Cinderella Sidelined (3 page)

Blaine tries to get up but stumbles and falls back down, causing Richie and Stella to giggle harder next to me. Even I'm struggling not to laugh as Andrea's look of terror grows and Blaine laughs.

"Bro, you turtled yourself," Richie says, and Stella lets out a high-pitched cackle.
 

Blaine finally gets to his feet, the big fake tree never to be the same again. Andrea tries to pick it up, but it's too heavy for her and she gets it a few inches off the ground before it crashes back down to the floor.

And even I can't contain my laughter anymore.

Another Friday night, another party, another evening with my friends and my crazy, hot drunk boyfriend.

As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to complain about. Life is good, and most days, it feels like it's only going to get better.
 

CHAPTER THREE

My uniform is on, kneepads pulled up and my long hair tied back into a ponytail. It's just another Monday afternoon with another game for the volleyball team.

It's all routine at this point in the season. We're a good team and we just have to make it through the regular season before the conference playoffs. Should be a total breeze.
 

I'm leaving the locker room by myself, tightening my ponytail holder, when Coach Morris pokes her head out of her neighboring office and asks me to come in for a minute.

"Sure," I say, plopping down in my favorite blue leather chair next to her metal desk. "What's up, Coach?" I frown slightly when she closes the door behind her.

"Everything okay?" I ask, trying to keep the worry out of my voice, but it's hard. Coach Morris is notorious for her open-door policy, and in the four years I've been playing for her, she's never shut the door on us before. Not even when she wanted my opinion as captain on how cutting Marcie Lucas might affect the team's chemistry.

"Emma," she says, sitting in her desk chair and pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "I know how long and hard you've worked at volleyball for your whole life."
 

Already, I'm not liking the ominous words coming out of Coach Morris' mouth. I search her face for any sign of what's coming next -- because, let's face it, this sounds like the perfect start to my volleyball career's eulogy -- but I can't read her.

Which is also totally weird.

"Okayyy," I say slowly, drawing out the word, and she holds up her hand to stop me.
 

"We both know you have great offers from some wonderful volleyball schools," she continues. "Ones that most athletes would do anything for."
 

I bite down on my lip, trying to keep myself from impatiently telling her to get to the freakin' point already. It's not like our game starts in twenty minutes or anything.

"Emma, what's the one thing that's been missing for you?"
 

"A scholarship from UMT."

"Exactly. Not anymore."
 

I'm about to ask her what she's getting at when her words hit me.

"W-wait."
 

Coach Morris nods. "Yes."
 

"But when? How? Why?"
 

She smiles like she's been waiting for this flood of questions to pour out of me. "Take a deep breath. It happened this morning."
 

"And you're just telling me now?"

"Tech's coach wanted to wait until after the game tonight to offer you," she says. "But I couldn't keep it from you. Promise me you'll act surprised."

"Coach! Omigod! Yes, of course, I promise!" I squeal, jumping out of the chair. "Michigan Tech? You mean it? Michigan Tech? This is really happening?" I look around the small office in a panic. "This isn't some kind of cruel senior prank thing, is it? 'Cause that would really suck."
 

She laughs. "No, Emma, it's not. You earned this."

I start laughing, too, probably because I have no idea how to react, no idea what to feel. Shock, joy, overwhelming excitement, fear, maybe even some nausea -- it's all running through me now.

This is everything I've always wanted and now it's happening.

Michigan Tech.

I'm going to play volleyball at Michigan Tech.

Me. Emma Thompson.

I'm a Hornet!

It's hard not to start jumping up and down like a six-year-old who's just gotten a brand-new Barbie doll.

"Smile, Emma!" Coach Morris exclaims. "Enjoy it."
 

I let out one big shriek and then clap my hand over my mouth as she chuckles. "Okay, I'm good," I say. "We've got a game in ten. I'm gonna head out to the court."
 

Coach gets to her feet and wraps me up in a hug, one of several she's given me over the years as she's become more like a good friend than a coach.
 

"Go play your game," she says as I walk out of her office.

***

We're flying.

Or at least, I am.
 

The match is well into the second set now after we won the first, 25-18, and we're up 13-7 now. All in all, things are looking pretty damn good for the Ashland Eagles this afternoon.

The ball is back on our side and it's my turn in the rotation to serve. I grab it from the official and head back behind the service line.
 

It took years for me to be able to do a jump serve -- where you start several feet from the line, run up, toss the ball and smack it over the net all while you're in the air, but it's the only way for me to go, and I do it now. There's something so magical about those few precious seconds from launch to landing while I'm in the air, practically floating, as I track the ball.

It's one of the best parts about volleyball.

My hand connects with the ball and propels it over the net with so much force and so much topspin that it fools the girl waiting to pass it and it falls harmlessly to the court.

Ace.

And a point for us.

"Nice serve, Em!" Stella grins at me from the setter's position closer to the net.
 

The ball comes back to me and I get ready for the next serve. I run forward and again, whack the ball right over the net, but this time, the other team is ready for it, and one of their girls manages to hit it for their setter, who pushes it up in the air.

I'm watching their hitters as both girls go up from the left, and I'm certain the one on the outside is going to take the spike.
 

She does, slamming the ball down toward the court. I charge after it but don't see Marybeth hurrying toward it with the same idea.

"Em, no!" Stella's warning reaches me too late.

Wham.

Marybeth and I collide on the court -- and that's when I hear it.

The noise buzzes through my head like someone's holding a chainsaw up to my ear, like a car crash is happening right in front of me.
 

I know it's real and I know it's bad, but it doesn't feel like it's happening to me, but more like it's happening around me.

Except you don't forget the sound your bones make when they crack.
 

It doesn't hurt, not at first, anyway.
 

