Then I asked her the question I’d been wondering about for the last two hours. “Do you know if we won?”

“We did. Genevieve scored in the last three minutes.”

Well at least this crap hadn’t been in vain. “That’s great,” I said.

“It sure is. She’s the next generation, isn’t she?”

The next generation. She was only five years younger than me, for the love of crap. It wasn’t like I was about to croak or needed to invest in a wheelchair anytime soon, jeez.

“Yeah, she is,” I gritted out, annoyed. I wondered if she knew what Cordero was planning.

We looked at each other awkwardly, at a loss for what else to say.

She smiled and glanced at the door. “Well, if there’s not anything else, I should head back now. I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“I’ll leave my number on the pad over here in case you need me, and I’ll make sure your bag gets picked up,” she assured.

I somehow smiled using only the minimal amount of facial muscles. “Thanks, Sheena.”

She left, and I sat there in the quiet room alone, finally letting myself think about how much this concussion sucked ass. I knew what was going to happen. They were going to make me sit out of practice, and at least one game depending on what the doctor suggested and what the Pipers’ trainer decided.

I would have hung my head low except I knew it would be painful. Sure I didn’t want to die; I understood how important it was to put my health first. But when it came down to it, this was the last thing I freaking needed. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Ugh.

One minute of wallowing was what I usually allowed myself. I made the most of it.

As soon as the sixty seconds were over, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was lucky my injury wasn’t worse. I could have died, right? In the end, this concussion wasn’t the end of the world.

Then I reached over and grabbed the phone next to the bed, even though it made me a little dizzy; I dialed my mom’s number first. When she didn’t answer, I left her a voicemail, and then called my dad who I knew would have been watching the game at home. Dad could have been in church and still found a way to watch my game. He always did.

“Hello?” he practically shouted into the phone.

“Dad, it’s me, Sal.”

That time he did yell, away from the phone at least, saying something that sounded like “It’s her!” in Spanish. “Are you okay?” he asked in that worried tone only fathers were capable of.

“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just a concussion,” I assured him.

He spat out some more curse words in Spanish, and I could faintly hear my mom in the background telling him to control himself. “I almost fainted, you can ask your mom,” he exaggerated. “You’re really okay? No brain damage?”

“No brain damage, I promise I’m all right. I wanted to call and tell you before you booked a plane ticket here. I’ll survive.”

Dad let out an audible exhale. “Gracias a Dios. You get that hardhead from your mother—“

Mom screeched something in the background, and I had to fight the urge to laugh.

“Save your jokes for tomorrow. I don’t have my phone on me, but I’ll make sure to call you as soon as I get my things back. If you need anything, I’m staying at the…” I looked around and gave him the name of the hospital printed on the whiteboard in front of the bed. “I really am okay though, so don’t worry, and tell Mom I tried to call her but she didn’t answer.”

“Si, esta bien. Call me as soon as they release you. I love you. If you need me, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”