Hi. This story is going to make a comeback in the near future.
Tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Your fingers drum a little beat on the plastic steering wheel. You let out a loud huff of frustration. It's Thursday evening. As much as you really do love being involved in the program, there's a frozen pizza waiting for you and a nice comfy couch to sit on at home. Instead, you're stuck in the green golf cart with the plastic siding.
It's supposed to be warm, with doors and everything, but some moron flipped it during football season and nobody has repaired the rip. Sure, that nobody probably should have been you, but you like to delegate boring jobs to less important people. Like freshmen. The air outside is freezing, what with this being March in Ohio, and you shiver, zipping up your red and white jacket as far as it will go. It's six-thirty, there's a half-hour left of this game, and then you get to drive the cart back to the school and help Will and Emma clean up.
After that, your plans span as far as heating the pizza and crashing down onto the couch. You remind yourself again; I love this program, this is helping me go to college, I love what I'm doing. Then, you glance up to the soccer game that's being played on the field in front of you.
As much as you would usually enjoy seeing twenty two fit girls running around in the mud, there's a half hour left in the game, and no injuries have occurred. It's almost as if this is a sign, it's telling you "Santana, someone's gonna get hurt, and you are going to have to wait an eternity to get your frozen pizza and Grey's Anatomy on."
And just then, as if the heaven have opened and dropped a giant pile of shit on your face, you hear someone yelling. "Trainer! Trainer! We need your help over here, white number ten!"
Your ears hone in on the voice, it's the ref, he's signaling in the direction of the golf cart you're sitting in. You shake yourself away from your cynical thoughts and jump into action, grabbing your kit from the seat next to you and pushing open the stupid ripped door of this stupid green golf cart. Running across the turf, you glance down at the blonde girl lying on the ground in front of you. She's near the goal post, holding her head in her hands.
You almost choke on the sharp intake of breath you just sucked in. Head injuries are the worst, and from what you can see, she's got one. It's the blood trickling between her fingers you notice first, and you crouch down next to her, trying to figure out the general source of it.
"Everyone, please back off, I've gotta help her and I can't do my job with ten people panting down my neck." Your tone is all business. You'd usually try to crack a sarcastic joke in a stressful situation, but this is a head injury, and there's blood. And it's Brittany S. Pierce.
Of course you know her name, and you're positive she doesn't know yours. She's the perfect, tall, blonde girl who's been in your studyhall for the past two years. She's popular, captain of the Cheerios during the football and basketball seasons, and she's drop-dead gorgeous. You ignore the fact that you've fantasized about a situation similar to this many times. Brittany strains her quad during cheer practice, and you're on duty, ready to give the flustered girl a thigh massage. But this is different.
There are no fleeting looks, no moans of relief as the muscle tension is loosened. It's just you kneeling next to Brittany, her head bleeding and small whimpers escaping her lips.
"Brittany, I need you to take your hands off of your face and I need you to lie as still as possible." Sure, it's a head injury, but you can never rule out spine or neck issues at just a glance.
She lets out a small whimper, though it is slightly louder than the previous noises, and slowly moves her hands down from her head, settling them at her sides. You can see the wound now, it's just at her hairline, and then blood is trickling down her face. She must have gotten shoved into the goal post while going up for a header or something. It's probably not spinal if it's her forehead, probably concussed though, you think but you still look up to the referee and the coach standing a few feet away. They looked worried.
"I need you to go to the cart and grab the spine board," you say, trying to remain as calm as possible. It's the first rule they taught you when you signed up for athletic training. If you're calm, then everyone is calm. You had scoffed at this at the time, sure that you'd only be dealing with minor cuts and bruises, but its two and a half years later, and you have more responsibility now.
You pat Brittany's shoulder, trying to calm her down a little. She panicked when she heard you say "spine board", but she seems pretty tough so you keep your mouth shut. You focus on laying her out flat on the turf, her body stick-straight.
