Take My Advice

Chapter Thirteen

            “So, why are we here?” Dylan asked. “We aren’t really sit-in-the-bleachers-and-gawk-at-the-football-players types.”

            “Jill wants to rub it in to Bruce that she got the lead in the play,” Amanda informed him, and his eyes lit up.

            “Ooooo, revenge. I do love revenge.”

            Bruce seemed to be moving slower now, which really stunk because I was waiting for him to make it back to this side of the field so I could talk to him. I’m not the most patient person—if that’s not obvious by now—and I could swear he was slowing down on purpose just to mock me. But then his arms went around his stomach and he fell onto the ground. I watched, not breathing for a second, and then I stood up and screamed.

            “Coach!”

            Coach turned from where he was drilling the team and looked at me, then followed my point. He took off at a sprint across the grass, pulling a cell phone from his pocket while he ran to Bruce’s side.

            “What . . .  what’s going on?” I asked, my mouth numb and barely able to form the words.

            Amanda tucked her arm through mine, not saying anything. Dylan trotted down the bleachers and out onto the field, calling out something to Coach.

            “What is he doing?” I asked, clutching Amanda’s fingers.

            “He’s lifeguard trained or something.”

            “But we’re not at the pool.”

            “Mostly it’s the same stuff.”

            We stood there and watched as Coach and then Dylan spoke to Bruce, who hadn’t moved since he’d collapsed. He was talking, though, and that had to be a good sign, right? The football team waited awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, and I could see from the looks on their faces that they wished they could help, but didn’t have any clue what to do. I felt exactly the same way.

            A few very long minutes passed, and then we heard the sound of a siren coming closer and then stopping at the gates to the field. Two paramedics dashed across the grass, carrying small suitcases. They knelt down next to Bruce, and Coach and Dylan moved back. Dylan looked our way and shrugged exaggeratedly so we’d know that he didn’t have any idea what was going on.

            A few minutes later, Bruce was loaded up on a stretcher and the ambulance pulled away, the siren going again. Coach wiped his hand across his face and returned to the team. He spoke to them, and one of the players pulled off his helmet and threw it on the ground. That was never a good sign.

            Dylan walked toward us slowly, and Amanda’s fingers tightened on mine. “What’s wrong?” she called out as soon as he was within earshot. He didn’t answer until he was closer.

            “They think it’s his appendix,” he said, plunking back down on the bench beside us. We sat too—my knees weren’t going to hold me up another second.

            “That was so freaky,” I said, squeezing my hands together. “I’ve never seen anyone just go down like that.”

            “Is he going to be okay?” Amanda asked.

            Dylan shrugged again. “They couldn’t say so soon. They asked Coach to contact Bruce’s family, and that’s all I know.”