CHAPTER 1 JOLENE

I can't help it. I watch every single news story that comes out about my father, and it's like an out of body experience as I listen to the reporters. It's oddly comforting to see what they have to say as I sit in the emergency room staring at the television above my mother.

"Giants cornerback Joseph Bailey suffered a neck injury today during practice while blocking wide receiver Eddie Nash. This story is still developing."

I walk over to another television giving a different broadcast of the same situation.

"Joseph Bailey of the Giants was blocking wide receiver Eddie Nash today in practice when he sustained a neck injury and was rushed to the hospital. Details are still emerging about why the aggressive penalty was made during practice, and we here at channel three are praying for his speedy recovery."

And so on and so on. Everyone has something to say, but nobody has the details…including us, his family sitting in the waiting room waiting for news.

Did Eddie Nash purposely injure my father? I can't imagine a reason why, but some of the news stories seem to indicate it.

Will my father walk again?

It's so stupid. It was just supposed to be practice, and now the doctors aren't telling us whether my father will ever walk again.

He will. He has to.

This can't be happening.

But it is.

Everything was perfect bliss this morning, and tonight, it's…this. Whatever this is. My father was pulled off the field on a stretcher during practice. The head coach said he wasn't moving. From what I understand, Eddie pulled him by the back of his jersey—a horse-collar tackle, illegal from all standpoints. Nobody really knows why he did it. It was practice, but as we're told all the time, every second on the field is a fight for your position.

Now my dad is fighting for his mobility. Maybe even his life.

My mom is crying in the corner, and I can't get her to stop. So far, the Nashes haven't stopped by. I haven't heard from Lincoln. My mom hasn't heard from Eddie's wife Missy…her best friend.

The ball's in their court. It was their patriarch who took out ours. It's up to them to make the first contact.

And they haven't.

I've never wished so hard that I had a sibling in my entire life. I've never felt so alone. My group of supposed friends stopped talking to me because I've been ignoring them in favor of my boyfriend, but that's the thing.

He's more than a boyfriend.

For the last three years, he's been my best friend. When we moved here from Miami, where my dad played prior to that, Lincoln was one of the kids close to my age who understood what it was like to have a dad in the league. I was only twelve, and he was only fourteen, but I felt an instant and intense connection with him.

He kissed me on the back patio last year under the stars on a cold winter night.

He held my hand on the Fourth of July in front of our families at our neighborhood block party.

We never said we were more than friends, but we both always knew it was more.

We spend every moment possible together. When he's at practice, I sit on the bleachers and do my homework. When I'm working on a story for the school paper, he helps me come up with just the right word from the chair right beside mine.

And last weekend…we did it. We gave ourselves to each other. We did the thing that had been building between us for three years, and it was complete and pure perfection.

They say the first time is supposed to hurt, and when he first pushed in, it did.

But then my body adjusted to his, and it was like nothing I'd ever felt before.

An uncomfortable ache presses between my legs at the thought.

I'm still healing but I want to do it again. We haven't had time—he had a game, and then our dads had a game, and then he had practice and I had a big test to study for.

And now, a mere five days after I gave my V-card to Lincoln Nash, his dad injured mine.

It feels like my entire world is blowing up. I want my dad to be okay. I want Lincoln and me to be okay.

I'm scared, and one fear doesn't outweigh the other. I'm just scared, and I feel like there's nobody left to hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay.

I don't know if it's going to be okay. Nothing feels like it'll be okay ever again.

I walk over and sit by my mom. I hold her hand, trying to be the strong one here even though I want to curl into a ball and cry. I grew up this past weekend. I feel like I'm not a child anymore, and if I have to be the strong one for my mom, then I will.

The doctor eventually comes out. "I have an update on your husband's condition," he says to my mother.

We both look at him hopefully, and then we follow him to a private room where he gives us the update.

"We were initially concerned that the injury might have resulted in paralysis, but the MRI scan we did shows no damage to his spinal cord. Instead, it's a slipped disc, a common injury that isn't life-threatening."

"Oh thank God," my mom murmurs. "Will he be able to play again?"

I can't help but wonder why that is the first question out of her mouth.

Is it because she's concerned for his well-being? Because she knows what the game means to him?

Or is it something else?

I'm not sure why those are the thoughts running through my mind when I should be focused on the good news the doctor just gave us.

"We're not sure about that yet. We'll keep him here a few more days, start on PT and watch his range of motion. I'll have more answers for you after some additional observations and tests. I know this has been incredibly difficult for you and I thank you for your patience. He's in great hands."

With that, the doctor excuses himself, and my mother and I both breathe a sigh of relief in unison.

She calls my dad's head coach first and then his agent, who will notify the media outlets.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. I should call Lincoln. I should let him know the news.

As I stare at the blank screen, I can't help feeling like he should be here with me. He should've heard the news with me while he was holding my hand.

But he's not.

And so I'll wait for him to call first.