Finding Infinity (24 page)

He walks it off for a minute, and I see him wave off the trainers who are poised to run on the field with a seconds notice. He raises his hand and gestures for the team to huddle.

“I love it when they lean over like that. You can really see their tight asses,” Brad drones on beside me.

I grab the binoculars that are in our suite—I presume they belong to the team— so I can get a better view of Colin. The huddle breaks, and the offensive line gets set.

“Binoculars are a good idea. You can see their asses better.” I roll my eyes and ignore him.

Through my binoculars I watch Colin calling out instructions. Then, I see him stomp his foot, indicating that he’s ready for the center to hike the ball.

Colin catches it, and is looking for a receiver. No one is open. Colin scrambles outside of the pocket, trying to give the guys more time to get open. There are very large men coming towards him. He evades being sacked once. Twice. I hold my breath hoping that he’ll just throw away the damn ball.

I see him plant his foot to drop back and throw the ball to one of his receivers that’s barely open, when a guy who looks like a Mack truck hits him below the knees, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

My heart falls into my stomach, and soul-gripping fear takes over my body. Colin’s foot was planted in the turf when he got hit. I saw it all happen, up close through the binoculars. He’s not getting up. I see him lying on his stomach, and pounding his fist into the turf. His team is surrounding him, and four trainers are running onto the field.

Brad and I exchange knowing glances. The unsaid truth passes between us. It’s a lower leg injury, and it’s very bad. I stand up—grabbing my purse knowing that I’m not coming back— and run out of the box.

The question going through my head is not if he’s injured. It’s how damn bad is it?

One of the team’s security guys joins me as I’m frantically hitting the down button on the elevator. I keep telling myself that Colin is in good hands. Dallas has the best athletic trainers and doctors on staff. I just need to get to him. I need him.
He needs me.

The elevator doors open, and I rush in. The doors start to shut as Colin’s parents shove their way through, joining me in the confined quarters.

Susan keeps asking me medical questions about Colin. They’re questions that I can’t answer.

“How bad is it?”

“Is this career ending?”

“Will he be okay?”

I want to scream at her, “I don’t have any more information than you do!” Instead, I keep repeating, “I don’t know, Susan. I don’t know.”

Thankfully, the elevator doors open to the bowels of the stadium, and the security guard and I run to the sideline. Colin’s parents join us a moment later.

Colin is surrounded by the training staff and his head coach, so I can’t tell anything other than they have him rolled over on his back. His helmet is off, but I can’t see his face. I can’t see his eyes.

Susan pleads with me, “You’re a doctor, Caroline. Go out there.”

There’s no place that I would rather be, but right now, I’m his wife, not his doctor. I have to let them do their job.

There are players are huddled together from both teams, praying. The backup quarterback is warming up, knowing that he’s about to have his shot on the big stage. The stadium is eerily quiet. I catch a few words: “Brace…bone…stabilize…” but that’s it. They have the red bag on the field, which is never good news.

It all of sudden becomes very clear. I need my dad. He’s the best in the business, and I want his expertise.

I pull my phone out of my purse and send him a text

Me:
Colin’s hurt. Not sure to what extent. I need you in Dallas ASAP. I’ll call when I know more
.

Minutes pass then I hear the trill of my phone, telling me that I have a text.

Dad:
Carmen and I are leaving now. Keep me updated
.

Tears run down my face. I’m scared, but at least my dad’s coming, and maybe he can do something.

The medical team continues to work on him for what seems like forever before one of the trainers signals for the cart which drives onto the field. Four trainers stand Colin up, although he’s not placing any weight on his legs, and they help him get situated on the back of the vehicle. There’s a brace that runs from his ankle to his hip to keep his leg stable, so it doesn’t give me any clue as to what the injury is. I see the look on his face for the first time, and my heart breaks. It’s agony, defeat, and anger, mixed with devastation. He’s grimacing in pain, and his green eyes are clenched tightly. He throws his head back and then drops it forward. I see his fist tighten and pound into the cart.

