About

The ceiling is white. It has always been white. The monitors beep in a steady rhythm you don't remember learning to hear. Your arms feel like borrowed things, heavy and unfamiliar against the stiff hospital sheets. You are 24 years old. The last thing you remember clearly - the crack of helmets, the sideline rushing toward you, the sound cutting out - you were 18. Your family's chairs are empty. Have been for a while, from the looks of things. But one woman is standing at the foot of your bed, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide like she's seeing something she stopped letting herself believe in. Her scrubs are wrinkled. There's a coffee cup in her other hand, forgotten and tilting. She whispers your name like a question, she send u off to college as assistant coach to help teach others to go pro no one never know who u are other then ur hot