The Late Hit Read online

  Chapter 21

  Ciara Johnson comes up to me right as I’m biting into a slice of pizza. There is cheese and grease on my chin.

  “You need to come and get Anton,” she says. “He’s puking in the parking lot.”

  I quickly set down the pizza and follow her through the crowd to the back of the parking lot.

  Anton is leaning up against his truck and wiping his face.

  “Man, you don’t look good,” I tell him.

  Anton doesn’t even look up at me.

  “What is up with him?” Ciara asks.

  “He got hit pretty hard at the end of the game.” Anton looks weak and shaky. I’ve never seen him this sick before, even when he had the flu last year. His pale face scares me.

  “I wonder if he got a concussion,” she says, backing away as Anton heaves again. “I got one in a soccer game two years ago, and it messed me up. I don’t remember the hit or the end of the game, but I do remember puking like this.”

  “I’m fine,” Anton barely whispers.

  “You’re not fine,” I say as I dig in his truck for a water bottle and hand it to him. He takes a swig.

  “I should take you home,” I go on, trying not to sound too frantic. “Your mom should take you to a doctor or something.”

  He shakes his head, “My mom will get all freaked out and drag me into an ER, and we don’t have money for that. I’ll be fine. I just need to shut my eyes. I just need some sleep.”

  “We need to call someone,” I insist. “You’re not okay, dude.”

  “No,” he says as he opens the door of his truck, crawls in, and lies down.

  “Seriously,” Ciara says. “You have to call his parents.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Anton says. “It just takes a few days.”

  “Concussions can be really bad,” Ciara responds. She turns to me. “He needs someone to look at him.”

  She peers in the truck and then looks back at me. “Let’s take him to Dr. Wilson,” she says. “He lives next door to me. He doesn’t charge for advice. He’s been helping a lot of people out since he moved back a year ago.”

  I’m immediately relieved that Ciara has come up with a solution, but then I look down at my phone. “It’s almost ten o’clock,” I say.

  “He’ll still be up. I see his lights on until midnight most nights.”

  I glance over at Anton. He doesn’t look good.

  “Hey.” I try to get his attention. He opens one eye and looks at me, annoyed. “We need to get you checked out.”

  Ciara walks around the front of the truck and gets in the driver’s side and slides over to the middle.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Anton says, sitting up and shifting over to give her room.

  “You smacked your brain,” Ciara says. “It’s kind of an important organ.”

  “Fine,” Anton grunts. It seems like he’s too tired to argue anymore.

  I get into the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks,” I say to Ciara who is sitting next to me.

  “No worries.” She smiles at me. “Dr. Wilson is a great guy. I know he’ll help.”

  As I drive, we sit in silence. I want to say something to Ciara—now would be my chance. But I can’t stop thinking about how pale Anton’s face looks and how unsteady he’s been since his last hit.

  We turn onto Main Street. There are a lot of empty buildings now. Half the businesses have closed. The bars are the only places that seem to turn a profit in this town. Families are leaving faster than they are coming in.

  “Do your parents plan on leaving Warren?” I finally manage to get out as we drive by some homes for sale, still peering over at Anton every minute or two.

  “They talk about it,” she says. “But my dad is getting by doing work on cars. He wants to open up his own shop.”

  “That’s great,” I say, trying not to sound jealous. I wish my dad could’ve found some work in town.

  “Yeah. But I’m hoping to get out of here. Go someplace far away after graduation. What about you?” Ciara turns to ask me. “What are you going to do when you graduate?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I’m just focused on our next game and trying to figure out how keep Warren High open so we can all walk across that stage together next spring. I don’t want to graduate from some other school with a bunch of kids I don’t know.”

  “It seem so wrong to split us up,” Ciara says. “It won’t feel right if I don’t get to see you next year.”

  I look over at her and then back at the road. For a second I stop thinking about Anton completely. “Yeah,” I say. “We can’t let that happen.”

