And for the first time since I arrived in Atlanta, I wonder if coming here was a mistake.
32
KNOX
The trauma centerwaiting room is about as comfortable as expected. The cushioned chairs are decent enough, but after hours of being crammed into one, I’m going out of my fucking mind. A home improvement show plays on the overhead TV, and the host’s upbeat explanation of wood restoration is grating on my last nerve.
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, and stare at the linoleum floor.
Just breathe.
I’ve tried. It’s not working. Every muscle in my body is wrought with tension, my joints locked up tight.
Visiting hours are long over, but I can’t bring myself to leave. Frank needs our support, and I need to be here in case there’s news.
Forwhenthere is news.
What is taking so long? It’s been hours, and Davis is still in surgery.
This is a Level 1 trauma center. He’s getting the best possible care.
The knowledge does little to soothe my nerves. Davis shouldn’t even be here. He should be at home celebrating tonight’s win over the Flyers.
A win he should’ve been part of.
I flex my fingers, seeking an outlet for the nervous energy pulsing through my limbs.
I’m surrounded by teammates, but I’ve never felt more alone. More isolated.
That’s the thing about being team captain. It creates a level of separation between you and the other players. A level of responsibility and duty. Of being held to a higher standard.
A standard I failed to meet.
I scan the waiting room. Every seat is filled, and there are a few guys sitting on the floor, long legs bent to avoid blocking the aisle.
No one has made a move to leave, or even suggested it.
We’re all right where we need to be.
Davis’s father is holding up well, all things considered, but he’s not a young man and the stress is taking its toll. He looks weary, defeated. Like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Can you blame him?
A fresh wave of guilt washes over me. I should have realized Ollie was struggling, but I was too wrapped up in my own shit to notice.
When Frank told us his wife Molly has Alzheimer’s, I was floored. Davis never mentioned it. Not once.
If I’d known, I would’ve offered support. Lent him an ear. I’m no expert on Alzheimer’s, but I know a hell of a lot about grief and loss.
But I didn’t know because I didn’t ask.
Some captain I’ve been.
For the last two months, I’ve been so focused on winning that I forgot the most important part of the game: the people.
“I know that look,” D-Vo says, pitching his voice low. He’s stuffed into the chair next to me, and he leans forward so we’re shoulder to shoulder. “Stop beating yourself up.”
I shoot him the side-eye. “I’m not beating myself up.”