War
Chapter Six
But in modern war, you will die like a dog for no good reason. -- Ernest Hemingway
--
"What's his name?"
"Ryan."
"Don't fight it, Ryan."
"Can you grab his wrist?"
"We're going to get you out of here."
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Ryan felt himself shuddering. He was smothered. The overpowering weight pressed deeply into every little crevice of his body. He felt flat and if his mind could properly process the situation beyond the pain coursing through his every cell, he would be overwhelmed by panic. As it stood, to panic would be redundant. He was passed that stage. He had clicked into conservation mode. There wasn't room for panic. There was barely enough room for himself.
His entire body was searing, the heat that had instantly enveloped his skin, quickly invaded his lungs, suffocating him further. Through the darkness, a glimmer of light could be determined, illuminating a tiny patch of air where he could feel no weight. That small opening allowed for enough oxygen circulation. Just enough.
How could I let this happen?
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"Where's that coming from?"
"I can't tell. I need scissors. I don't want to move him."
"Go pull the bus around, I'll prep him. Sir? Sir, are you his father?"
"Yes."
"Can you put a hand on his wrist? Just don't let him pull the mask off."
"I gotchya, kid. It's going to be okay…."
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Sandy wanted to run out onto the field, scream and yell at everyone to stop, to pay attention. But he couldn't think. His body wouldn't cooperate. It was as if his feet were glued to the ground, the white line under his toes representing a border he couldn't cross.
The officials were yelling, blowing into their whistles in short, sharp bursts. It hurt his ears. But he couldn't move. He could only stare at the arm he knew belonged to the kid he was responsible for, the kid he was supposed to protect.
"How could I let this happen?" Sandy struggled to form the words as panic forced all the air out of his lungs.
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"Decreased breath sounds on the left…. You're going to be fine, Ryan."
"One, two, three, up."
"Hey, c'mon! Take it elsewhere. Let us through."
"You coming with us?"
"Absolutely."
"We're good to go."
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"Get off! Move!" Johnny grabbed a Phoenix player from behind by the jersey, channeling all his strength to move the much larger individual from the top of the pile. Johnny wasn't going to fade into the background. Not this time. Not when his teammate, his friend, was under there, struggling, suffering.
"Move!" Johnny screamed to no one in particular, his heart pounding harder as he pulled at the arms and shirts of the players involved in the pileup, receiving little reaction for his tremendous effort.
"What the fuck, man?"
"Get off!" He was breathless. Tired. Why wouldn't they listen?
"Step back, let us deal with this." The ref's words were sandwiched by two, ear-piercing whistles.
Johnny reluctantly took a step back. His eyes maintaining a constant stare on the arm he knew belonged to Ryan. The white-knuckled hand that had effectively torn out every blade of grass within reach and was now clutching nothing.
Johnny turned, his head to the side, pained by the scene in front of him, only to catch sight of the coach approaching, his eyes wide, his expression stunned.
Feeling useless and helpless, Johnny turned to face the approaching man while spitefully yelling, "How could you let this happen?"
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"This should make you feel better, Ryan. Just try to relax."
"He's been sick…."
"Just lean back for a second, sir."
"Is he on any drugs?"
"Uh…antibiotics, I think…. I have to call my wife."
"Okay. Ryan?"
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"C'mon, guys, someone's hurt here!" The ref's words appeared to have some sort of impact on the players that were, up to that point, wrestling with each other near the bottom of the pile.
"Ah, shit, man. Are you okay?" One of the Phoenix players asked before an authoritative hand pushed him back a few steps, away from Ryan's squirming, gasping form.
The ref instructed the linesmen to clear the crowd and pocketed his whistle, kneeling down on one knee and quietly saying something to which Ryan appeared to have no answer save for a painful groan and cough.
"Can we get a medic over here?"
Luke glanced over his shoulder toward the medical tent. Two paramedics were already halfway across the expanse of grass that separated them from the scene. When Luke turned back around to face the chaotic action, he noticed Sandy had left his side and was jogging toward the flurry of activity.
Without a second thought, Luke burst forward, stumbling awkwardly on the torn up grass as his crutches hit patches of mud, occasionally slipping out from underneath him.
"Ryan? Jesus, Ryan, talk to me!" Sandy released the panicked words in a tone that Luke had never heard come from the usually composed man.
