Through the Flames

Through the Flames

by

Denise Bartlett

All rights reserved

Copyright © November 18, 2012, Denise Bartlett

Cover Art Copyright © 2012, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-119-5

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: December 7, 2012

Dedication

To the young men and women who play contact sports and the people who love them. A special thanks to my family and my friends at Marbridge Foundation and Mary Lee Foundation in Austin, Texas, who have shared their lives with me.

Author’s Note

Although this is a work of fiction, the materials used to diagnose and treat Larry’s condition are real. In the back of this book, I have included the links to the Heads Up Athlete’s Fact Sheet, to the BESS test and ACE form, plus many other links for students, parents, teachers and health professionals to find out more about concussions. Like us on Facebook: Through the Flames, A Novel: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Through-the-Flames-A-Novel/373584832727883

Prologue

Unnecessary Roughness

Friday, October 12th, 2nd Quarter, Homecoming Game

After fifteen seconds that seemed to last forever, Larry Allen saw Clay Beckmeyer break free from his coverage and turn downfield. Time to put it up there. Larry drew back, fired a perfect spiraling pass and smiled. Oh, yeah, that one just felt right.

He never saw the completion.

Wham! A helmet dug sharply into his back, blindsiding him in the ribs. Instinctively moving with the force of the other player, he hit the ground hard—pinned to the turf by 250 pounds of angry defender. The impact drove the air from his lungs; he saw stars hovering in a matte blackness and for a long moment, he struggled to breathe.

Pain. As he drew the first clear breath of ice cold air, a voice whispered low and harsh into his ear, Your mother is a slut, Allen. He felt a knee track and find the injured back and ribcage and punch it. The anger built in him and he shoved off the ground. The weight moved.

He twisted to see who had slammed him and met the glaring black eyes of Saunders, the big middle linebacker from Kendall, a star player from the opposing team. The other man turned and trotted away.

As Larry rolled onto his side, he realized his helmet had been partially ripped off. He became aware of the rhythm skipping a beat around him. The noise in the bleachers dropped significantly as the students and fans of Bobby Layne High School held their collective breath. The loudspeaker blared, Defensive penalty, number 26, Saunders. Roughing the passer, automatic first down. Larry Allen is still on the turf.

Larry lay there on the icy dirt and grass for the space of one more ragged breath, reached to pull the helmet straight. A big pair of shoes stopped in front of his face, filling his vision. He looked up; BJ, the center, stood there gazing down at him, his hand extended to help him up.

You okay? queried BJ, in his slow southern drawl, or do I call 9-1-1?

Can’t beat Kendall from here.

On his feet, he checked the sideline for the play and got a thumbs-up from the athletic trainer. He forced himself into a trot and moved to gather the offense into a close pack. Crouching on one knee in the middle of the circle of the offensive huddle, Larry added a touch of the frustration he felt to his tone and spoke loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. Time to show ’em how it’s done.

The announcer’s voice rang out over the crowd. The home team doesn’t have much time before the half, folks. Seven minutes left on the clock and neither team has scored. Layne has not been held to zero points in any game the last five seasons.

They broke the huddle and trotted to their positions. As he turned to line up behind BJ, Larry felt dizzy for a moment, stumbled and went down to one knee. He came back to his feet, but not before he heard, Time Out! from Coach Parker on the sidelines. He frowned, trotted to the sidelines and loosened his helmet. McKean, you’re in. Allen, take a break.

No, Coach! Larry exploded.

Get off the field. Follow Kelly.

But Coach, I’m okay. I just stumbled. Kendall wants me out of the game.

Of course they do, but you gotta get checked.

You never did this before! Please, Coach, you’ve let me stay in with worse than a stumble.

Don’t remind me—meet us in the locker room at the half. You’re wasting my time. Cut your losses and follow Kelly.

Fuming, Larry removed his helmet and followed the team doctor to the locker room. Morgan, one of the assistants, went along behind him.

Okay, let’s get on it, Larry. Doc Kelly pointed to the Heads Up Poster taped on the glass of his office door. Read me the symptoms and tell me which ones you have.