The head doctor and one of his assistants ride on the cart with Colin. The crowd starts clapping as they take him into the locker room. I silently plead for Colin to give them a thumbs up sign. He doesn’t. He’s clearly in way too much pain.

The security guy grabs Colin’s parents and me, and escorts us into the training room. My head is swimming with thoughts. But, most importantly, I need to get to him.

One of the trainers meets us as soon as we enter the room. The first thing that I say is, “I’m an orthopedic surgeon. What can I do?”

The guy’s about my age, with strawberry blonde hair, and so many freckles that connecting the dots could take a while. He’s built like a marathon runner, with incredibly strong arms. I don’t remember his name, but I know that Colin likes him.

“Trust me, Doctor McKinney. We know,” he says, giving me a warm smile.

I don’t bother to correct my last name. “How is he?”

“He’s in x-ray. The tibia is definitely broken. We’re hoping that’s the extent of the damage.”

Broken bones are okay. They heal. He might need surgery. He’ll probably be out the rest of the season, but broken leg bones don’t end careers.

Susan turns and cries into John’s chest, and I realize that they’re not doctors. “This is good news, if it’s just a broken bone. I was afraid it was a knee injury,” I say, hoping to reassure her.

The trainer says, “Excuse me. Colin is asking for a few things from his locker. I’m going to grab them while they finish up with the x-rays.”

I grab my phone and text my dad, Brad, and Jenny what we know so far.

It must be halftime, because there are a handful of players that come trickling in, needing treatment. The room becomes very crowded. Some players I know, and others that I don’t, ask us about Colin. I give the standard response, “Still in x-rays.”

Now, it’s just a waiting game.

So we wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

The players leave the training room. Halftime must be over. The silence becomes deafening. Finally, the head trainer comes out and says that we can see Colin. He gives us no update on the extent of the injury. As he walks us to Colin’s room, he quietly says to me, “I need some help getting Colin to take painkillers. All he will take is Aleve.”

I nod my head, but I’ll be shocked if I can make any headway.

When the trainer opens the door, my first instinct is to run to him. So I do. It’s more of a fast-paced walk, but as soon as I’m by his side I grab his hand and kiss his forehead. His skin is ashen, and his face is contorted in pain. His leg is elevated and in a soft cast. His chest is bare. I’m assuming that they cut his jersey off of him to remove his pads. I can only assume that they cut his pants off, too, because he has a blanket just over his hips revealing his compression shorts.

“Hi, baby. You scared me to death,” I say, as I brush his sweaty, matted waves off of his forehead. “How are you?”

He squeezes my hand tightly, and through gritted teeth, replies, “Better now you’re here.” The agony etched lines on his face tell me that he’s not being honest. I bend down and kiss the crook of his nose, attempting to reassure him that he’s going to be okay.

The doctor, head trainer, member of the offensive coordinators staff, team vice president, general manager and head coaching assistant join us in the room. It is so full that I find it hard to draw in air. The doctor is almost touching me as everyone pushes in closer to Colin lying on the bed as if they need a better look at his covered injury.

The head doctor speaks first. “Colin has an open fracture of the tibia. There doesn’t appear to be any other bone or ligament damage. As this is an open wound situation, we need to immediately get Colin to the hospital and into surgery. I’ve notified our orthopedic surgeon, and he’s meeting us at the hospital.”

I reach up and touch my infinity necklace. I plead for the number eight to give me strength. Everyone is stunned—their somber faces say it all. They just nod their heads like drones in a sci-fi movie. No one is saying it out loud in front of Colin, but we all know that this is season-ending. Dallas’s chances of going to the Super Bowl this year just came crashing down around us.

“I’d like to see the x-rays,” I say, breaking the silence. “I’m sure that you didn’t miss anything, but for my own peace of mind, I’d like to look at them.”

“Sure, Doctor McKinney. I made you a copy,” the head doctor says, handing them to me.

Colin squeezes my hand again when he calls me the wrong name. I give him a little squeeze back, telling him it’s okay.
Seriously, we have bigger fish to fry than what others are calling me today..