When there was no response to his demand, Sandy spun on his heel, his eyes scanning his surroundings as if searching for someone or something. "That was assault! You know that!"
"Sir, please, calm down," the ref pleaded with the stricken father as Luke approached from behind, significantly winded after his marathon.
Sandy ran a hand over his face, glancing back down at Ryan, as if just looking at his anguished son was enough to kill him right then and there.
"Excuse us." Luke felt a hand on his shoulder as the medics passed him, immediately kneeling down on either side of his injured friend.
He watched in shock as one medic wasted no time placing a mask over Ryan's mouth while the other fitted a collar around his neck.
"What's his name?" the female medic asked. Luke was surprised to find that her eyes were on him, searching for an answer to her question.
"Ryan," he answered quietly, more breathless from fear than his sprint.
"Don't fight it, Ryan," the woman advised calmly, gently swatting away Ryan's right hand as he lethargically tried to push away the plastic covering his nose and mouth. "Can you hold his wrist?" she addressed her partner, searching through her medical bag with one hand while holding the mask on Ryan's face with the other.
"We're going to get you out of here," the man said soothingly as he grabbed Ryan's wrist and slowly pushed it to the ground. Ryan was too weak to fight it, which allowed the medic restraining him to reach behind and pull the backboard around to his side.
"Ryan? Can you walk?"
The only response was a pained cough, that forced Ryan onto his side, his wrist jerking from the male medic's grasp, his hand clutching his shoulder.
Out of the corner of his eye, Luke could see Sandy shifting from one foot to the other, his impatience blatant.
How could I let this happen?
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"Where's that coming from?" the man asked, staring at the dark red liquid that stained the top of his partner's hand. Sandy felt his stomach turning over.
"I don't know," she started in a rush, wiping the blood off with a towel that was immediately tossed to the side, soiled. "I need scissors. I don't want to move him."
The man looked up briefly, making fleeting eye contact with Sandy before turning his attention back to his medical bag, where he emerged with a pair of surgical scissors.
"Go pull the bus around, I'll prep him." the man demanded bluntly as he expertly started cutting through the fabric of Ryan's jersey.
The woman complied, jumping to her feel and jogging across the field.
The man finished slicing the front of the shirt in two, pulling either side back and searching Ryan's chest for the source of the blood. He whispered something under his breath when he caught sight of the ugly bruise on the kid's chest and shoulder, eyes finally settling on the re-opened gash on Ryan's elbow. The man retrieved several squares of gauze, pressing against the flow of blood while holding the edges of the mask firmly over Ryan's mouth. His chest was jumping simultaneously with the soft gasps and coughs emitted.
Sandy turned away, unable to watch out of fear. Fear of what he would see on Ryan's face. Pain.
"Sir?"
Sandy slowly turned toward the voice, dazed and distraught. "Sir, are you his father?"
Sandy nodded and swallowed, cautiously stepping closer. "Yes."
"Can you put a hand on his wrist?" Sandy stepped forward immediately, relieved to have a job, a purpose. "Just don't let him pull the mask off."
His instincts took over as he kneeled down beside Ryan, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, wrapping his fingers around the kid's wrist.
Sandy forced himself not to look at the damage, focusing only on Ryan's face, slick with sweat, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I gotchya, kid. It's gonna be okay…."
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"Decreased breath sounds on the left…."
Luke watched in horror as the female medic pressed her stethoscope into various areas on Ryan's badly bruised chest. He flinched under her touch, but didn't open his eyes or verbally express his pain. The male counterpart just nodded as if the information his partner had provided him with had been previously assumed.
"You're going to be okay, Ryan," she assured her patient while replacing the stethoscope around her neck.
Sandy rose to his feet, taking a step back as he observed the medics roll Ryan onto his bruise-free side so they could slide the backboard under his body.
Luke leaned forward on his crutches, clearing his throat and speaking for the first time since the incident first occurred. "He's going to be okay, Mr. Cohen."
"God, Luke…."
"Ward. Is he all right?" The sound of the wary voice caused a shiver of anger to run up Luke's spine.
"You fucking prick!" Luke growled before turning to face Johnson.
Johnson took a step back and set his gaze on the ground. For the first time, Luke was sure that Johnson was scared.