Larry frowned, Headaches isn’t fair—I had a headache when I got here.

So that’s a yes?

Yes, sir. Nausea or vomiting. No. Balance Problems or Dizziness. I was just a little shook up. I stumbled. Well, I was a little dizzy, saw a few stars when I hit the turf.

So that’s a yes?

Larry frowned and said, Yes, sir. No on all the rest—I am confused as to why I got pulled, but no confusion.

Let me go through the questions with you. Dr. Kelly went through a series of questions, which Larry answered correctly.

He took a stopwatch and a green folder with the word BESS on it from a nail and pointed at a taped square on the floor. Shoes off, stand there. We’re gonna do the six balance tests. Morgan’s gonna spot for you. He’ll step in if you lose your balance, but only then. He is also allowed to help you get back into position. Hands on hips, feet together—like this. I’m gonna start timing twenty seconds when you close your eyes.

Morgan nodded and went to stand at Larry’s right side.

Yes, sir.

Close your eyes. Begin—Twenty seconds. Okay, which foot do you kick with? The right. Then stand on your left—like this. Hands on hips. Close your eyes. Begin—Twenty seconds. Stand on both feet. Okay, put your left foot behind the right one in a line, toe touching heel, stay on the diagonal inside the square. Begin—okay, we’re gonna restart. Begin—Twenty seconds. Morgan, put the foam block in the square.

Morgan picked up a thick foam block and put it inside the tape marks.

We’re gonna do ’em all again, Larry. You okay?

Yes, sir.

Step onto the pad, stand on both feet. Hands on hips. Feet together. Close your eyes. A few minutes later, Doc said, That series is tough. You did as well as your baseline last summer, so you pass. Thanks, Morgan. Go on out to the team. When the door closed behind him, Doc said, So, I need to know who to contact. Has your home situation changed?

No, sir. It’s still just Craig and Brent and me. The three musketeers. The contact is still Doc Lance.

It’s a big responsibility for you boys, no adults around.

Yes, sir. But we’re okay. The Lances are right down the street, Craig is eighteen. We talk to our parents every week.

The doctor sighed, Okay, I am relying on you to go to the Lances if you need help.

Yes, sir.

Now, remove your shirt, sit on the table—you know the drill. The doctor placed the stethoscope against the warm skin. Deep breaths. With each breath, the doctor moved the scope. Pain?

Yes, my back on the right.

What kind of pain?

Burning.

The doctor prodded the swollen ribs of the young man’s lower back, digging his fingers around where the arc of bruising started. Here?

Yes, sir. Larry winced with a sharp intake of breath.

He hit you with his helmet? One of the posters on the door read: Your Helmet Is NOT a Weapon. Use Your Brain.

Yes, sir.

Both arms over your head.

Larry reached upward.

Pain?

Poking again, right where it hurt.

Yes, sir.

Bearable?

Yes, sir.

Okay, I’m gonna release you to play after half-time, so get cleaned up. I’ll wrap those ribs for you before you put your clean shirt on. That was a savage hit you took.

They wanted me out of the game. Thanks for letting me go back in, Doc.

Chapter One

Homecoming

Friday, October 12th, Halftime

Friday October 12th. Halftime at the Homecoming Game, the most important football game of any season at Bobby Layne High School. The bright stadium lights shone across the field; the marching band strutted across the goal line. As the band took the field, the steaming football players moved off of it at a trot, retreating from the frosty turf to the moderate temperature of the locker rooms. They quickly peeled out of their muddy uniforms, washed up and dressed again in clean, dry clothes for the second half of the grueling duel.

Lifting their helmets from battered lockers, the embattled team moved to sit on the aging grooved and pitted oak benches around the chalkboard. These long flat seats, which had been smoothed by the rears of countless players, held the emotions and stories of dramatic plays, last-second wins and sudden-death losses by almost a half-century of tough and not-so-tough athletes.

The assistant coaches went over a few plays, then a whistle blew and Coach Parker walked in and waved for them to gather around. Silent, the team crowded in to hear the words of their mentor.

