Flee (24 page)

“Okay, let's roll.”

The team moved to take their positions. Jamie, Mateo, and I lined up on the circle, Mateo as team captain advancing to shake their captain's hand. It was tattoo boy number one. Mateo, who had been so careful today to not touch anyone and to keep his germs at a distance, reached his hand out eagerly to shake, coughing in the guy's face as he did so.

Hector, the ref overseeing the greeting, chuckled.

Mateo returned to our side of the midline, winking at me. I took one last glance around the perimeter of the field and fought the silly urge to say,
Come out with your hands up, we've got you surrounded.
There was comfort in that, though.

Thomas grinned at me from the sidelines. He looked ridiculous in his yellow and black referee shirt, black board shorts and flip-flops. I guess that was the best he could do on little notice.

At least Hector looked official. He put the whistle to his lips and blew, and then it was game on.

My dad always told me what made athletes great was their ability to hyper-focus on their game. The first time I heard this speech was when I played my premiere season of soccer at age four. I spent the whole first game fascinated by my pink cleats and the smiley, yellow, happy face ball. I had even picked up that ball at one point, kissing the painted-on smile. The parents on the sidelines had laughed, including my dad, but afterward he had told me when I was on the field I had to be all about the game, to block out distractions.

For my second soccer game, I had worn boring black cleats and the game ball, selected by my dad of course, had been white. From then on it was,
"Blake, keep your head in the game and ignore everything else."

I guess it had worked. I was a good soccer player. I could see the field and know what needed to be done. And thanks to being the daughter of a professional athlete, I had the dedication and drive to practice my foot-skills enough so that I could execute. I was nothing compared to Mateo, but I was no slouch and I wanted to win this game.

The problem was, so did they. This was the most talented team I had ever played. They ran circles around our inexperienced players. Callie, Chad, and Sawyer, playing defenders, had their work cut out for them. They were fast and good, but the opposing team's forwards were faster and better. By halftime they had gotten off five shots on goal. Griffin, thankfully an experienced goalkeeper, had deflected them all. He had been amazing, but I could tell as we broke for halftime that he was worried. And he had a right to be. If we kept allowing them to take shots, one of them was bound to go in.

“Wow, this is not like I thought it would be,” Joe said as we all sat around him, trying to catch our breath. “Both teams are playing like this is for a state championship, not a little scrimmage. I'm really proud of you guys. You've all stepped it up. Now it seems our biggest problem is getting it past the midfield to our forwards. Mateo, any thoughts on how to make that happen?”

Mateo was beside me, lying on his back with his eyes closed. For a panicked minute I wondered if he was conscious. He had not held back and conserved his strength as promised. Time after time, he had rushed to the midfield, trying to help win the ball. I had to hand it to Danny. He was playing with intensity. He just needed back-up that Malcolm, Josh, and Ryder couldn't give him.

“Just get the ball to Danny, and Danny, get it to us.” He opened his eyes but his voice was weak, his breathing a little labored.

Dr. Hawkins, Chad's dad, moved in closer and looked at Mateo with concern. Mateo glanced at him and then sat up and cleared his throat and tried his best to look healthy. It was a complete failure, I thought, but Dr. Hawkins relaxed.

“Guys,” Mateo said, shaking his head as if to clear it, “I think we need to change our strategy a little. Malcolm, Ryder, Chad, Josh, and Sawyer, I need you guys to work like an offensive line. Stop trying to win tackles and get the ball. Just use your bodies to block their team and break up their rhythm. Don't make illegal contact, just constantly get in their way and disrupt them until Callie, Danny, Jamie, Blake, or I can get there and win the ball. And when we do, continue to get in their way so we can do something with it.” The guys nodded and grinned.

“Awesome,” Sawyer said. “Football meets
fútbol
.”

Hector blew his whistle, and the team rose and returned to the field. I pulled Mateo up.

“You look like crap.”

“Yeah? Well, I feel even worse.”

“Great,” I replied, instantly worried. Mateo never complained. “Please sit this half out. There's no danger on the field.”

He ignored me and began walking to his position.

“I've got forty-five minutes left in me, then I want permission to collapse.”

“Permission granted.” I grumbled. I looked over at Dr. Hawkins, who was already watching us, and inclined my head toward Mateo, pleading with my eyes for him to please keep an eye on Mateo. He nodded, and I took to the field.

The second half of the game passed in a blur. Mateo's strategy seemed to be working. I laughed as I watched the guys moving like football players, using their bigger bodies like shields. It was ugly soccer, but it did completely disrupt the other team's rhythm.

