Opposite Force

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mikaela Martin | Present

For the first time in my entire life, I don't care how loud my voice is.

And it's loud.

My scream is long and loud and high-pitched and drawn-out.

Denise's is louder. She grips my hand and pulls me down the bleacher steps, bursting through nosy spectators. I push and shove and don't care how rude I'm being. I need to get to Peyton. Denise needs to get to Peyton. He's unconscious.

Is he still unconscious? I don't know. I can't see.

"Move!" Denise roars, and the crowd finally parts, allowing her to drag me onto the field.

And we run. We run to Peyton, who's still on the ground. Coach Howland and a referee stand over him. Someone should kneel next to him. What if he wakes up and he's alone?

Finally, we reach him. He's crumpled in a heap, but his eyes are open.

Fear stabs me like a thousand knives. No. He can't be.

He's not. He's stirring and groaning, and everyone is yelling for him not to move. Our eyes meet. His lips curve a tiny bit. "Mikaela," he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

"I'm here," I promise.

Cold, damp grass soaks my jeans while I kneel beside Peyton. He clutches his head, occasionally trying to crane his neck around. When Denise sinks to her knees, I push myself to my feet. I should step aside. I'm just the girlfriend. She's Peyton's mom.

"No, stay," Denise says softly. "I think he wants you here too."

I stay until the paramedics run onto the field, carrying a stretcher. Then, all I can do is watch. They set it on the ground, right where Denise and I were, and then they lift Peyton onto the platform, and then they wheel him off. The lights flash, the sirens blare, and he's gone.

Denise takes my hand. "Come. We'll follow the ambulance."

I nod. She doesn't drop my hand until we reach her car, a navy crossover. A mom car, Peyton calls it. The drive is almost entirely silent, the quiet only interrupted by Denise's occasional assurances that everything will be okay. All I can do is mumble "yeah" and "yes" uselessly.

Denise is allowed to see Peyton, but I'm not. I swallow my anxiety, squeeze her hand, and tell her that I'll be here if Peyton wants to see me later.

I really hope that he does. I'm so afraid.

And angry. What was Jake doing, picking a fight with the other team? His friends were holding him back, not joining in, which means they knew he was in the wrong. If that was their judgment call while they were all fired up on testosterone, it was right. Normally, they're like a pack of loyal dogs on the field.

This is Jake's fault. His best friend is in the hospital, probably with a concussion, because he can't control his temper. Because he likes to antagonize and just generally be a jerk. I hope Peyton never speaks to him again. I hope everyone shuns him and he's relegated to the nobody world of high school where I once lived.

I never would have thought that I'd wish that existence on anyone, but maybe some people are better there. Better where they can't slither into other people's lives.

My fists clench instinctively. I think this might be the angriest I've ever been in my entire life.

I sit and sit and wait and wait. Sit and wait. Anxiety swirls in my chest, and then anger takes its place, and then anxiety emerges victorious once again. The battle rages on inside me, reaching a crescendo every time the doors to the ward open. I listen for my name every time a nurse opens their mouth, but it doesn't come.

Does that mean Peyton doesn't want to see me? Does Denise want time alone with her son? Is he being treated? Could he be in surgery? What's happening to him?

My brain spirals out of control, and I brace myself for a crashlanding. Thoughts zip around, trying to overpower the others, fighting to be the one that pushes me over the edge. My breathing picks up, but my lungs can't keep up with my mind. I'm descending into a panic attack. I need air, fresh air, but what if Peyton needs me?

"Mikaela Martin?"

I jump to my feet. A man in scrubs beckons me forward. I power-walk to the open doors, barely missing an elderly woman moving far too slowly for this stressful situation. "Peyton Warner would like to see you," he says disapprovingly.

I should feel ashamed that I nearly just knocked over an old lady, but I don't. I follow the nurse—I think he's a nurse—down the hall and to the left, passing doctors and nurses and patients I avert my eyes from, only looking up when he says, "He's in there."

I nearly fall when I see him. The entire right side of his face is bruised. Purple, black, and blue with a few tinges of green. Dried blood clings to his temple. He's dazed, staring forward at the wall.

"Hi Peyton," I whisper.

"Mikaela, you're here," he whispers back.

"Of course I am. How do you feel?" I move my eyes between Peyton and Denise, unsure who's going to be answering my questions. Probably Denise. I swallow a sob.

"Like shit," he mutters.

I fall into the seat beside his bed and hold onto the railing beside his mattress. I don't know if I'm allowed to touch him, but I have to feel some connection.

"Where's your hand?"

My stomach turns to ice. Is he... Is Peyton okay? Why is he asking where body parts are? "Right here," I whimper, holding one up.

"Hold mine," he sighs.

That does me in. My strong boyfriend is reclining in a hospital bed, hurt, needing comfort. Afraid, probably, even if he'll never admit it. I would be. I am. Tears pour down my cheeks as I interlace my fingers with Peyton's. I don't think he notices that I'm crying. He isn't really moving his head much, and I seriously hope it's because a doctor told him not to, not because he can't.

"He's got a concussion, but he's awake and talking, as you can see, which are good signs. He's going in for some scans soon, but the doctor wasn't in a rush, so I think that's a good sign too," Denise says from the seat across from me. "I'm going to pick something up at the vending machine. Would you like anything, Mikaela?"

I don't think I'll ever be able to eat again. "No, thank you," I mumble.

"Blue Doritos," Peyton requests.

That was unexpected. I snort, unable to contain myself. Denise doubles over, cracking up. "I don't think you're allowed food, honey," she finally tells him.

"That's stupid," he grumbles.

"I'll get some just in case," she promises.

He doesn't respond. The moment Denise leaves, I murmur, "I love you." I just need to say it. I need him to hear it.

"Love you," he sighs. "My head's killing me."

"We don't have to talk," I tell him.

"I like talking, but yeah."

Denise arrives with the nurse who didn't like me due to the almost-knocking-over-an-old-lady incident. "Ready for some scans, Peyton?" he asks.

"Can I have Doritos?"

"After the scans we'll see about food," the nurse says.

"Alright," Peyton mutters. "Can Mikaela come?"

"I think we'll let Mikaela go home and get some sleep," Denise says.

Peyton and I open our mouths to protest, but the nurse nods in agreement. "No girlfriends, unfortunately."

"Haters," he grumbles. "Bye, Mikaela. Wanna come over tomorrow?"

Will he even be out of the hospital tomorrow? I look to Denise, pleading for an answer with my eyes. "Yeah, if Mikaela's free and we're back home, she can come over," she answers.

"Awesome."