Men, the scoreboard is showing nothing accomplished in the first two quarters. You lulled the crowd and even the collegiate scouts and reporters into a peaceful sleep. They’re all wondering what they are doing at a football game on Friday night when they could be out dancing the polka at Oktoberfest.

Wake ’em up. Get the ball. Make the plays. Take some chances! he bellowed. Larry Allen, he said to the auburn-haired young man in the number 11 jersey, Kelly says you can go back in.

The team applauded and yelled encouragement.

Larry nodded, walking up to the front row of athletes.

You are the star. Coach Parker paused and spoke clearly. This is your chance to shine or fade into a black hole. Get these bozos out on the field. You’ve got three minutes, meet me at the ramp. He turned on his heel with military precision and left the room.

Yes, sir! The answer came in enthusiastic tones, belying the speaker’s frustration. Larry moved to stand in front of the team. This is your captain speaking, he intoned, his voice mimicking a commercial jet pilot at takeoff. Please put your seats and serving trays in an upright position. This flight will be leaving in exactly three minutes, make sure you are on it. He met the eyes of several of the other players, and then spoke urgently to the group. Get back out there and take control of this game. Make the school proud of us. Let’s play ball.

The third quarter followed the first two as scoreless. Early in the fourth quarter, after yet another failed scoring attempt, Larry and his teammates took to the sidelines. Kendall took over the football at their one yard line. The quarterback could hear the announcer’s voice droning over the intercom, but didn’t even try to understand the words. What Larry understood clearly were his schoolmates’ emotions. They wanted a score, preferably one leading to a win. Something to celebrate. Larry wanted a win, too. He was determined to bring a third state championship to the line when he signed the final scholarship papers this spring.

Coach Parker called him over. Allen, you have ten minutes to win this game.

Yes, sir.

One thing I know: you are better than Skippy over there, Parker said, as he motioned toward the Kendall offense on the field. Jess Skipper was their quarterback. Skippy. Larry smiled. Coaches and their nicknames.

Yes, sir. Larry turned to watch the Layne defensive squad once more badgering the opposition until they were forced to kick well outside of field goal range.

The offense took to the field, ice crunching beneath their cleats. He could feel the crowd’s restlessness and held up his arms to the Bobby Layne crowd. The stands erupted with shouts, and cheers rang out in the misty chill of the October evening air.

Allen! Go Eleven, take us to heaven! they cheered.

At the pep rally Friday morning, the atmosphere had been electric. The atrium rumbled with laughter, music and cheers; the band playing the school song and the crowd shouting phrase after phrase with thundering excitement. Angie, the steady girlfriend of his younger brother, Brent, and three other cheerleaders grabbed Larry’s arms and pulled him in front of the crowd to lead a cheer. The crowd had hollered with him, their intensity hitting him from all sides. If school spirit could win a game, they would definitely come out on top. The team and the whole school had been pumped all day. In addition—to top it all off—the school principal and the coaches were determined to impress the reporters with Larry’s abilities.

If they won, when they won, Larry asserted, they all won. If they lost, Larry had an off night.

Larry’s dad, Rob Allen, played professional football for the Marauders, with an outstanding record for the past fifteen years. At age 37, he was starting his sixteenth season as a pro, continually proving he was one of the top players in his league, even as he aged. The buzz: Larry Allen was the quarterback to watch. The problem as Larry saw it was the other team heard the buzz, too. Kendall wanted to count coup on the local hero, to show how good they were by knocking off the guy at the top of the heap. They’d slammed him once and now he was giving them another go.

By the fourth quarter, with no score, the teams were at each other every step. Defensive and offensive linemen and backs crashed into one another, the defense determined to harry the quarterbacks into a fumble or interception. For Larry, every play transformed with the snap of the football—from 2D in the mind’s eye to a living, breathing 22-footed beast exploding to take over the field of battle. Larry knew where every one of those feet touched the turf.

Second and four. He looked out of the pocket to see Beckmeyer completing his pattern, sprinting to outrun his coverage, darting toward the goal line. Ribs throbbing, Larry took a deep breath, cocked his right arm and fired the football fifty-nine yards to that sweet spot for all passers—the receiver’s waiting arms.