Luke responded by stepping forward, tossing his crutches to the ground and pushing Johnson backward with a forceful shove.
"You happy now? Huh?" Luke screamed, his voice cracking with unbridled rage. He felt a hand on his shoulder as Sandy tried to calm him, but shrugged it off by limping forward. Johnson was going to pay. He would make sure of it.
"One, two, three, up."
"Ward…look, I just wanted to --"
"Fuck you!" Luke spat, his raw emotions forcing Johnson back a few more steps until his back came into contact with the parked ambulance that awaited loading. Luke met his foe's eyes and suddenly wished he hadn't been so quick to discard the crutches. He knew Johnson was the one behind this mess. He was going to make sure he paid his dues.
"Hey, c'mon! Take it elsewhere. Let us through."
Sandy grabbed Luke by the shoulder, pulling him back a few feet away from Johnson with one hand while shoving the abandoned crutches into his hands with the other.
Luke felt his face flush with guilt when he saw the paramedics waiting for him to move so that they could load Ryan into the ambulance.
Stepping aside, Luke and Johnson cleared the doors and watched as the gurney was firmly strapped down onto the ambulance floor.
"You coming with us?" The female medic directed the question to Sandy.
"Absolutely." he replied, accepting her helping hand and climbing in beside her.
"We're good to go." she called out toward the front of the bus, slamming the doors shut as the engine of the big ambulance revved.
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"This should make you feel better, Ryan. Just try to relax."
The woman filled a syringe with a clear substance. Once again, Sandy brushed the wet hair off Ryan's forehead, and silently wished there was more he could do to ease the kid's pain. Anything. He would do it.
His hand settled on Ryan's forehead. "He's been sick…" he mumbled, not sure whether or not the medics should be advised of Ryan's less than adequate condition.
She met his eyes as she pulled the needle out of the bottle.
"Just lean back for a second, sir," she said kindly, reaching in between Sandy and Ryan to place the bottle back in the bag at the foot of the gurney. "Is he on any drugs?" She held the syringe up at eye level, flicking it several times with her fingers until all the air had been effectively removed.
"Uh…antibiotics, I think…. I have to call my wife," Sandy muttered. He cursed himself for not knowing. Kirsten had been the one to take him to the doctor. Kirsten had been the one to fill his prescription.
Kirsten should be here.
"Okay," the woman forced a reassuring smile, then leaned down closer to her patient. "Ryan?"
Ryan's eyelids separated for a split second before he squeezed them shut again, groaning beneath the mask on his face.
Sandy pulled his hand away from the kid's forehead, fearing he'd done more harm than good.
The woman medic didn't appear at all unsettled by Ryan's distressed response. "Have you ever had morphine before, Ryan?"
Again, the kid's eyelids opened a crack, glazing right over Sandy and searching the interior of the ambulance until settling on the woman. He gave a subtle nod before his eyes disappeared once more.
Sandy bowed his head and rubbed his hands together, trying hard not to think about what situation in Ryan's past would have called for the use of a painkiller such as morphine. There was too much about this kid he didn't know. Whether or not he was on antibiotics was just the tip of the iceberg.
"Better?" The woman's voice almost surprised Sandy. He glanced up to see her smiling at Ryan, who appeared to have finally found a state of reasonable relief, his breathing having regulated and the muscles in his face and jaw significantly more relaxed.
Sandy let out a shuddered sigh. He could breathe once again, but the oxygen couldn't ease the worry induced ached in his chest. Nothing could ever prepare a parent for this. He'd never felt such an overwhelming urge to hug his wife and son.
Kirsten, I need you here now.
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The young nurse tied the hospital robe shut behind Ryan's neck after gently removing the stained and mangled jersey, placing it into a plastic bag on the bedside table. She pulled the hems of the short sleeves down over his shoulders, finishing with a smile. Sandy mumbled his thanks, obviously preoccupied by the doctor's examination.
The older doctor poked and prodded Ryan with a considerate expression. He'd obviously been through this before and that made Ryan somewhat more comfortable. After advising Ryan when and how to breathe as he placed his stethoscope in several different regions of his patient's chest, he grabbed the phone off the wall and made arrangements with a different department in the hospital, using words that Ryan recognized but couldn't really comprehend.