Danny continued to play like a man possessed. He won tackle after tackle, passing the ball in the air to me and then running forward to help me have time to cross it to Mateo. We got three shots on goal this way, all of them caught by their goalkeeper. It was on the third shot, toward the end of the game, that I noticed the fourth tattoo.

The goalie, ball in one hand, was advancing to the edge of the box to kick the ball back into play when he looked over at me and used his free hand to sweep his shoulder-length hair off of his neck for an instant. On the back of his neck, a skull in a long white robe greeted my astonished eyes. He winked and moved on, and I glanced at Mateo. He was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping slightly for breath. He had missed the whole exchange, but Danny was watching. I could feel his eyes on me, see their questioning look, but I didn't respond. I glanced back at Mateo and then at Hector. He looked worried.

“Two minutes!” he called, looking at his watch. Did Mateo even have two minutes left in him?

Their creepy keeper kicked the ball all the way to their attacking half. Callie was first to it. I watched as she trapped it, and Sawyer and Chad moved in to shield her from their forwards. She booted it to Danny, Malcolm, and Ryder, moving in to protect him. Unfortunately, Malcolm cut off his angle to the left, so Danny sent the ball to the right to Jamie. She immediately switched the field by kicking it to me.

Mateo, coughing, tried to position himself to receive the cross and shoot. There were two defenders on him. He didn't have a clear shot and was barely moving. No way was I sending the ball to him.

I began to dribble it forward. Somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear a defender closing in on me from behind and Danny's warning of
"Man on!"
but all I could see was the top right corner of the net as I pulled my left leg back and shot the ball with all the strength I had. I tried to follow its trajectory through the air, but the defender who had been closing in on me was near. Too near. I turned my head just in time to see the bottom half of his tattooed arm as he slammed into me, knocking me forward. My head made contact with the goalpost as my body slammed to the ground, and darkness claimed me.

****

There was something wrong with this beach. I would have to tell Mom and Dad. I could hear them, talking and laughing in the distance, but I couldn't see them. I must still be in the hammock, but where was Brody? And why couldn't I open my eyes? There was an awful smell. Why were Mom and Dad arguing now? They never argued. Or was that someone else? I could hear anxious voices, but they didn't sound like Mom and Dad anymore. And the whirring in my head didn't sound like ocean waves anymore. Ocean waves didn't hurt, and that sound was hurting my head. And that smell again! It was awful. I opened my mouth to ask for help, but instead of Mom, I whispered, “Mateo?”

“He's okay.” It was Dr. Hawkin's voice that spoke. I tried again to open my eyes and was successful this time, at least with my right eye. My left eye protested before painfully allowing me to look through it. I was lying on the field, a small crowd around me. Dr. Hawkins was pressing a cloth against the side of my head and holding a vial under my nose, which he quickly removed.

“Are those smelling salts? Seriously? Do I look like Scarlet O'Hara?” I heard Joe chuckle and declare that I must be all right. I tried to sit up, but Dr. Hawkins restrained me.

“Easy there. You have a bit of a nasty cut on the side of your head, and I suspect a concussion. How do you feel?”

Nauseous, horrible, with a pounding headache and slightly blurry vision and an urge to throw up all over your starched, blue shirt.

“Fine,” I muttered. “What happened?”

“You should have seen it, Blake!” It was Chad who answered. “After that defender knocked you into the goal, Mateo ran up like a madman. He grabbed that guy up off of you and literally threw him about five feet. Then, before the guy could get up, Danny jumped on him. It was like a triple red card moment. It was awesome.”

“Where's Mateo?” I asked, fighting the waves of nausea washing over me.

“In the ambulance,” Dr. Hawkins replied. “I called it in as a precaution toward the end of the game, and good thing too. After Mateo threw that poor guy, he collapsed. They've got an oxygen mask on him and he's on his way to get some lung x-rays and much needed medicine and rest. It was foolish of him to play in this game. But don't worry. He should be fine. Now let's see if we can get you sitting up.”

“I'm fine,” I said, ignoring his offered hand and pulling myself into a sitting position. My head pounded as if it was trying to split in two, but I put on a brave face. Warm blood ran down my left cheek. I reached my hand over and grabbed the cloth Dr. Hawkins was pressing against my hairline, pushing his hand away.

My eyes surveyed the field. The other team was on their end, huddled around their coach. I saw the guy who had tackled me. He sat holding an ice pack to his shoulder, his eyes on my face. Even at this distance, I could feel their hostility. Hector and Thomas stood in the middle of the field, facing the opposing team, watching their every move. I could still make out a perimeter of guards posing as fans. They had assumed more casual positions, but they were still there.

“Do I need stitches?” I asked.

“Four or five, I think. But don't worry. The cut is so close to your hairline the scar won't be noticeable.”