  Anton sits up and looks over at us, “Just date already.”

  I blush and look over at Ciara. She laughs. I don’t know if the laughter is good or bad. All I know is that when I get Anton taken care of, I’m going to ask Ciara out on a real date.

  Chapter 22

  We park outside of the biggest house on Maple Street. It has a huge white porch that seems to wrap around to the back and red brick siding. Next door is a small, blue house with a rope swing hanging from an oak tree.

  “That little house is mine.” Ciara nods at it. “Six of us live in there, and Dr. Wilson lives all alone in the one next door.”

  “You ever ask him if he wants to trade?”

  She nods and laughs at this.

  I put the car in park then turn to Anton. “Let’s get that big noggin of yours checked out.” I’m feeling much better now that we’ve made a decision about what to do.

  “This is dumb,” Anton says. “I told you, I’m fine. I just need some sleep. And how do you know he won’t charge me?”

  “He won’t,” Ciara says. “Trust me. He does this for people all the time. It’s what he does.”

  Anton doesn’t move.

  I look at him and say, “Get out. Or I’m dragging you out. We need you better before our next game.”

  Anton looks down at his hands and then finally slides out of the truck. This knock to the head has made him even more dramatic than when he was complaining about the headache after Junior sacked him at practice.

  Ciara rings the doorbell and Anton and I stand behind her. An older man with silver hair opens the door. He’s dressed in khaki pants, a dress shirt, and a blue blazer. He looks overdressed for a Friday night in this town.

  “Ciara!” He sounds surprised. “Everything okay?”

  “Dr. Wilson,” she says, nodding to us. “Can you look at my friend? I think he might have a concussion, and we’re not sure what to do.”

  “Of course.” He looks over at Anton. “Come on in.”

  We follow him into a large entry way. There is a duffel bag and a suitcase sitting near the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Ciara says. “I forgot you’re leaving tonight.”

  “I’ve got time.” Dr. Wilson dismisses the apology. “My flight doesn’t leave for a while.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Haiti,” he says. “I’m heading down there to volunteer in a small medical clinic for a few weeks.”

  We walk through a living room and into a study that is set up like a doctor’s office. There is an exam table in the middle of the room. Behind it are shelves filled with medical books and framed degrees.

  “How did you hit your head?” Dr. Wilson asks Anton as we help him onto the exam table.

  Anton looks at me, and I realize he doesn’t even remember.

  “A huge guy plowed into him at the end of our game,” I say. “He knocked Anton off his feet, and Anton hit the ground with the back of his helmet.”

  “Hmm,” Dr. Wilson sighs. “What position do you play?”

  “Quarterback,” Anton says, shifting uncomfortably on the table.

  Dr. Wilson nods at this. “I played for the Warren Wolves too. But that was many moons ago.” He gives a crackly howl.

  “What position did you play?” I ask.

  “Wide receiver.” He beams with pride. “Took some big hits myself, bu
t luckily nothing major.”

  Dr. Wilson starts examining Anton. He looks at the back of Anton’s head.

  “And you don’t remember this?” he asks Anton.

  “I kind of do,” Anton responds hesitantly.

  “How long was he out?” Dr. Wilson asks me.

  “Maybe ten or fifteen seconds?” I say.

  He shines a flashlight into each of Anton’s eyes and shakes his head.

  “Your pupils are dilated,” he says.

  He opens a cabinet on the other side of the room and takes out a stethoscope and listens to Anton’s heart and then checks his blood pressure, all while asking Anton a series of questions. Have you had headaches? Have you felt tired? Are you sensitive to light?

  Anton answers yes to all of them.

  “Well,” Dr. Wilson finally says, “I can’t confirm how bad it is without doing further tests with more equipment, but you definitely have a concussion.”

  Chapter 23

  I start to speak, but before I can get a full word out Anton cuts in.

  “We should go,” Anton says quickly. “And really, I’m feeling better. It’s nothing serious.”