The coach and ref return a few minutes later carrying the bright orange board. You look down at the blonde, her blue eyes confused as she looks at you. She seems to be having trouble understanding where she is, probably blacked out for a few seconds. You'd ask her but the main focus of the moment is to make sure her neck and spine get supported before she does any talking.
The assistant coaches are standing a few yards away, and you gesture to them, beckoning them over. It's you and blondie on the ground and four men standing near the board looking down at you, waiting for instructions. Normally, you'd be nervous. The assistant coaches are two of your P.E. teachers, and they have the power to make anyone run laps for all eternity, but the adrenaline of the moment is helping you focus.
"Alright, do you guys know how to transfer someone to one of these?" You know it isn't a stupid question, these guys all have mandatory training in assisting sports medicine practitioners. You're relieved when they all nod. "All right then, on my count."
"I've got her head", you say, walking around Brittany to cup the back of her head in your palms, hands making a "W" shape, fingers moving down to support the back of her neck as your thumbs brush the backs of her ears. The four men take up their positions. "Three, two...one", you all lift her at the same time, the guys standing two on each side of Brittany, helping you lift her gingerly and settling her down onto the spine board.
You tell her everything is going to be all right, tightening the straps around her and adjusting the red foam neck brace that locks her head in place. You and the coaches grab the handles of the board and lift, carrying her to the flatbed of the modified golf cart. You attempt to reassure her one more time before strapping the board securely in the flatbed and sliding into the driver's seat. You grab the walkie-talkie that has been clipped to the right pocket of your khakis the whole time.
"Will, I've got a girl down at soccer, looks like a head injury, there's blood, she may have blacked out. We've got her on the board and I'm driving in now, ETA on minute, get ready." You swallow nervously, hoping he'll respond. For all you know, her could be blasting Journey as usual and never hear your voice crackle over the sound of desperate lyrics and rhythm guitar.
Your fears are lessened as you hear a loud beep and then Will's voice come out of the little black box in your hand.
"Good work Lopez, I'll get set up in here, radio when you're at the door. Over." You sigh in relief and throw the radio down on the seat next to you, it lands loudly on top of your kit but you ignore the noise, focusing instead on your navigation. You silently curse the school for being too cheap to repave the parking lot as you drive in from the stadium across the street. You hang a left, less sharp than usual (you have a delicate passenger) and drive up to the door near the Trainer's.
Will meets you at the door, and the two of you carefully lift the groaning blonde out of the flatbed and into the training room, laying her carefully down on a table in the middle of the room.
"Alright, Santana, good work with the spine board, you got plenty of practice during football season. Could you run into the office and get the IMPACT test started on the computer, and then I'm going to need basic woundcare supplies."
You nod, glad to be able to get away from the situation. Head injuries always freak you out because Will and Emma have taught you to take them extremely seriously. It doesn't help that it's Brittany, the girl you've been secretly crushing on for two years. She looks panicked and helpless now, and you've never seen her like this. In this moment, you realize how little you actually know about her, it's unsettling.
Ten minutes later, a much calmer Brittany is out of the spine board and sitting up on the table. Will checked her out for spinal or neck injuries, and she seems to be fine in that department. She shows signs of a major concussion, but at least she knows where she is and can sort of remember what happened. Now, you're sitting on the stool in front of her, her knees pulled tightly to each other, hands clenching the hem of her muddy shorts. She winces every time you bring the gauze down to her head wound.
"I'm sorry," you say quietly, "there's just a lot of blood due to the location, and I've got to get a better idea of how big this is."
She doesn't say anything, totally compliant with your request to keep still, but her eyes lock on to yours. You notice a shimmer of understanding in the deep blue orbs. She's dazed, confused, bleeding, and more than likely concussed, but she still seems comforted by your presence. You take pride in this, it's your job and you do it well.
When you finally get the bleeding to stop, you gently pull back her hair to get a better look at the cut. You see that it's about an inch and a half-long gash, and stitches will be necessary. You turn around to Will, he's been leaning against another bench, watching you to make sure you don't mess up. "Hospital", you mouth silently.
