I'm on my feet before I even know it, my heart almost in my throat.
I'm already running down the bleachers and across the field toward him.
God, please, let him be okay.
By the time I reach the sideline, one of the coaches and half the team are already around him.
I reach him just as he props himself up on one arm. He pulls off his helmet and tries to brush it off with a grin, but there's blood running from the spot where his eyebrow piercing used to be, and he's holding his left arm tight against his chest.
I make my way through the circle. "Zayn. You okay?" I ask breathlessly.
He sees the worry on my face, and his grin fades. "I'm okay," he murmurs gently.
I lower myself to the grass beside him and look down at his wounded arm. "How badly does it hurt?"
He reaches out with his
