The doctor’s words hung in the sterile air of the waiting room, heavy and suffocating.
The next twenty-four hours are critical.
The world outside the hospital doors ceased to exist.
There was no Apex United, no CostMart, no rivalry with Leo.
There was only the relentless, agonizing crawl of the clock on the wall and the suffocating fear that his mother might not wake up.
They sat in a silent, miserable huddle on the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
His father stared blankly at the floor, a hollowed-out shell of the man who had been so full of life just hours ago.
Sarah was a pillar of forced strength, making necessary phone calls to family members, her voice a strained, robotic monotone that threatened to shatter with every word.
And Ethan... Ethan just felt a profound, crushing guilt. Check latest chapters at ɴovelfire.net
He kept replaying the day in his mind. He had been so consumed by his two worlds—the thrill of his first league victory, the anxiety of his first work shift.
While he was celebrating a virtual goal, his mother had been lying on the kitchen floor. While he was proudly stacking cereal boxes, she was being rushed to the hospital.
His father’s words from the day before echoed in his head:
It’s time to start contributing to the real world, son.
He had tried, but he had failed. He had been late for his job and absent for his family when it mattered most.
He stared at his hands. These were the hands that had just navigated a complex transfer deal, the hands that directed a team of professional athletes.
But here, in the face of real crisis, they were utterly useless.
Hours bled into one another. The bright, clinical lights of the waiting room gave way to the dim, lonely glow of the late-night hours.
His father had fallen into a restless, exhausted sleep, his head slumped against the wall. Sarah sat beside him, her eyes red-rimmed but wide awake, a silent, sleepless guardian.
Ethan felt a desperate need for an anchor, a connection to the world outside this bubble of fear.
He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen.
There was only one person he could call.
He stepped out into the deserted hallway and dialed Leo’s number.
"Ethan? It’s like three in the morning. Is everything okay?" Leo’s voice was thick with sleep, but instantly alert.
"No," Ethan’s voice cracked, the single word unleashing the dam of emotion he had been holding back. "It’s my mom. She... she had an accident. We’re at the hospital."
"Which one?" Leo asked immediately, all traces of sleep gone from his voice. "I’m on my way."
"Leo, you don’t have to—"
"I’m on my way," Leo repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He hung up.
Less than thirty minutes later, Leo walked into the waiting room, looking rumpled but wide awake. He didn’t say much.
He just handed Ethan a warm bottle of water and a squashed-looking chocolate bar before giving his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. He then sat down in the chair next to him, a quiet, solid presence in the overwhelming silence.
They sat like that for what felt like an eternity.
"You want to talk about it?" Leo asked softly after a while.
Ethan just shook his head, unable to form the words.
"Okay," Leo said. "Then let’s go on a quest. A noble quest. For the worst coffee this hospital has to offer."
He pulled Ethan to his feet and led him down the deserted corridors to a sad-looking vending machine.
The absurdity of it, the sheer normalcy of the act, was enough to break the spell of Ethan’s silent misery.
"Got any change?" Leo asked, patting his pockets.
Ethan just stared at the machine. "She was standing on a chair, Leo. To get a stupid jar from a shelf. I should have been there. I should have helped her."
"Hey," Leo said, turning to face him, his expression serious. "Stop that. Right now. Was it your job to know she was going to get a jar down? Was it your fault the chair slipped? No. It was an accident. A horrible, stupid accident. That’s all."
"But I was in the game," Ethan whispered, the guilt pouring out of him. "I was winning 2-0. I was celebrating. And she was..."
"You were living your life," Leo finished for him. "You’re allowed to do that. You can’t be everywhere at once. This is not on you, Ethan. Not even a little bit."
They bought two cups of a substance that only vaguely resembled coffee and went back to the waiting room.
They talked in hushed tones, not just about his mom, but about everything.
About Leo’s first league match (a gritty 1-0 win), about Liam’s surprisingly detailed scouting reports, about the absurdity of Mr. Henderson and the cereal aisle. Leo didn’t offer platitudes or easy answers.
He just listened. He was a real friend.
As the first, faint hint of dawn began to gray the dark windows, exhaustion finally claimed them. Ethan dozed off, his head falling against Leo’s shoulder, a mirror image of his father and sister a few chairs down. He slept a dreamless, heavy sleep, the kind that only comes after the body and mind have nothing left to give.
He was woken by a gentle shake. It was Sarah.
The sun was up, casting long, hopeful rays down the hospital corridor.
Standing in front of them was the doctor, Dr. Evans. Her face was grim.
Ethan, Leo, and his father were instantly awake, scrambling to their feet.
"Dr. Evans," his father said, his voice raspy. "Any news? Is she...?"
"She’s stable," the doctor began, and a collective, shaky sigh of relief went through the family. "Her vital signs are holding steady. The initial swelling on her brain has started to recede, which is a very positive sign."
"Oh, thank God," Sarah whispered, tears of relief welling in her eyes.
"So she’s going to wake up soon?" Ethan asked, a desperate hope surging in his chest.
Dr. Evans hesitated. Her expression was different now—not just tired, but deeply puzzled.
She looked down at her clipboard, then back at them, her brow furrowed in a way that sent a fresh chill down Ethan’s spine.
"That’s the part that we don’t understand," she said slowly, her voice laced with a confusion that was far more terrifying than bad news.
"The concussion from the fall is healing as we’d expect," she continued, looking each of them in the eye. "But that’s not what’s keeping her unconscious."