"Okay. We're going to send you off to get a few x-rays," the doctor informed once he'd hung up the phone, his eyes darting from Ryan to Sandy as he spoke. He made a brief note on his clipboard before handing it off to one of the nurses and smiling piteously at Ryan. "I'll be here when you get back."
Ryan blinked in acknowledgement, not wanting to nod through the stiffness in his neck. The morphine administered in the ambulance had taken care of the majority of the discomfort, but he could tell where pain would be felt without the drugs. The pressure in his arm, neck and shoulder was uncomfortable, but what bothered him most was the restricted room in his chest. Something wasn't working like it should and even through the foggy haze of the drugs, it scared him.
"You can wait here, sir. We don't allow anyone to accompany patients into radiology."
Ryan noticed Sandy's hesitation. Eventually, he nodded with a sigh, running a hand through his hair and taking a few steps back to allow the gurney to leave the room.
"I'll be right here, Ryan."
Ryan let his eyes drift shut rather than reciprocating the communication. Sandy would be disappointed, he was sure of it. If Ryan had just listened when he'd told him not to play, none of this would have happened.
He knew this was going to happen. He's got to be pissed.
----------------
"I'll go get your father from the waiting room and we'll go over these x-rays together, okay?"
"No." Ryan barely recognized his own voice, hoarse and uneven from lack of recent use and muffled beneath the barrier of the plastic mask. The doctor appeared somewhat startled by the response.
Ryan didn't want to face Sandy. He didn't want to face Sandy or Luke or Johnson or Rickard or anyone right now. He just wanted to get out of the cold, sterile hospital, and crawl into his bed back in Newport.
"He's just around the corner. It'll take two seconds. I'll go and grab him." the doctor assured, his voice soft, as if he thought Ryan simply didn't want to be left alone.
"Please," Ryan begged, wincing as his chest objected to his efforts. "Just tell me now," he finished in a whisper that was shaken by a shiver.
"Are you cold?"
Ryan was cold, sore and his head pounded through the drugs, but he didn't respond, afraid that if he said yes, the man would hesitate to sign his discharge.
The doctor hesitated for a moment, looking through the small window in the door then back at Ryan. Finally, he shrugged and let out a sigh. "I suppose you're old enough, but parents usually like to know what's going on, too."
Ryan could feel the doctor's eyes on him, but didn't bother to look up or acknowledge the statement.
The doctor grabbing several black and white films from the envelope on the table, slapping them onto a bright white screen in an even row. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and stood off to the side so as not to obstruct Ryan's view.
"Well," the doctor started, pointing his pen to the first film, "the good news is your arm's not broken. Just a nasty bone bruise. This, however," he touched the tip of his pen to a specific area on the next film, "doesn't look as promising…." The doctor went on to explain the various injuries, adding a load of auxiliary information that Ryan didn't even bother processing. Broken collarbone, bruised arm, bruised neck, collapsed lung, concussion, he knew what he needed to know. His summer was ruined.
"I'll go tell your dad that we're going to be a while getting you all patched up. He should probably go get a vehicle so that you don't have to ride a cab back to the soccer fields."
Ryan titled his head forward in an improvised nod.
"I'll be back in a second." The doctor strode out of the room and Ryan closed his eyes in relief. He didn't want to have to face Sandy. Not yet.
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The doctor stuffed several flyers containing instructions and a prescription note into Ryan's good hand, the other immobilized, slung snuggly to his aching chest. The instructions were clear, the precautions blatant. There was very little he could do. There was very little he wanted to do. He was tired, drained and sore; the drugs from earlier were slowly wearing off. He needed to go home.
"Can I go get your father now?" The doctor arched his eyebrows as he asked the question, making it clear he didn't want to cross any lines that would make Ryan more uncomfortable than he already was
Ryan took several seconds to consider how he wanted to answer the doctor's question, eventually deciding that he didn't feel like listening to the man go through the entire spiel again. "It's all right. I can tell him," he answered tiredly, attempting to shift away from the discomfort in his chest but flinching when a sharp pain radiated through his ribs.
The doctor held up his hands in defeat, his expression suddenly turning serious as he took a few steps toward his patient. "Any increased difficulty breathing, you go straight to the hospital," the doctor demanded with a point of a finger. "I'll call your doctor in Newport and let him know the situation. I wrote my number on the prescription note, if your parents have any questions, tell them they can call me." He paused, rubbing his hands together. "Now, at least let me get you a wheel chair to get you out to your car."
