I Pray To Be Only Yours

Final Game Part 2

Lilac

I pushed through the stunned crowd, my heart racing like a wild horse in my chest.

"Dylan!" I screamed his name, fear coating my voice like a thick fog.

The players parted like the Red Sea, allowing me to reach him, collapsed on the field, his hand cradling his wrist.

His eyes searched for mine, a storm of emotions brewing in their depths.

"Lilac," he gasped, his voice a ragged whisper that barely reached my ears over the din of the crowd.

Everyone was shouting, but all I heard was the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears.

I dropped my bag and knelt beside him, my eyes scanning his wrist with horror.

"Hold on," I murmured, my voice steady despite the panic threatening to drown me.

The tape was shredded, blood seeping through the fabric.

His eyes continued to search mine, the pain in them no longer just physical.

He was breaking, the cracks in his facade threatening to shatter completely.

With trembling hands, I gently peeled back the ruined tape, revealing a wound that was more than just skin deep.

"What have you done?" I whispered, the words catching in my throat as I took in the extent of his injury.

The medics rushed over, their footsteps thundering on the turf as I gently cradled Dylan's injured wrist.

He flinched as the cold air hit his exposed skin, his gaze never leaving mine.

The medical examiner took over, his hands gentle as he assessed the damage.

"It's a clean break," he said, his voice calm and steady. "We need to get him to the hospital, stat."

The health practitioner words barely registered as I stared at his wrist, the bone jutting out at an unnatural angle.

He winced as the physician touched it, but his gaze remained locked on mine, his eyes pleading for something more than just medical attention.

In that moment, with the stadium spinning around us, I knew what he needed.

I leaned in, my heart pounding in my chest, and pressed my lips to his.

It was a brief, feverish kiss, filled with more emotion than I had ever allowed myself to feel.

But in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing compared to the aftermath.

The moment our lips parted, the arena seemed to come back into focus.

Hails turned into whispers, and the whispers grew into a murmur that rippled through the mass of people.

Everyone had gone silent, the only sound the distant wail of an ambulance approaching.

Their eyes were on us, but I didn't care.

The mumbles grew louder, the stares more intense, until the sound of a man's footsteps echoed through the quiet.

He pushed through the crowd, his eyes never leaving the sight of his son, writhing in pain on the field.

Dylan's father, a towering figure in a tailored suit, emerged from the shadows of the bleachers, his face a mask of stoicism.

I felt a coldness seep into my bones as I recognized the unspoken judgment in his gaze.

My heart raced as I watched him approach, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.

Mr. Malon, was a man of few words, but his presence was felt like a storm on a calm sea.

His face was a thundercloud, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set as he approached the scene, the medics still hovering over Dylan's crumpled form.

"Move," he barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter.

They jumped at his command, their motion becoming more frantic as they
worked to stabilize Dylan's harmed wrist.

His eyes darted from Dylan to I and back again, his displeasure perceivable.

"Get him up," he ordered the medics, his voice a whip crack in the stillness.

They obeyed instantly, lifting Dylan with a gentleness that seemed almost at odds with the urgency of the situation.

"You're coming with us," he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down my spine.

The words hung in the air, a command rather than a question.

"Mr. Malon," I began, my voice trembling. "I'm not sure-"

He cut me off with a sharp look, his hand gesturing to the space next to Dylan in the ambulance.

I climbed in, my heart racing as the doors slammed shut behind me.

The ambulance lurched into motion, and I held onto the side rail for dear life as the world outside became a vague of illumination and hue.

I took his hand in mine, feeling the coolness of his skin, the pulse of his life beneath my fingertips.

"Lilac," he murmured, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine. "I'm sorry."

I squeezed his hand gently, trying to ignore the rage of Mr. Malon's glare from the corner of my eye.

The words that left his mouth next were like a bomb going off in the confined space of the ambulance.

"I'm in love with you," his voice was a hushed tone, but it seemed to fill the entire vehicle.

His father's eyes narrowed snapping to us, a tempest of fury and disbelief brewing in their depths.

But before I could respond, Dylan's eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went limp.

The world stopped.

Or at least, it felt like it.

Why would he say that now? In the chaos of the moment, the words "I'm in love with you"

I felt like I was in a nightmare, the kind where you're trying to run but your legs won't move.

"What did you just say?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sirens.

His eyes remained closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

I hate him.

The words echoed in my mind, a refrain that had been playing on repeat since the moment I heard his declaration.

I hate him for making me feel this way.

Laying his heart at my feet, bruised and bleeding, in a place where I couldn't ignore it.

For forcing my hand, making me confront feelings I wasn't ready to face.