The sound of the splitting bone fades and gives way to -- to nothing. Silence. The entire gym is hushed until someone breaks the peace with bloodcurdling screams.

I look around to see who's making these godawful sounds so I can ask them to shut up and let me think.

Oh.

They're coming from me.

"Emma, oh my God, oh my God." Marybeth crawls over to me. "Are you okay? Oh my God."
 

I shake my head like that will help me figure out what the heck is going on. "I -- uh -- am I?"
 

"Coach!" Marybeth's screams join mine as my teammates drop onto the court next to me.
 

Only Stella stays standing a few feet behind the group. Her eyes meet mine and she doesn't look away, but she doesn't have to.

The look on her face says it all.

This is most definitely real.

And it's most definitely happening to me.

The numbness is starting to give way to splitting, unimaginable pain.

And I'm pretty sure wrists aren't supposed to dangle the way mine is right now.

Stella's shocked, saddened face is the last thing I see before everything starts to blur and the gym around me goes dark.
 

***

Honk! Honk, honk, honk!

The sound of a horn blaring is the first thing I hear when the world comes back to me. I don't know if it's been five seconds, twenty minutes, six hours or twelve days since I was spread out on the volleyball court, but my head pounds like I've just chugged six straight shots of tequila without any help.

"What the -- " I mutter as I struggle to sit up and look around.

Mom and Dad are in the front of her SUV and I'm staring up at the ceiling across the backseat. Mom immediately turns around and leans toward me, her face just inches from mine, blurry for a few seconds then eventually giving way to something more normal.

I let out a small sigh. Whatever's going on, it's nice to know I can still see, at least.

"Mom, back up," I tell her as I finally make my way to a sitting position. I turn and put my feet on the floor, and I'm about to reach for my bag when Mom's high-pitched shriek fills my head like a warning shot.

"Emma, doesn't it hurt?" she asks, looking at me like she can't believe I'd even think to move around.

"What? Doesn't what hurt?"

Mom exchanges some kind of look with my dad, which isn't that easy considering he's behind the wheel.

"Honey, your wrist. Doesn't it hurt?"
 

I glance down at my arms for the first time and I'm surprised to see my right wrist -- my serving wrist -- is bright red and looks as though someone's blown up a helium balloon underneath the skin.

"That can't be good," I mutter.

"Don't you remember what happened?" she asks, and I think back before shaking my head.

"Last thing I know is Coach was telling me about my scholarship to UMT." I already feel the smile forming on my face just thinking about it. "Hey, did she tell you that? They offered me. I'm gonna be a Hornet."
 

Mom swallows and tries to smile, but it isn't really working. "Emma," she says, turning in her seat so she's totally facing me. "Honey, we think it's broken."
 

"Mom, jeez, you're talking like I wrecked the Mustang." Dad makes a huffing noise at the thought of his baby getting into a wreck. He only lets me drive it when I come home with straight A's -- so really not all that often.

Freakin' chemistry.

We pull up outside the emergency room at the hospital, which cuts the conversation short and leaves me with more questions than answers.

Dad gets out of the car and is back in minutes with a wheelchair.

"What's that for?" I ask as I slide across the backseat toward the door.

He stares at me. "You can't be serious."
 

"You want me to get in that thing?"
 

"I'm not going to carry you," he points out.

"Dad, are you crazy? I hurt my wrist, not my legs. I can walk fine."
 

"Emma, you passed out from the pain," he shoots back. "Get in the chair." Dad reaches into the car and scoops me out of the SUV, dropping me in the wheelchair before I even know what's happening or have a chance to protest further. Mom grabs the back handles and starts pushing me inside.

"I'll meet you in there," Dad tells us as he hops back behind the wheel and drives off to park.

Mom wheels me right up to the admission stand in the emergency room -- at least, I think that's what it's called. This is my first trip to the hospital, so I'm kind of a newbie. She gives the triage nurse a run down of what happened and I guess it's not all that exciting because we're told to have a seat in the waiting room.

Fantastic.

"Oh, God," I blurt out as I study my wrist with the same kind of sick fascination I remember feeling when we dissected fetal pegs in eighth grade. "Marybeth."
 

Mom looks over at me hopefully. "Yes! You remember?"

I nod as a sense of queasiness floods through me. My stomach starts to clench, a sweat breaks out across my forehead and I feel like I'm going to hurl all over the squeaky linoleum floor as I relive my collision on the court with Marybeth Sanders for the first time: the serve, the set, the spike, Stella's warning shout.

Maybe if I puke, the doctor will see me faster.

How could this happen?

"Yeah," I say. "Oh, this isn't going to be good news."
 

Mom smiles. "You'll heal," she says at last. "We're just glad you're awake. You weren't passed out for very long."

"It's broken."

"We don't know that, Emma," Mom says, but I know that voice. It's the one she uses when she doesn't want us to worry about something, even if she's concerned herself. It's Mom voice. "Let's wait for the doctor."
 

I shake my head. "I don't need a doctor to tell me what I already know. How long does it take to recover from a broken wrist? Months? I can't lose the season. I just got the scholarship!"

"Emma Thompson?"

Before Mom can scold me for thinking of the worst case scenario without any real information, someone in green scrubs comes out of the swinging doors and glances up from a file folder, calling my name.

"That's us!" Mom jumps to her feet, pushing her purse back up her shoulder and swinging the wheelchair around toward the doors. I slump over, burying my head in my good hand as we go.

"This way."
 

The lady turns and holds open the doors and Mom wheels me through them into a world of crazy blinking machines and hospital beds and strange noises.

We go right into a room with an X-ray machine, and the nurse gets me loaded up onto the table, covered in that heavy bib to keep all the radiation out and scans my wrist.

"It's bad, right?" I ask her.
 

She shakes her head. "The doctor will see you soon. He'll go over your X-rays with you then."