I wasn't worried about scarring. I was worried about getting to Mateo. If I let Dr. Hawkins take me to the hospital and take care of my cut and check my head there, it would be forever before they would let me see Mateo. I knew how long emergency room visits took. I had sat in one once for five hours when I had broken my arm in the fifth grade.

“Can you stitch me up here?” I asked. I knew Chad's dad, as team doctor for the football program, kept a fully stocked kit in the men's locker room. As I waited for his answer, I worked to stand up, fighting the nausea and head pain. A firm hand caught and steadied me. Looking up, I was surprised to see it was Danny. He pulled me up and didn't let go.

“I can,” Dr. Hawkins replied, “but I think it wiser if we go get a good look at your head, maybe a scan to make sure there is no internal bleeding or other injury.”

“How ‘bout you stitch me up here, let me go to the hospital and check on Mateo, and then you can check out my head? Really, I feel fine. But I'll let you check everything out if it will make you feel better. Just let me see Mateo first.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Blake. Just like your dad.” He smiled and continued. “Okay, deal. If you can walk to the locker room without vomiting or exhibiting any other sign of head trauma, then I'll stitch you up and drive you to the hospital and let you check on Mateo before I check on you. I want to see Mateo myself any way.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, turning to walk toward the locker room and stumbling as the pain in my head practically gagged me. Again, Danny steadied me by grabbing my elbow.

Thankfully, Dr. Hawkins was distracted by Joe, but Callie and Chad were not. Chad started to speak up, but I pulled my finger to my lip and silently pleaded with him to not give me away. He looked to Callie, who nodded, and then moved to close rank around me in case I needed any more help. It was a source of pride to me that I managed that walk. I focused on remembering Mateo's face and his labored breathing and my desperation to see him, ignoring the pain and nausea convulsing through my system. With detached calm, I noticed that several
fans
followed us, trying to look casual as they pretended to wait outside of the locker room door for exiting players. No one questioned their presence.

I don't remember much about being stitched up. Dr. Hawkins made me swallow something, which eventually calmed the pain in my head down to a dull roar. He also injected the side of my head with some kind of anesthesia before beginning to sew. I closed my eyes and focused on taking calm steady breaths in and out. He whistled while he worked, and despite my headache, it was strangely soothing. Callie stood to my left, holding my hand and squeezing it every now and then.

“All right, done,” Dr. Hawkins declared after ten minutes. “Huh, nice job if I don't say so myself. Maybe I should have gone into plastic surgery. Would have been much more relaxing than the E.R. Want to have a look?”

I didn't, but I complied. Anything to convince him I was okay so he would let me go. I took the handheld mirror and looked into it and winced. I looked like crap. The left side of my face was a black and blue and dried blood mess. It was swollen and out of proportion with the right side of my face. My left eye was beginning to blacken as well. I looked like a prize fighter after a bad ten rounds. Five black stitches in a neat, straight line ran close to my hairline from the top of my ear to my temple.

“Looks good. Thanks, Dr. Hawkins.” I jumped off the table and immediately regretted it as pain shot through my face and head. At least I didn't feel like throwing up anymore. That was something.

Danny stood in the corner, silently watching. It didn't surprise me that he was sticking close. What did was the fact that it didn't scare me.

“Callie and I will drive her to the hospital, Dad, and meet you there if that's okay,” Chad offered.

Had Callie had put him up to that? She probably wanted to get me alone and make sure I was really okay.

“Thanks, Chad. I'll go ahead and take off then and meet you there. I want to make sure Mateo is not offering any resistance. That is one stubborn boy.” He closed his medical kit and left after making me promise to find him immediately after seeing Mateo.

“I'm going to go pull the car up to the side door of the gym so you don't have to walk as far, Blake.” Chad said. “Cal, why don't you gather our backpacks and gear, so we can quickly throw that in?”

“Mind if I come to the hospital with you?” Danny asked.

Chad looked at him curiously but nodded yes before heading out of the locker room with Callie at his heels. I started to follow, my steps slower and less sure. Danny offered his arm.

This was going to be interesting, I thought, wondering how Hector and Thomas and the security team were going to react when they saw me emerge on Danny's arm. I didn't get the chance to find out. Before we reached the door to head out, the back door, always locked and never used, flew open. Danny shouted, the sound barely out of his mouth before it was silenced by someone leaping across the room and tackling him. Someone else had made it to the front door and secured the lock, before turning back to me. I stumbled backward, trying to move away, and landed in hard, cold arms that quickly wrapped me up in a tight grip. I tried to find Danny, certain now that my suspicions that he was on our side were right, but my view was blocked by a rapidly approaching fist. The last thing I remembered thinking before blacking out for the second time that day was
This is going to hurt.
I was right.