Ryan gingerly shuffled to the end of the bed, slipping his feet back into his muddied cleats. "It's all right," he whispered, lifting his gaze to lock eyes with the doctor for a second as he pleaded his case. "There's nothing wrong with my legs."
The doctor smiled and shook his head despite his disapproval.
Ryan lifted his good arm slowly, testing his pain threshold as he reached behind his neck with outstretched fingers that searched for a loose string to unfasten the hospital gown. His struggle was cut short when the doctor approached, expertly removing the gown and draping Ryan's damp, severed jersey over his shoulders.
"Back in the armor," the doctor teased, offering a supportive hand as Ryan carefully slipped off the side of the gurney.
He took a few seconds to steady himself and test his lungs with several shallow breaths before shuffling toward the door. "Thanks." The word was hushed, nearly lost in the effort to breath, but the doctor seemed to have understood the gesture.
"Take it slow for a while, kid."
Ryan couldn't imagine any other option.
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Sandy paced restlessly between two rows of plastic chairs. He'd been surprised when the doctor had told him Ryan would be able to go home as long as he took it easy, allowed himself time to recover, and promised to go straight to the hospital if any one of his many injuries worsened.
Sandy was relieved he'd held off placing that emergency phone call to Kirsten until after the talking to the doctor. He'd finally made the call while driving his car back to the hospital and couldn't remember exactly what he'd ended up saying, fighting his emotions the entire time. He was sure he'd have to explain everything again when he got home.
He was angry, at himself, at the actions that took place on that soccer field, and even though he hated to admit it, he was a little mad at Ryan for putting himself in such a position. He would have to fight to put all of those feelings aside for the time being. He just wanted to take the kid home.
But Ryan hadn't wanted him there. The doctor had made up some implausible excuse, but it was plain and clear to Sandy that Ryan would rather be alone than in his company. He didn't protect his son. He'd done what Ryan had expected. He'd failed him. He knew that all too well. That was how things had always gone for the kid, the people he was supposed to trust would eventually let him down. Sandy had never planned on upholding that theory.
So he paced across the shiny tiles that lined the aisle between the rows of chairs, reaching up every few seconds to push his hair from his eyes or catch a quick glance at his watch. After deciding that it was taking far too long and convincing himself that something else must have gone wrong, he approached the admitting desk to ask the nurse for another status report, but stopped short when he caught a flash of blue and silver out of the corner of his eye.
He turned to face the unrecognizable shell of what was usually a strong individual. Ryan tentatively stepped around the corner, his eyes downcast, his right arm in a sling. Sandy tried to tell himself that the prognosis was a lot better than he'd originally anticipated when Ryan was squirming in the grass, but that thought was quickly lost in sympathetic anguish as he watched the kid struggle through every calculated step.
As if propelled by the need to parent, Sandy jogged up beside Ryan, immediately taking the papers from the kid's good hand.
"What are you doing up?" Sandy immediately felt guilty for sounding so abrupt. Ryan needed his support, not his anxiety.
"Doctor said I could leave."
"I know," Sandy started, moving to Ryan's uninjured side and placing a supportive hand on the kid's shoulder as they slowly made their way toward the doors. "I just thought…you shouldn't be on your feet."
Sandy watched Ryan's face, trying to read the kid of few words. A quick lift and fall of his eyebrows said it all. He didn't want to talk about it. Sandy could understand that. His sons were so drastically different.
"Wait, Ryan," Sandy squeezed his fingers and Ryan recoiled from the touch, setting his jaw against the pain. Sandy immediately pulled back, afraid of the damage he'd caused. "Oh…I'm so sorry. Did I hurt you?"
Ryan squinted and turned away, his breathing audibly shallow and laborious. He managed to shake his head 'no' with very little movement.
"I wanted to talk to your doctor…." Sandy pointed behind him, still flustered.
Ryan licked his lips and closed his eyes for a moment. "It's all there," he finally whispered, tilting his chin toward Sandy's right hand.
Sandy lifted the papers and scanned the titles of the pamphlets.