“Okay, Colin,” the doctor says addressing just him. “I’d really like to give you something to make the ride to the hospital a little more pleasant.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh! Colin doesn’t take pain pills,” Susan chimes in, using her June Cleaver voice. I’d give anything to shove a tube sock in her mouth.

“Please give Colin and I a moment alone,” I ask everyone.

Begrudgingly my request is granted, and the nine other people file out of the room. When the door is closed, I lean down and whisper into Colin’s ear, “Honey, you have to take something. The bone in your leg is protruding through your skin. It’s one of the most painful injuries possible. You can’t ride in an ambulance without something.”

“I said that I wouldn’t take another painkiller, and I’m not. Respect my wishes.” He grimaces.

What do I say to that? “How about prescription-strength Tylenol? It’s not addictive.”

“Fine. And please, shut my mother up. I can’t deal with her today.”

“Done.” I don’t hesitate or soften the news. “My dad’s on his way here. You need to insist that he’s in the operating room. He can’t perform the surgery because he doesn’t have rights at the hospital, but he can observe. I know you despise him, but he’s the best in the business.”

Then, I notice that he has on his wedding band. I guess that’s what he asked for out of his locker. My heart swells with want for him. I want him to be healthy again. I want his professional dreams to come true. I want him to be a dad. Most of all, I want him to know just how much him asking for his wedding ring means to me. I take his left hand in my right and bring it up to my lips. I stare into his tortured green eyes and kiss his ring finger.

He doesn’t respond. He just nods his head in understanding.

“I love you, baby. We’re going to get through this,” I reassure him as I place his hand over my heart.

“I know.” It’s all he can manage to reply through his gritted teeth.

“I’m going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. I’ll get your parents a hotel room. We’ve got this, baby.”

I don’t wait for him to reply. I give him one last kiss on his chapped lips, and step outside asking the head trainer to join us.

We walk back into the room, and I take Colin’s hand once more. “Colin had a bad reaction to pain meds some time ago, so he doesn’t want to take them again. I’ve reassured him that prescription-strength acetaminophen will take the edge off, without the potential side effects.”

Colin gives my hand a thank you squeeze, and I try to comfort him with my smile

“It’s your choice, Colin, but I think that it’s stupid to be in pain when you have alternatives. Everyone now knows that you didn’t have an addiction to painkillers.”

Colin doesn’t reply, and I don’t either. I wait with him while he swallows the pills. I help him take a sip of water. I know, his hand’s not broken, but it makes me feel like I’m doing something.

I give him one more kiss before they load him in the back of the ambulance. I’ll give the media some credit. There are no cameras pointed in his face, or reporters asking asinine questions, like “Does it hurt?” He has privacy at this very difficult moment.

I have Colin’s keys to Big Bertha. His truck is with team parking, which is significantly closer than where I had to park the Escalade. I look at John. “Shall you try to drive this thing or me?”

He chuckles. “I’ve helped him rebuild her a couple of times. I’ve got it.”

I toss him the keys as he helps Susan and me climb in the beast. She starts right up for him, almost as if she knows that we have to get to her owner. I could kiss this hideous truck right now, because she’s actually behaving. I’m quite sure she would have died for me.

We park the truck, which is painted in Dallas Cowboy blue and grey, outside of the hospital. I know that it can’t stay. We might as well take out a billboard by the emergency room that says, “Colin McKinney is here.” I’m reminded that his truck has her own Twitter account.

I immediately text Jenny, and ask her to have Colin’s mechanic get the truck and bring us another vehicle.

I’m surrounding myself with busy work, like filling out forms, because I’m not ready to look at the x-rays that are in the manila envelope sitting next to me, in the waiting room of the hospital. They’re prepping Colin for surgery, and waiting for my dad. I’m scared to see just how bad it is.

I almost talk myself into looking a couple of times.
Just pretend he’s a patient of yours, and not your husband.
Easier said than done.

Colin’s season is over. That’s a given. But, we have the rest of our lives together. Once an injury like this occurs, it can be rehabbed, and Colin will play again, but arthritis will set in. There will be scar tissue that will get easily aggravated. When we’re in our sixties, will he need a cane to walk?