, lying here, I can’t feel it.

The antiseptic air of the hospital is giving me a dull headache. The rhythmic hum of the machines is constant, adding to my headache. Victory feels like something far away, something that belongs to them. It feels like I didn't do enough to be written in with the winners.

Mark came by, brought my phone and offered me a pick me up. I accepted the former which I immediately turned off and declined the latter Dave came too, and managed to get a few laughs out of me. Jacob, Caleb, Ferguson, Big Jay, little Jay, a lot of them stop by.

They tell me to keep my chin up, that I'll be out of here in no time. They tell me how good I looked out there before the fall, how everyone’s talking about it, but in a good way. I nod and smile when I can, but each time they leave, it feels like they’re taking some of the air in the room with them, and I’m left to breathe what’s left behind.

Bouquet after bouquet, bright and fragrant, arrived in my room too. Mostly roses, but there's other flowers too like lilies, orchids. Each card says some version of the same thing: ‘Get well soon. And don't worry, you were still decent out there.’

The sun is getting low in the sky when I bring myself to put my phone back on. I scroll through, absently at first. Notifications from all my social media, texts, missed calls. I’m overwhelmed but then. . . I see his name.

Emerson.

My chest tightens. He called once, before my game. Maybe he didn't call again because he thought I saw his call and I didn't want to pick up. 

Is that why he's not here, beside me right now? Does he think I'm shutting him out?

Maybe I'm a coward but I can't do it, I can't call him back just yet. I just know my voice will shake. And what will I say? How will I get the words out without breaking down? 

I need a minute. Soon. I'll call soon. I just need to gather myself 

I scroll further, looking for something to distract me, and freeze when I see another familiar name; Petra.

We've never spoken on the phone before, not even without Emerson present. But she called, she probably saw. 

I stare at it for a while before I finally press the button to calm her back. It feels like one of the few calls I can take without falling apart and I've got to start somewhere.

She answers almost immediately. “Adam? Oh my God, oh my God, I’m so sorry. I saw you on TV. I saw the whole thing. Are you okay? Are you hurt badly?”

Her voice is sharp with sympathy and I sigh. “It’s fine,” I say automatically. “I'm fine.”

We talk a little more. She asks the usual questions; how bad is it, how long till I’m out, what do the doctors say but in that cheery voice of hers that says she cares. It honestly doesn't make me feel hopeless and I'm not irritated while I answer her questions.

I'm still laughing at something she says when she says goodbye. “Bye Petra. Say hi to your mom for me.”

“Oh I will,” she replies. “Oh and tell Em to call me back as soon as he can. I’m sure he’s with you. Bye.” 

Before I can say anything, she hangs up. I giggle under my breath because she said that in a cheeky tone, one that makes me feel like she knows we fucked.

But as the line goes dead, as I'm all alone again, it hits me that no, Emerson isn't here and he still hasn’t come to see me.

I should call. . . in a minute.

I sigh, watching the day darken. Nurses move quietly in the corridor. Someone down the hall laughs; and I turn towards it until it fades away. 

I’m sure there will be no more visitors tonight. . . if I don't call Emerson.

And I have to call. I can't lay here with my hurt feelings, that Emerson isn't coming to see me when he's tried to reach out. It's my turn now.

If I call him and he doesn't come, then I can take my anger and use it to set his clothes on fire. Metaphorically, of course.

I pick up the phone again, and my fingers quickly take me to Emerson’s name. The thought of calling him makes my pulse quicken, but so does the thought of not calling. He’s out there somewhere, and I can’t stand the silence anymore.

I want him here, I don't care about all the other stuff right now.

Taking a deep breath, I dial.

It rings and then stops. No answer. I dial again, and then once more.

Oh. Okay.

I tell myself he might be asleep. Maybe he’s taking a bath. Maybe he’s busy. There are so many reasons why he may not be near his phone right now, why he didn't hear it ring. 

But the thought sneaks in anyway. There's the possibility that he’s just avoiding me. Or wrote me off when I didn't answer. We didn't exactly leave things the rosiest.

My throat tightens. Okay, I think. That’s fine. It’s fine.

I set the phone down and lie back, staring at the ceiling until the fluorescent lights blur into a white haze. My body aches, but suddenly not as much because it's eclipsed by the ache in my chest. 

Whatever. I'll just go to sleep, escape into my dreams. And I'm doing it. I'm just about to drift off when my phone buzzes with a call.

My eyes pop open and I immediately reach for it, truthfully because I think it's Emesons calling back.

It's Ivy. 

I hesitate before picking up, vaguely wondering if he's told her to tell me to stop calling him. “Hello?”

“Adam,” she calls, softly. “I’m so sorry. I saw your game. Are you okay?”

The same script again. I’ve said my line so many times it feels automatic, even though I know she means well. “Thank you. And yes, I'm okay.”

“That's good to hear,” she says and I can hear the concern in her voice.

Before I can reply with some filler words, she continues but her voice now sounds ruffled. “I can’t reach Emerson. I’ve been trying his phone all day. Is he there with you?”

“No,” I say slowly, a feeling of unease curling around me. “He’s not here.”

A pause. “Okay. I was just going to check up on him. Please tell him to call me when you see him, okay? I’m worried.”

And she does sound worried, and I think some of that is beginning to rub off in me. “Sure,” I whisper. “It will be the first thing I tell him when I see him.” 

“Thank you so much. Get better soon!”

“Will do,” I reply and then she hangs up. 

That bad feeling starts to grow. My mind doesn't let it rest, doesn't put it down, poking and prodding until I'm convinced something happened to him.

Because now it’s not just me. Other people can’t reach him either. Why?

But now that I can take a step back and get my stupid head out of my ass, I realize something. I think even if Emerson was angry with me, he wouldn’t just vanish when I'm hurt, and especially after I called.

Would he?

I stare at the phone again, my reflection faint on the dark screen. No I don't think he would.

I think. . . something’s wrong.