  Anton clearly wants to bolt, but I have his keys and I want to hear what Dr. Wilson has to say. I feel even guiltier than when I first let Anton get hit.

  “Let me make you some ginger tea,” Dr. Wilson says. “It will help with the nausea.”

  He heads to the kitchen.

  “Let’s go,” Anton says.

  “Don’t be rude,” Ciara says. “Drink some tea. It’s the least you can do.”

  We follow Dr. Wilson into the kitchen and sit down at a round oak table.

  Dr. Wilson busies himself making tea. He opens a package of cookies and passes them around. I take a few, but Anton shakes his head when I offer him one.

  Dr. Wilson hands Anton a steaming mug.

  “I don’t feel sick anymore,” Anton insists, looking at the tea as if Dr. Wilson has put poison in it.

  Dr. Wilson sits in a chair next to Anton. His face is soft but serious.

  “For the time being, you need to rest that brain of yours. No electronics, no screens. No reading. And no football.”

  “For how long?” we both say at the same time.

  “At least five days. And if you have any sign of a lingering headache, you cannot step on that field. A second impact can cause cerebral edema and herniation. It can lead to permanent brain damage or death.”

  My heart feels like it has stopped. I look at Anton and then at Dr. Wilson and interrupt, “This was his second hit to the head. He got hit two days ago and I made him play tonight.”

  “You didn’t make me play,” Anton snaps at me. “I played because I wanted to play.”

  Dr. Wilson frowns at this. “Did you have a headache after the first hit?”

  “No,” Anton lies. I look at Dr. Wilson and want to tell him that, yes, Anton had a headache—he was in a fog until halfway through our game.

  “Tell me about the first hit.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” Anton says. “I don’t know what Busby is even talking about. I just need to get home and get some sleep. I’ll be better in the morning.”

  Dr. Wilson looks at me.

  “Did you see the hit?”

  “He wasn’t even there,” Anton interrupts. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  I sit quietly in my chair, but I was there. I do know. I saw how much pain he was in before he even took the field tonight. Was that hit a concussion too? Did I just let him get his second concussion in three days?

  Anton gets up and turns to me. “Give me my keys.” He practically growls at me.

  “Multiple head injuries need to be taken seriously,” Dr. Wilson says. “They can be deadly.”

  He writes something down on a notepad and gives it to Anton.

  “This is a note for your coach. You need to give this to him. And here is my card. I want your parents to call me. Tonight.”

  “I’m fine,” Anton says shoving the piece of paper and card into his pocket. He turns to me and holds opens his hand, waiting for me to hand over his keys, but I don’t budge.

  “I’ll drive you home,” I say.

  “Then let’s go.”

  I know he’s upset, but he’s being a real jerk. This doctor has just taken care of him and saved him a trip to the ER. Maybe Anton isn’t taking this seriously, but I am.

  “One more thing,” Dr. Wilson says. He scribbles down something else on a pad of paper and hands it to Anton. “Dr. Lydia Anderson is a specialist down in the city. She’s someone I want you to see if your headache worsens, if your vision becomes blurry, or if you have trouble concentrating.”

  He hands the second piece of paper to Anton, and Anton shoves it into the same pocket.

  “My head doesn’t even hurt anymore,” he says. “I’m feeling good.”

  “Why don’t you give me your parent’s number?” Dr. Wilson says. “I can give them a call right now.” But Anton just heads out of the kitchen, and I can hear him open the front door.

  “Thank you,” I say to Dr. Wilson. “I’ll make sure he gets home okay.” And then I turn to Ciara and say, “Thanks for everything. I’m sorry he’s acting like this.”

  “I hope he really does feel better,” Ciara says. “I hope he’s going to be okay.”

  I hope so too.

  Dr. Wilson walks me to the door. “That irritability you see is a symptom of a concussion. You need to make sure his parents call me. And you need to keep an eye him. He shouldn’t be going to football practice, and he definitely should not be playing in any games. He should be in a dark room letting his brain recover until the symptoms are gone. If I didn’t have to catch this flight, I’d drive out to his house and talk to his parents tonight, but I don’t think I have enough time.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” I say.

