Free The Beast by Patrick Hueller Page A

he does whenever he’s mad or sad or worried or excited. I wonder what he is this time. Mad? Sad? Worried?
    â€œSure thing, Coach,” I tell him. I try to sit up but can’t. Vicki’s holding me down with her forearm.
    â€œNot so fast,” she says and then makes a peace sign with her free hand. She asks me how many fingers she’s holding up. When I tell her two, she orders me to wiggle my fingers and toes. Finally, she moves her arm and lets me sit up. A wave of wooziness nearly splashes over me again.
    It’s only now that I realize how confused I am. Why is it so bright? Why are my teammates circled around me? Why am I sitting on the field?
    â€œDid I faint?” I wonder out loud.
    â€œYou can’t remember what happened?” Vicki says.
    â€œYou had your bell rung, Duncan,” Coach Berg says. He taps his temple so I know my bell is my head. “Happens to the best of us. Think you can finish the game?”
    â€œSure, Coach,” but nodding yes sends another wave of wooziness crashing over me. I have to press my palms into the ground behind me to stay sitting up.
    â€œThere’s no way you’re finishing the game, Alyssa,” Vicki says. She’s talking to me, but her eyes are on Coach, and she looks pretty mad. “You had a concussion. We’re going to get you to the hospital, okay?”
    I know better than to nod my head again.
    â€œCan your parents drive you?”
    I know better than to shake my head too.
    â€œYour dad?”
    I just say “no,” because it’s easier than saying he died when I was two.
    â€œMom?”
    â€œAt work,” I say.
    â€œWell, I’m sure we can find someone who—”
    â€œI’ll do it,” a voice offers.
    I turn my head slowly to see that Ruth Middleton, one of our backup players, is standing next to me.
    â€œI was thinking someone from the stands, Ruth,” Vicki says. “You’re in the middle of a game.”
    â€œI don’t mind,” she says. Under her breath, she adds, “Don’t have anything else to do.”
    â€œCoach?” Vicki says. “Can you spare Ruth for the last few minutes of the game?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” he says a little too quickly. “I mean, whatever’s best for Alyssa we should do, right?”
    â€œThen it’s settled,” Vicki says. “Before you go, Alyssa, do you have any questions?”
    Just one. “When will I get to play again?”
    Vicki crouches next to me, puts my arm over her shoulder, and helps me stand up. “That’s for the doctor to decide,” she replies.

D r. Lopez is explaining my condition when a nurse pokes her head into the room and tells me I have a visitor. By the giddy way she says it, I know who’s about to step into the room. Rick Morris can turn even middle-aged women into teenage admirers—especially when he’s wearing a formfitting Under Armour shirt.
    â€œHey, babe,” he says. “My club game ended early, so I stopped by your game. Everyone told me I’d find you here.”
    â€œHere I am,” I say.
    â€œSaw Ruth in the lobby and told her I’d give you a ride home.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œSo this is the right room?” the nurse says, her eyes glued to my boyfriend’s pecs. She probably expected to find a magazine model posing on the hospital bed. Instead of a beauty, she found a beast.
    â€œYep,” I tell the nurse, “you’ve come to the right place.” I turn to Dr. Lopez and ask, “Anything else?”
    â€œNo, I suppose not.” Then she adds, “Just be careful, Alyssa. Concussions are very, very serious. Don’t even think about stepping onto the soccer field until all your symptoms are gone. I want to see you again in a week, okay?”
    â€œYou’re the boss,” I tell her.
    â€œFollow me, Nurse Bennett,” she says on her way out. “We have other