He nods in understanding, and looks over to Brittany. "Ok, Brittany, you're going to need stitched for that, so if you can remember your parent's number, we can get someone to drive you to the hospital. Can you give us a number?"
She looks up at him dizzily, seeming confused. "I-I don't remember their numbers. I never do anyways, even without hitting my head. But now I don't even know where my phone is and..." She beings to ramble on and on, something about a cat remembering things for her.
You look over to Will, your eyes widened. You have no freaking idea what to do. This girl has always been spacey, it's what intrigues you about her. You're normally bothered by people like her, all of your friends are, in general, relatively smart. The only time you can ever be around ditzy girls is when you're at a party, drunk, and they're looking at you with eyes that say "Sure, I'll experiment."
Those are the looks you live off of, so why are you sitting here now, in this incredibly sober moment, wanting to do anything to comfort the poor girl? So not cool. Santana Lopez does not comfort random ditzy girls whilst sober, especially not on a Thursday night.
Will gives Brittany this tight-lipped smile and beckons you over to where he's standing. Pulling off your bloody latex gloves, you swing your legs over the stool, pat Brittany's knee an-What the fuck?You just patted her knee. Just nonchalantly patted her knee, in an affectionate, comforting way. The normal, regular, real Santana would have freaked out for two minutes before even bringing up the courage to lightly brush this girl's knee. She's popular. Sure, you have quite a few friends. Maybe ten or so close ones, and a good hundred acquaintances with whom you can make light conversation at any given time, but this girl is something else. Her and Quinn, her best friend and fellow popular multisport blonde rule this damn school. They have since freshmen year.
Anyway, you shake yourself out of you little freakout and shuffle over to Will. He starts talking to you, glancing over at Brittany from time to time, but you aren't really listening. He's saying something about how he would drive her but he has to stay because he and Emma rode together again and she's still out at baseball. You can't even get yourself to come up with some witty comment about the two of them and their creepy little relationship.
"I'll drive her." The words come out of your mouth before you can even stop yourself from saying them. Will looks pleased, though, and tells you to go get Brittany's stuff while he puts a temporary bandage on her face. You just turn around and walk like a robot, out of the training room, down the hall, hang a left to go through the field house, up the ramp, another left, and you're in front of the soccer locker room. You reach to unclip the ring front your belt loop.
It's one of the perks of the job, you've got keys to everything athletics related at McKinley. Everything. And there are a lot of doors with locks in the gym wing. You feel like sort of a badass, walking around with your radio and your thirty four keys. Thirty four. Such badassery. You unlock the door to the locker room, and your nose is met with the smell of turf, old cleats, and fruity body spray. The combination makes you gag immediately, and you're sure you look like one of those mentally damaged hyenas from The Lion King.
You locate the red and white locker that says "Pierce #10" in the varsity section, and you are thankful at this moment that Brittany is, well...slower. Her locker hangs open, obviously not usually locked, stuff spilling out. You run over and being stuffing clothes in her gym bag. You blush and look around when you see her pink with black polka-dotted bra. Nobody's there, the door is locked, and for goodness sake's, you're a girl, but you still feel awkward picking it up and shoving it into the bag. With her bag and backpack in hand, you leave the room.
You looked through both bags for her phone, but she seems to have managed to hide it from herself quite well. You sigh as you go back to the training room. There's no chance that you'll get to watch Grey's tonight. Not a chance.
You and Will are helping Brittany out to your car. He's behind her, holding her elbows as she walks to help steady her pace. You're thankful for that, because the thought of having Brittany Pierce solely in your care is freaking you out. This isn't the first time you've had to take someone to the hospital. You must have driven at least five freshmen boys during football season, and a few more this winter during wrestling, but they all had ankle or wrist injuries. This is different, it's the star of the girls soccer program with a bad head injury. Not to mention the fact that you are incredibly attracted to her, and its making your nerves even worse.