Caring for a fractured clavicle
Caring for pneumothorax
Caring for a concussion
Medicating with Vicodin
Medicating with Amoxicillin
"I just think that --"
"Please, Sandy." Even though he couldn't see Ryan's eyes, his desperation was palpable. He wanted to go home. Sandy couldn't deny him that. He'd have Kirsten call their doctor when they got back to Newport so she could figure this whole mess out. Kirsten could always figure this stuff out.
"Okay, kid. Let's get you home," Sandy pulled back and scanned Ryan's tattered jersey and mud-covered cleats. "and into some decent clothes."
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The numbers in the elevator lit up as it ascended. Four, five, six. Sandy realized he was counting out loud, and quickly glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was alone.
He slipped through the gap sideways before the doors had a chance to open all the way. His eyes scanned the numbers on the hotel room doors as he proceeded down the hall. 2234, 2235, 2236. He stopped in front of 2237, only to notice the door was slightly ajar.
Knocking as he pushed the door open, Sandy could hear voices from inside the room.
"I don't know, man. It's so fucked up. Why was he trying to save Johnson?"
"It doesn't make sense. I wouldn't…."
"Hello?" Sandy called out, emerging from behind the corner to see Luke and Johnny sitting on the beds, their heads turned toward the door.
"Mr. Cohen. Hi." Luke sounded surprised, but relieved to see him.
"Hey, guys." Sandy approached Luke's bed, smiling as he made eye contact with both boys.
"How's Ryan?" Johnny asked immediately, voicing his worry.
"Well, he's in rough shape. Actually, he's in the car. I'm just here to get his stuff."
"He's out already?" Luke asked in amazement.
"I was just as shocked as you. Apparently, there was nothing they could do to facilitate healing anymore here than if he was at home, so they let him go."
"So he's okay?" Johnny pried, his sincerity clear.
Sandy tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows, letting out a tired sigh. "He'll be better when we get him home and in his own bed."
Luke looked up like he was going to say something, but turned away shortly after.
"What?" Sandy asked, hoping he didn't sound too harsh, but too emotionally spent to beat around the bush.
"I was just wondering…if you're going home…."
"Sure, Luke. Get your stuff, I'll get Ryan's."
Luke smiled appreciatively and nodded, clambering off the bed and hopping over to the dresser to start gathering his things. .
"Johnny, you're more than welcome to come along as well, if you'd like." Sandy noted the exhaustion in his own voice. The worry had worn him thin.
The small boy smiled, but shook his head, politely answering, "No, thanks, Mr. Cohen. We still have at least one game to play. I should really stay. But thank-you. I'll let the team know that Ryan's gonna be okay."
Noticing the glare Luke gave Johnny, Sandy sighed. He'd forgotten that the tournament was still in progress.. It seemed like everything came to a standstill when Ryan got hurt.
"Here, Mr. Cohen, that's Ryan's bag." Luke handed Sandy a half-full backpack before turning to retrieve his own, much larger, piece of luggage.
"That's it?" Sandy asked, unzipping Ryan's bag to make sure there was actually something in it.
Luke grinned and shrugged. "He packs light."
"Okay then. You ready?"
Luke nodded, awkwardly arranging his crutches around his duffel bag.
Sandy recognized the impossibility of what Luke was going to attempt. "I'll get that, Luke."
Johnny rose from his spot on the far bed and followed the others, closing the door to the emptied room behind him.
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Luke placed his crutches diagonally into the trunk of the Beamer while Sandy struggled with the bulging duffel bag.
"You good?" Sandy asked, his thumb poised on the car remote.
"Good to go" Luke replied, hopping on one leg to the side of the car, opening the rear door and cautiously lowering himself into the leather seat.
If the mop of sandy blond hair hadn't been visible from the side of the headrest in front of him, Luke would've never known Ryan was there.
"How ya doing, kid?" Sandy asked as he inserted the key and started the engine with a flick of the wrist.
Luke curiously strained his ears to catch his friend's response, but no words were spoken. Sandy just nodded and reached over to pat Ryan on the knee. "I know, we'll be home shortly, though."
Luke swallowed and directed his gaze out the window, suddenly nervous and awkward in the backseat. In the general scheme of things, he was comfortable with Ryan, but this was different. He felt responsible. Ryan wouldn't have been in this condition if it wasn't for Luke begging him to come.
