Page 33 of Spiral

The small crowd that had been gathered is now clear – and both Henry and Todd Watson are nowhere in sight.

"Watson was running to tackle the offense and didn’t see you on the sideline, Georgia. I put you back there—" he gestures towards the metal folding chair and table "—for a reason." His tone is momentarily sharp but is quickly softened by a deep breath.

“Anderson pushed you out of the way and took the hit. But he wasn’t wearing his helmet, and Watson ran into him head-on and at full speed.” He furrows his brow and rubs a wrinkled hand across his temples in frustration.

“I’m out a captain and a goddamn receiver,” he murmurs to himself, looking out towards the field.

“Are they okay?” I ask, stepping in his direction tentatively. My head is pounding and my throat feels dry. “Todd and Henry, I mean.”

“They’re with the medic now. Watson’s fine, but Henry’s a little rough.” From his pocket, he removes a worn can of chewing tobacco. He smears a small amount onto the edge of his fingertip and rubs it quickly against his gums.

“Don’t do what I do,” he mutters, glancing in my direction and holding the can of dip in my view.

I nod and lift my backpack, the cheering noise of the TU Titans fans worsening my throbbing headache.

“I’ve got to go,” I call towards him, but he has already returned to the sidelines to sub in new players, too far away to hear me.

The medic’s office is cold and uninviting. The white walls host no posters, no artwork, not even a medical chart in sight. A small hospital bed sits in the center of the room and is noticeably not accompanied by a visitor’s chair. The room smells sterile, having been recently cleaned, and now lay empty.

“Excuse me,” I say, walking towards a petite woman attempting to open a new box of gloves.

Her black hair has been pulled back tightly into a bun. Wearing thick-rimmed glasses in the same shade of blue as her oversized scrubs, she glances over at me and dons a soft smile.

“Hello,” she says, her voice cheerful. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yes,“ I respond, looking around the all-white room. “Is Henry Anderson here?”

“You just missed him, sweetie,” she replies, her tone sympathetic. “I sent him in there to get cleaned up.” She points to her left, in the direction of a door reading "MEN’S LOCKER ROOM."

21 | Henry

“SHE TOLD YOU that you’d regret it.”

I repeat Todd Watson’s words in my head, again and again, as I attempt to shower with a freshly bruised and dislocated shoulder. He had sneered them at me, his voice just above a whisper, as I lay flattened against the turf. Nobody had come to help yet, nobody else had heard him.

Natalia told him to hit Georgia.

Blood rushes to my ears with the realization, my cheeks becoming flushed with anger.

She had her Dad set Georgia’s table so far back on purpose, so she had no choice but to stand on the sideline. Directly in Watson’s path. But why the fuck would he agree to do that?

Then it hits me. I already knew why Natalia hated me – she can’t handle rejection, can’t stand the thought that I’d choose another girl over drunken one-night-stands with her whenever she decides she wants them. But, Watson is a different story.

He was captain of the team last season, his junior year. We played well, but the team was held back a ton when Watson showed up drunk to almost every one of our games. The turning point was when the Mavericks approached me about the draft. After my deal with them, my teammates, as well as Coach Bryer, booted him in favor of making me captain, instead.

It’s almost unheard of for a captain to be replaced for their final year of college. I’m realizing, just now, how embarrassing that must have been, how much it must have hurt – and how excited he probably was when Natalia complained to him about wanting revenge on me.

But what kind of sick person would want to hurt Georgia?

“Henry?” A voice echoes quietly through the empty locker room.

I glance down, realizing I’m clad in only a TU Titans towel wrapped loosely around my waist. I tighten it around myself quickly, just in time for Georgia to round the comer.

“Oh my god, um, sorry. I’m leaving,” she stutters, covering her eyes dramatically with her palms and turning back towards the way she came.

“Wait,” I exclaim, before quickly sucking air through my teeth as seething pain courses through the muscles of my shoulder.

She turns around slowly, setting her eyes carefully on the ceiling and not daring to venture any lower.