I'd Excuse Murder | Santana Lopez

27

A/N: Who's here?

XXXX

The waiting room was the worst place for her right now. Sam had stared Santana down most of the time she'd waited here, not counting him mumbling about not knowing she was even friends with Valerie the four hours before then. It didn't surprise her when Sam had priority to enter the room with Quinn because he had a stronger connection with the family than she did.

This was exactly what she worried about. Valerie could be dead, and no one took the time to update Santana on her well-being. No one cared because they didn't know she was close to throwing up, replaying the exact moment Valerie went limp on the field. The sound of her pads colliding with the other player, her helmet thumping over the sad, painted grass—it was all too much.

Again and again.

Slam. Thud. Flop. Touchdown. Silence.

Screams.

The seconds of peace in Valerie's eyes when she saw Santana laying on the grass with her was the last hope the ex-cheerleader was clinging to.

Her knee bounced anxiously in the room's corner, eyes darting to every doctor that entered the waiting area. Anyone that looked like Judy, Frannie, or Quinn. She was even close to crying when she spotted Russel rushing in with a genuine worried expression and straight through the closing elevator doors, most likely to the floor he knew his critical daughter was on. Santana's eyes were puffy and bloodshot, exhausted from the day before, and now this. The waiting was the hardest part—waiting to know if she was okay. Waiting to know if Valerie would remember Santana chose her over the Cheerios.

"Mija?"

Santana looked up in surprise when her mother's voice spoke up. She was still in her work uniform, kneeling in front of her to brush the mess of makeup under her eyes with a quick thumb.

"Judy called me and said you were still here." Maribel rubbed her daughter's knees. She looked around and frowned. "Did everyone leave?"

Looking down, Santana nodded. She didn't trust her voice.

Maribel sighed and took the seat directly beside her daughter. She rubbed her hand and pressed her lips to her forehead.

"Let's wait for the news at home." She insisted, rubbing her daughter's knuckles. "You must be exhausted after going through what you did with Miss Sylvester," she said, rubbing her daughter's knuckles. "Your father and I are already going to talk to the school about her throwing you girls out—"

"I picked the glee club. I quit on my own." Santana's shoulders fell. "But I... I was still too late."

"Too late?" Maribel frowned deeply when her daughter curled into herself and silently let her tears fall to her muddy Cheerios shoes. She can't remember a time Santana let her uniform get so dirty; covered in mud and green grass stains. "Oh, Mija, honey. What's wrong?"

"I was too late." Santana burrowed her head in her hands, shaking her head. "Mami, I could have done something and now she's here."

"Valerie?" Maribel's brows raised in surprise. "You're upset about Valerie? I thought you hated Valerie Fabray."

Santana's knee trembled with sorrow, the sound of her tears growing louder. Maribel's heart ached as she leaned over, enveloping her sixteen-year-old in a tender embrace. She whispered sweet words in her ear, hoping to calm her like she did when Cheerios become too stressful, or family drama hurt more than usual. Maribel never needed to be this concerned about Santana's wellbeing. She had always been a tough as nails child with a tongue sharper than cut steel.