  Just then a car pulls up.

  “My driver is here,” Dr. Wilson says. “Please have Anton’s parents call me. My flight leaves at midnight. I’ll be able to talk while I’m in the airport, but I don’t think I’ll have any reception once I’m in Haiti. Take care of your friend. I’ll check on him when I get back.”

  Ciara and I wave to him as he we head down the porch stairs.

  Chapter 24

  Anton is in the driver’s seat when I get to the truck. I have to argue with him for five minutes before he agrees to let me drive him home.

  “You can’t say anything to my parents,” he says. “My mom will get all crazy and we don’t have any money for an ER visit right now. They have no savings left. I’ll be fine. It isn’t like I have broken arm or leg.”

  “You’ve broken your head,” I say putting the truck in drive. I see Ciara walk to her house next door. She doesn’t turn around before she disappears inside.

  “My head isn’t broken,” Anton says. “I’m walking. I’m talking. There’s no skull fracture. I’m fine.”

  “You aren’t fine!” I think back to earlier in the night when I was trying to convince him that he was okay. When I made him play and get hit like this.

  “I just need some sleep. I’ll take it easy this weekend, and I’ll be good as new on Monday.”

  I take a right and drive past our high school. I think of every brick being laid by hand. Brick by brick. Built by people in this town.

  “You need to at least talk to coach,” I say. “There’s no way you should play in next week’s game.”

  “I’m going to be fine,” he says.

  I pull into Anton’s driveway, and I can see his mom sitting on the couch watching TV in their living room.

  “Please don’t say anything to her,” Anton says. “You know how much she didn’t want me to play football in the first place. This will just make her worry over nothing.”

  “It isn’t nothing,” I say, but even as I’m climbing out of the truck I’m not sure I have the heart to tell Anton’s mom.

  I grab my bag from the back of his truck and
throw him his keys. He raises up his right hand to grab them, but misses. They clatter against the cement driveway.

  I look at him.

  “You need to tell coach.”

  He picks up the keys and turns to his house. I watch him go inside. I want to follow him in and talk to his mom, but I don’t want to upset her—and I know Anton would never forgive me if I did.

  Chapter 25

  My mom is still up when I get home. She’s in the kitchen making banana bread. She doesn’t sleep well when my dad isn’t around.

  “You played great tonight,” she says, giving me a hug. She smells like vanilla and brown sugar. “I’m so proud of you. I texted your dad the score.”

  The buzzer on the stove goes off and she pulls out two pans of bread.

  I don’t realize how hungry I am until the smell hits me. She carefully removes the bread from the pan and sets it on a plate as I grab the butter.

  “Were you at Pizza Barn this whole time?”

  “I didn’t stay that long. Anton wasn’t feeling great,” I say quickly.

  My mom cuts us each a slice of bread, and I spread a thick slab of butter on my piece. It melts and soaks into the bread.

  “Careful,” she says before I take a bite. “It’s still really hot.”

  The bread tastes so good. I quickly devour it then cut myself another slice right away.

  “It looked like Anton got taken down pretty hard by that big guy at the end of the game,” she says. “Is he all right?”

  I want to tell her about Dr. Wilson and Anton’s concussions, but I know if I do, she’ll call Anton’s mom. I take another bite of bread and just nod at her.

  “He’s fine,” I mumble. I’ll see how he is in the morning. Maybe Anton’s right, I think. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. But a louder voice in my head is telling me that Anton isn’t all right. I’m just too much of a coward to tell anyone. I have to have Anton’s back in this. I let him down on the field and I can’t let that happen again.

  “I got a call from your dad,” my mom says. I had been so in my own head I had forgotten she was there. “He’ll be here for your playoff game. He’s sorry he missed tonight. He wants you to call him in the morning.”