Will helps her into the passenger seat while you dump her stuff in the back. You stand at the driver's side door and he looks at you, letting out a sigh as he runs his hands through the thick brown curls on top of his head. "Be careful with her, and make sure they send me the full medical report. Also, tell them we couldn't IMPACT her but we'll do it tomorrow."
You nod, and slide into the driver's seat. It's embarrassing, your beat up red Toyota Corrolla is not in any shape for passengers. Usually, the only other people in here are your friends who don't care, or drunk girls who are too wasted to care about the crappy state of the vehicle, both inside and out. Brittany is struggling with her seatbelt. Her hands are shaking.
"Hey, you good?" you ask, immediately feeling stupid due t your word choice. She's obviously not "good", what with the recent head trauma and the fact that she's in a t-shirt and shorts, covered in wet mud, and probably freezing. She just mumbles feebly in response.
You take off the red and white jacket that says "McKinely Student Athletic Trainer" on the back, and "Lopez" on the front, and hand it to her.
"Here, put this on, and I'll get your seatbelt for you."
She blushes a little, but gives in and slips her arms through the holes in the jacket, bundling it around herself. You reach over and deftly clip her seatbelt in place. You're glad you didn't fumble like an idiot or accidentally touch her boob or something, and with her secured, you put the car in drive and pull out of the athletic lot, heading in the direction of Lima Memorial hospital.
Its eight-thirty, and you bounce on your feet at the hospital pharmacy. The pharmacist is filling Brittany's prescription for pain medication. Seeing as she obviously has a concussion and her headaches are imminent due to the rattled brain and head wound, the doctor decided to prescribe her with some basic painkillers. Will texted you her mom's number, and the two of you talked on the phone. She was at work but she relayed all the insurance information to the doctor through your phone, and now all you have to do is pick up these meds and drive Brittany to her house.
It's been a long night, even though it's not even nine, and you are used to working until ten. Well, maybe not during spring season when things wrap up after dark, but you definitely remember working until ten during winter season. It's probably just the stress that's making you exhausted. Ever since you turned eighteen in October, Will and Emma have been giving you a hell of a lot more responsibility. It's not always easy.
You grab the little white bag that the pharmacist hands to you and walk quickly towards the elevator. Up two flights, hang a right, and you're in the ER wind of Lima Memorial. It's nothing new to you, you know this hospital like the back of your hand. Years of your childhood were spent wandering around, escaping from daycare as your parents worked in the hospital. You explored everything, it's what made you interested in medicine.
Of course, now you're more interested in sports medicine, its fun to be in the thick of things, the first on the scene of a nasty athletics-related injury. The adrenaline rush it brings doesn't hurt either.
You sigh as you walk into the room that Brittany is in, smiling at the nurse that you recognize from years of encounters. "All right Paula, I've got her from here, thanks for all the help."
Paula smiles and helps Brittany down from the exam table. She's gotten twelve stitches and a fresh bandage is covering her treated wound. Somehow, through all the crap she's been through the past few hours, she still manages to look amazing. Her white uniform may be covered in dirt and dried mud, along with a lot of her pale white skin, but she's still sort of glowing. Your hold the door open for her and make your way towards the automatic sliding doors to the ER, and out into the parking lot. I
Its pitch black outside now, and after helping Brittany into the car, you drive her home, remembering the directions her mom gave you over the phone. It's not difficult to find, the two of you actually live about three blocks away from each other, something you never knew after going to high school with her for the past three and a half years.
Only after helping her out of the car and up to the stairs, receiving a thankful smile from her mother, and running back to your car, do you realize she's still wearing your jacket. It's cold in your damn car, but you smile, knowing that at least she's warm even if you have to freeze your ass off. Yawning, you drive off towards your house, wondering how you're going to get the mud stains out of the passenger seat.
Author's Note:
Review as always, my friends.