The fans attending by radio heard the announcer reading the play, Second and four on the Layne forty-one yard line. There’s the snap. Allen is in the pocket, looking for an open man. Beckmeyer is heading for the end zone. Allen fires a missile. Perfect spiral—into the hands of his target. What an arm that boy has! This young man is the best high school quarterback in the country.

Beckmeyer nabbed the pass and jumped straight up, ball in hand, shouting into the screams of an ecstatic crowd.

We have ourselves a dramatic finish here, folks. Three minutes to go. No one has left their seats, although no one is sitting down either. They want to see what else Allen has up his sleeve.

The atmosphere was electric after the extra point; the defensive players, led by Larry’s younger brother Brent, wore grim smiles as they took the field and once again forced the opposition to punt.

Down on the field, Larry spoke to Beckmeyer. You got one more trick in that magic hat of yours? I want one more score up there, and you are the man.

The lanky senior smiled happily at the team captain. I believe I could carry it in one more time if you can get it to me, Captain.

Ryan snaps the ball. Allen drops back into the pocket. Great protection. Looking—and firing off a red-hot pass to Beckmeyer again. Tucking the ball away, the receiver is running like the wind. When he pours on the speed, not many can catch him. No one is anywhere close. Touchdown.

After the extra point and the final whistle, Layne fans swarmed onto the field, spirits high at the thrill of victory. The coach and others hit number 11’s shoulder pads or slapped his arm, saying, Great game, Larry! Then, closing in on him, a mass of teammates threw him onto their shoulders and carried him to the locker room.

***

The muscular teen paused at the mirror after his shower, a towel around his waist, combed his wet auburn hair and then walked into the locker room. Brent was leaning against the wall and fell into step with Larry as he came through the entrance to the showers. I thought you were gonna stay in there all night, Bro. Kelly sent me to get you.

Larry stopped at his locker and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. As they walked, he said, You’re doubling as the team medic aide?

Brent grinned. Yeah. He was taller than Larry, with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair, and the bulky form of a defensive linebacker, his body perfectly designed for his other passion, freestyle wrestling.

Shane Kelly, the team physician, waved them into the small examining room. Congratulations, you ran the gauntlet. You’ve toughed it out long enough. Let me see it.

Yes, sir.

Dr. Kelly and Brent followed him in and shut the door. Larry sat down on the table. Brent stood off to the side, observing.

Kelly poked and prodded at the injuries from the second quarter, then asked, So, how are you now?

No worse than at half-time, sir. Actually a lot better, with that win.

Any hits to your head or to the turf with your head in the second half?

Not anything I remember— He turned and grinned. No, sir.

Your neck okay?

Larry flexed his neck and turned his head to the left and then to the right. Yeah.

"A couple of your ribs might be cracked. Put ice on the whole area at least three times tonight: twenty minutes on, at least twenty minutes off.

"I’m going to give you a shot for pain and have Brent wrap it with an iced gel pack right now. At least with the gel pack you know it will thaw before your twenty minutes is up. Pack it again when it bugs you.

"Leave the bandages off overnight and take a deep breath every time you think of it. It’s already swollen, so I may have missed something. I’m not calling for X-rays, since I saw you moving well after it happened. You have a prescription for muscle relaxants if you need it.

Questions?

Larry shook his head. Nah, I can handle it until the med kicks in. I’ll go home and pack it with ice several times before I hit the sack. Brent positioned a big frozen gel pack in the back support and wrapped his brother’s torso. The quarterback put on his shirt and opened the door, looking out at the coaches and others who were waiting for him. After I talk to them. He grinned with a tired but happy look. I’ve got to be invincible for another half-hour.

As long as you remember you’re not invincible. This could be serious. On head hits, some symptoms don’t show up for hours or even days. The doctor laid his hand on the athlete’s shoulder. It’s best you just kick back and relax. Let me see it on Monday. Call me or Reg if you have any problems.

