Love Heals

Stevie grimaced as he watched Emilio fall, time seemingly slowed, almost to a halt until the big man’s body hit the soft terrain beneath their feet. He yelped as he clung to his ankle, the same one that had robbed him of his chance to play throughout the season. Stevie blinked, hoping this was just his mind playing tricks on him; but the referees blow of the whistle made it all to real. Yes, this was indeed happening before his very eyes, and not for the first time. He forgot all aspects of the match as he sprinted to his best friend’s side, one look into the man’s face said more than a thousand words ever could. By just catching a glimpse of the agony brandished across Emilio’s face, Stevie feverishly waved the medical staff over. Seeing as he was in good hands, he leaned down and pressed his warm palm to his face.

“You’re going to be fine, Emilio. I promise.” He soothed, not entirely sure if he was telling him this to comfort him, or to reassure his self.

“Hurts.” Was all Emilio could manage to get out between the sharp intakes of breath, and the whimpers that crawled up his throat as he rocked back and forth in disturbing throes. Stevie clinched his fists.

“I know, but you’re strong. This is nothing you can’t handle, Milo.” He wiped the sweat from his team mate’s face before standing, and giving a disapproving look to the culprit. Quincy Amarikwa. Husidic was already making his way towards the forward, and without much thought, Stevie joined up with him. He knew his gaze was heated, though it was only doing it’s job of reflecting exactly what he felt. He was angry, he was furious, and so help him God if the bas*ard claimed it wasn’t his fault. He knew injuries happened, yes. But how coincidental could it be to hurt someone who just came off injury, in the same exact place? Accident? He wasn’t going to buy that. The Forward had done it on purpose, he reasoned. Even if every sense of logic in his head told him he was being paranoid; he needed someone to blame. He needed a scapegoat to lash out on.

“What the hell is your problem?” Husidic grilled as they approached Quincy Amarikwa, his team mate’s thick accent did little to hide his anger. Stevie’s hands were begging to be used in some sort of violent manner, but he restrained himself. Knowing Emilio would be furious with him if he got sent off on his accord. No matter how much he wanted to.

“I didn’t do anything, it’s his fault he is hurt.” Quincy stated with little to no emotion on the subject, Stevie gripped his arm.

“That’s not true, you know it, and so do I.” He seethed, his hand tightening around the mans arm, Husidic gripped Stevie’s shoulder and pulled him back, making him relinquish his grip.

“So? What if I did mean to do it? Does it matter now? He is out of the match, and we still have time on the clock. Time to finish this, yes?” Quincy’s devilish grin made Stevie’s blood boil. He wanted to strangle him, wanted to make him plead for forgiveness, but that wasn’t who Stevie was; and he wouldn’t give the other man the pleasure of releasing that side of him. Through gritted teeth, he called Husidic over to him.

“No matter what, don’t let them near our goal. Take ’em out if you have too. We have to win this. I’m not letting that sick bas*ard have any glory, not today.” He mumbled under his breath, hoping no one else heard him.

“For Emilio? Count me in.” Husidic agreed, before jogging back to his field position. Stevie glanced towards the sidelines. Watching his best friend’s face contort into raw fear, closely intertwined with searing pain. Stevie cursed before returning to his own spot.

“Yeah, for Emilio.” He murmured to no one in particular. As the match resumed, it all felt like a blur. Something happened in their box, Amarikwa lashed out against the ball by kicking it out of play, and Stevie had to fight the urge to laugh as he was promptly sent off for said actions. He did, however, catch the other man’s eyes and they narrowed as he turned and walked off of the pitch, head hung low in mock shame. The play resumed again, this time, their attack came back to bite them. Husidic’s shot hit the post; and ricocheted back to the feet of the opposing team. Stevie felt his breath hitch as he sprinted down the field. He made brief eye contact with Husidic, who then sprinted at a speed the other man didn’t know he could, before pulling the attacker towards the ground. He knew he’d get a yellow card for it, so it didn’t come as a surprise.

“Taking one for the team.” Husidic claimed as he jogged to meet back up with Stevie and the others. The free kick came, shot was made, and successfully countered by Bingham, and before the corner could be given; the final whistle blew the iconic three chimes. It was over.

Stevie gave Husidic a quick hug, and muttered a quiet, “Thank you,” in his friends ear. In which his team mate did nothing but nod his head. After a few simple waves to the crowd, he spotted Emilio limping off the sidelines and into the tunnel, medics close by.

“Uhh…” Emilio groaned when Stevie caught up to him, just in time as his footsteps faltered. The medics sat him on a chair, Emilio’s head fell back as they poked at his foot, tears that had threatened to show on the pitch finally fell freely. Stevie wiped them away before anyone noticed. He knew how much pride the MLS star carried, how he hated anyone even feeling sympathy for him, and he didn’t want to make this any worse than it needed to be for him.

“Sh*t!” Emilio surged forward when one of the medics pressed a finger, too deep, into the wrong spot. The medic just blinked, and shook his head, before continuing to examine the forwards leg; Stevie felt his blood boil for the second time that night.

“Would you stop doing that?” He hissed, earning confused stares from the teams physicians. “Clearly, he’s in pain. Put ice on it, give him some medicine, and let him have scans done in the morning. Stop agitating the injury, isn’t that what you always told us to do?” His banter didn’t fall on deaf ears, thankfully, when the medic dropped his hold, carefully, from the soccer players leg.

“He’s right, we got ahead of ourselves. We’re just worried of the extent of it, considering he just came back from injury. Get some ice, and the pain killers; and let’s get him home for the night. Emilio, come to the center’s facility in the morning for tests. For tonight, just take it easy. No walking on it, do you hear me?” The eldest of the men gave Emilio a stern look, as he scowled.

*****

“Is God trying to tell me something?” Emilio asked Rachel miserably as they lay in bed that night, “Am I not supposed to play again?”

Rachel put down the book she’d been pretending to read, “Milo, just a few weeks ago you told me you were happy just to have me, soccer or no soccer. Is that still true?”

Emilio grinned wryly in spite of himself, “Well that’s paraphrasing a bit,” he murmured.

“Yeah but as a physiotherapist, and not to get ahead of the doctor, it just seems like a sprain. You’ll probably be good in a week. But if you get into this space where you start to think the world is out to get you, it’ll probably be a self fulfilling prophesy.”

Emilio was silent for a while.

“You know when David Beckham injured his hamstring Victoria agreed to have another child with him,” he said.

Rachel laughed, “And?” she asked.

“Aaand, maybe you and me can-“ he began with a naughty grin.

“Dude,” she interrupted, “Put a ring on it first.”

Emilio laughed out loud, “You got it.”

The end.