"You cold?"
Luke turned his head at the question. "Uh, no…."
He met Sandy's eyes in the rearview mirror, the man's expression indicating that he had all but forgotten someone was in the backseat.
Luke felt his cheeks flush and vowed not to speak again for the rest of the ride. It only added to his uneasiness that he wasn't able to see or hear friend's silent responses.
Sandy reached over and flipped the knob controlling the air conditioning to the 'off' position.
Silence persisted for several minutes. Everyone was quiet for their own reasons, and it was obvious that small talk was out of the question. After riding a long stretch of highway, a high pitched ring broke the peace.
Sandy's eyes shot to the passenger to his right as he fumbled with his cell.
"Hello?"
Luke shifted, the leather creaking beneath his weight. His ankle, awkwardly arranged in limited leg room of the cramped backseat, had been aching for quite some time, but he'd avoided drawing any attention to himself by shuffling around. The phone call had been a blessing, and he took advantage of the opportunity to reposition, hoping it would alleviate the discomfort for most of what remained of the trip.
"We're about forty-five minutes away, honey."
In front of Luke, the blond hair moved slightly, followed by a weak cough. Sandy eyed Ryan, concern written across his face, but turned back to face the road, nodding at whatever he was hearing through his cell.
"I know. We'll talk about this when I get home." He ran a hand over his face as he flipped his phone shut, casting quick glances at Ryan while maneuvering through traffic.
"You all right?"
"Yeah."
Luke was relieved to finally hear Ryan's voice, even if it was just a strained whisper.
"When we get home, keep in mind that soccer is the devil. My lovely wife's exact words."
Luke let out a small laugh, relieved that the mood had been lightened. If Sandy could joke around, things probably weren't that bad. Ryan would be fine.
"Did we win, at least?" Ryan's voice was quiet, but stronger. Sandy met Luke's eyes in the mirror again with a questioning arc of his eyebrows.
"Uh, yeah, man," Luke stammered, leaning forward so that he didn't have to speak too loud to be heard over the engine. "Johnny was so pissed, he was like a really little mad man. No one could've caught him. Scored the winner."
"Johnny? Mad man?" There was a tinge of humor in Ryan's voice, and Luke felt his entire body relaxing.
"I know, I could barely believe my eyes."
"And Johnson…."
Why? Why all of a sudden does he care about that prick?
"What about Johnson?" Luke didn't want to sound mad, but recognized that despite his best efforts, his anger shone through. Sandy gave him a warning glare, protectively glancing at Ryan out of the corner of his eye.
"Nothing happened?" Ryan's voice had dropped back down to a whisper, his pain and exhaustion apparent.
"You mean between him and Rickard?" Luke asked with a sigh, unsure of what, exactly, Ryan was asking. "No. That lunatic was kicked out…for obvious reasons."
Silence filled the car once again. The blond hair returned to its position from earlier and Luke let his gaze drift out the window again, assuming the conversation was over for the time being.
"Are you gonna tell me why? Why did that kid come after you?"
Upon hearing Sandy's question, a bolt of panic surged through Luke's chest. Somehow, he knew this entire mess was his fault.
"I don't know…." Ryan's whispered response shook audibly.
Much to Luke's surprise, Sandy kept pressing, his lawyer instincts overruling his concern. "Well if you do know something, as your lawyer, I want to know."
Luke felt a mixture of relief and guilt when there was no response.
The light turned green. Sandy shook his head and sighed, returning his attention to the road as he stepped on the gas.
Luke pushed aside his fears for the time being, his own curiosity suddenly driving him to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. Things didn't add up. Ryan was holding back on something. "But he was headed for Johnson. Why did you save Johnson's ass?"
Sandy's eyes were visible in the mirror, but Luke avoided contact this time around. Instead, he kept his gaze set on the blond hair in front of him.
"Because…Johnson's just like you."
The words were so quiet that Luke immediately questioned whether or not he'd heard them correctly. That couldn't be right. That was insane.
Baffled, he shook his head. "What?"
Ryan coughed painfully, followed by a shaky, shallow sigh. "Nevermind…."
Luke felt back against the seat with a frustrated sigh. After that comment, he wasn't sure he'd ever understand his friend.