Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“Some small bone in my wrist,” he replies. “Guess from holding the steering wheel too tight.”
“Slamming into a concrete barrier can have that effect,” I tell him with a wry smile.
He doesn’t smile back, but instead hobbles to the bed. He moves with the agility of a ninety-year-old man and uses his good arm to help ease himself down onto the bed. I bet he has to be hurting everywhere.
I hold up a bag I’d been carrying and set it down on the guest chair. “Not sure how long you’ll be in but I brought you some clothes. Just some T-shirts and track pants but I bet it’s more comfortable than a hospital gown.”
Tacker sits hunched over on the edge of the bed. “They’re releasing me today. I’ve got a concussion but it’s checked out so I’m good to go.”
“Need a ride?” I ask him, because I think simple, easy questions that don’t require a lot of deep thought are the best right now.
“Got a ride,” he says as his eyes come to mine. “A police officer will be taking me down for booking. DUI.”
Guilt floods me and I know this is a direct result of me making the decision to call 9-1-1. “Need an attorney?”
“Yeah,” he replies as he starts to pick at the edge of his cast. “That would be good.”
I watch him a moment, unsure of what to say next. I move to the window and look out, just to stall for time. Tacker is in a precarious situation right now with his career. I have no clue what’s going to happen to him, but I’m more concerned about his sanity.
“You can ask if you want,” he says and the words slice through me. Tacker is more aware than I gave him credit for.
I turn to face him, tucking my hands down into my pockets. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”
“No,” he says, his eyes locked onto mine. “But I did want to hurt myself. I wanted something to hurt worse than the pain I was feeling inside. I was drunk…obviously wasn’t very rational. I would never have done that sober, but the truth is, I woke up yesterday morning knowing that I had a game to play in and I didn’t care. All I could think about was it being MJ’s birthday and so I started drinking. I knew I was probably flushing my career away.”
I rub a hand over my jaw and blow out a pent-up breath of worry. “You need help, Tacker. You can’t continue to live your life this way.”
Finally, a flash of life within his eyes. “What life? What kind of life do I have?”
“A long one if you’re good to yourself,” I retort. “One with possibilities and dreams still to fulfill.”
He shakes his head and looks away from me.
“You’ll be able to see all of that if you stop looking behind you,” I tell him quietly. “But I also know it’s easy to just say that. It’s why I think you need help, Tacker. You’re not processing. You’re shut off from everything except the ice, and that’s no type of existence.”
There’s a knock on the door. Tacker doesn’t take his gaze off the wall but I turn to see a nurse walking in, followed by a police officer.
“Mr. Hall,” the nurse says as she rounds the foot of the bed, scoots past me, and positions herself in front of Tacker. “I have your discharge papers here to go over with you.”
It’s left unspoken that there’s a cop standing there ready to arrest him but this isn’t a surprise to Tacker. Leaning past the nurse, I put my hand on Tacker’s shoulder. He doesn’t look at me but at least I know he’s listening.
“You can overcome this,” I tell him fiercely. “You’ve got me by your side, and every other one of your teammates. We’ve all got your back.”
To my surprise, Tacker gives me his attention. His voice is quiet, still hollow as hell, but I can feel the truth in his words. “Thank you.”
I nod, give another squeeze and then excuse myself. The cop gives me a chin lift as I walk by and I hope to fuck he’ll just let Tacker walk out of here uncuffed. I look at my watch and pick up my pace as I navigate the hallways. I have to be at the team meeting in half an hour.
* * *
—
“You’re late,” Coach Perron growls as I enter the room. It’s stadium–style seating and it’s almost full.
“Sorry, Coach,” I tell him as I go up three rows and move inward to a seat that Bishop saved me. “Was visiting Tacker at the hospital.”
That starts the murmuring and Bishop asks, “How was he?”
“He has a concussion,” Coach Perron answers for me and all eyes go his way. “I saw him late last night after you all left, along with Mr. Rutherford. He also has a fracture to the scaphoid bone in his wrist. It was casted and should be able to come off in four weeks.”