53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Willow

There are clouds painted on the ceiling of the hospital waiting room. Motivational quotes hang on the wall. It's a slap in the face to anyone who is trying to cope, for any reason, in here. I hate those stupid fucking clouds.

Everything is on top of each other: machines beeping and whirring, people talking in the hallways, phones ringing. I don't know what's worse, the overwhelming hospital sounds or the crowd after Tripp's hit.

Tripp's hit. Is this a thing now? This moment. How long will it stay? How bad is it? Tears fall down my cheeks and I wipe them away as fast as I can.

Seth and the security detail were able to get us into a semi-secluded area. They stand near the entrance and in the hallway. It's smaller than the general waiting room but still meant for the same nervousness and anxiety. Mountains of questions. Piles of fear.

The press couldn't even let us get in here without taking our photo. Tears running down Wendy's face. Disrespectful. Infuriating.

I sit in a chair where all I can think of is how many people got bad news while sitting here. How many people had their worlds changed as they gripped the arms?

"Willow, you're digging into your own arm," Emilie quietly points out. She lightly puts her hand on top of mine, so I'll stop. She's right. There are scratch and nail marks on my arm. Emilie holds my hand .

This all feels too big and like I can't do anything to move the needle. It's like I'm on a boat, and there are these massive waves, and no matter how many I get through, they don't stop coming. My efforts are helpless.

I look over at Wendy, whose leg shakes as she continuously taps it on the floor. She rests her elbows on her knees, moving her whole body, while she picks at her nails.

Erik is here too. He helped get us through the stadium and into our car. He came with us here but I'm not sure if it was necessarily on purpose since there's no way to get a car here without being mauled by the media. Some of Tripp's coaching staff started to trickle in. This depressing room is a weird combination of people.

There's no way to get comfortable. Sitting. Standing. I pace the room, wrapping my arms around myself. The sound of my boots snap on the vinyl floor. Crystals catch the fluorescent lights serving as another reminder of how wrong this day went.

We've been waiting for an update. It feels like it's been forever. My phone tells me it's been just over an hour. How is that possible?

It feels like my world crumbles each minute I don't know what's going on. My brain replays the hit. Over. And over. And over. The way his body was limp. Still.

Too still.

He's strong. Built for this.

Right?

Seconds drag into minutes and lag into hours. People are either still or unable to stop moving; there's no in between .

The anxiety and panic pressing on my chest has made me numb. It all hurts but it's like I can't feel anything at all. Emilie still holds my hand, rubbing the top when I'm gripping it too tight.

A new voice breaks the heavy silence in the room, "I'm guessing we're all here for Tripp Owens?" A doctor comes into our waiting room, clipboard in hand.

"Yes. I'm his mother. What's going on?" Wendy shoots out of her seat and is in front of the doctor.

"Can we speak openly in here?" He looks around at the odd assortment of people. Wendy looks at me for reassurance and I nod yes. It's not like this won't be all over the news in a few hours. She nods for the doctor to continue.

"Tripp suffered a severe concussion. He lost consciousness on the field, not sure the total time, but I'd call it significant. We're still running some tests, but it's difficult because he's been in and out of consciousness since he's arrived."

"What does that mean?" Wendy asks, voice quick.

"It means, I know you've been in here for too long without an update but I don't really have one for you." The doctor drops the clipboard and his arms to his side.

The whole room deflates. I'm standing but then it's like I stumbled. Someone says, "thank you" but all I hear is Emilie. She's holding on to me, lowering us into the chairs.

"Shhh, Willow. It's okay. You're okay. Tripp is going to be okay." She rubs small circles on my back, as I sob into her chest.