Yes, sir, Larry said. I’ll ask Doc Lance to take a look at it if it gets worse. Dr. Reginald Lance, Angie’s father, was the Allens’ long-time family physician and the Chief of Staff at the local hospital. The Lances lived on the same street as Larry’s family, and Doc often treated the boys’ minor injuries. Thanks, have a good weekend.

Dressed in clean, tattered jeans and red T-shirt under his red and white Varsity team jacket, Larry moved into the limelight. The coaches and team were thrilled over the win.

Great game, Allen. You gave us quite a show that last quarter.

How is the injury? We saw you go in to the doc.

What are your chances at cinching the championship again?

After the interview, Larry walked across the almost empty parking lot to his bike. Most Layne students were at the party. The losing school’s fans had disappeared into the chilly darkness. The blue and gold Moto Guzzi Jackal was not the best mode of transportation this evening, he mused, putting on his helmet. He climbed on and made his way down the city streets, headed home through a water-and-ice-laden mist.

Chapter Two

R & R

Friday, October 12th, after the game

Guiding the sleek racing motorbike into the drive, he noticed the house was dark, except for the bare bulb above the back door. The bulb glared into the night, its globe broken by a missed football.

Cassie Anderson, the six-year-old girl next door, had a huge crush on Larry, and had bullied her brothers into playing football with the Allens between their houses the night before. Larry grinned and shook his head at the thought of the precocious child. Cassie was something else. Her twin brothers were thirteen years old and adored her. They would do anything she said, even play football with boys twice their size; which often resulted in something getting broken, cracked or bent.

Turning the key in the lock, he moved through the door and turned to the left to hang his damp jacket and helmet in the laundry room. Reaching under his shirt, he released the support, dropped it on the washer and then took the gel pack into the kitchen and stuck it in the freezer. Next, he prepared two thick sliced turkey breast, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, heated some spicy vegetable soup and poured a big glass of milk. He said a short prayer, then devoured the food quickly, not paying much attention to it. His mind was still back on the playing field, reviewing the game. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

The den was dark and quiet, but not empty. Larry leaned against the right door jamb and spoke in a low voice, Hey?

Yeah. A dim light clicked on and Larry watched his older brother’s right hand leave the swag lamp’s cord. The seated man shielded his eyes for a moment, glancing up, and then dropped his hand limply onto the arm of the chair. Craig, with his blond hair and brown eyes, reminded everyone in the family of his father’s identical twin brothers, Tomas and Gerald. At least when he was healthy and happy, he did.

In this light, which wasn’t all that great, Craig’s skin matched the deep recliner’s foggy gray leather. He wore a navy blue T-shirt with a glaring, red-eyed monster’s face imprinted on it in black. Big maroon-edged white letters read: Go away. Come back when I care.

Got a few minutes? Larry asked, remaining in the doorway, evaluating the situation. The faded red T-shirt he wore bore big white reflective letters: Don’t touch me. I’m the quarterback.

Come on in, said Craig, straightening a little, but leaving the chair tilted back, his long, denim-covered legs stretched out over the footrest.

I saw Mom had called around two this morning. I didn’t call her back before school, since she usually sleeps in. Then I forgot all about it. Did you talk to her today? Larry asked, as he walked over and lowered his weary frame onto the deep-cushioned, darker toned sofa. His gaze flicked to the half-empty liquor bottle on the table beside Craig.

Yeah. I talked to her. She came by, Craig said with expressionless tones.

Larry remained silent, thinking, Wait him out. Maybe he’ll talk about it. The moment slipped away like so many others.

In a low, grainy voice, Craig broke the silence, changing the subject. How’d the game go?

We won. Fourteen to nothin’, he said, and told him about the game, leaving out the injuries. After I was sacked, the team came alive. It’s worth the pain of hitting the turf to hear the stands erupt when we rack up the points. Beckmeyer was stoked tonight. A handful of reporters and half a dozen scouts were there, too.

Sounds like a good game. Larry, the hope of Layne High, at the helm. So you’re putting together quite a record. No team you have been on has ever lost a game. There have been some squeakers, but you came out smelling like a rose.

I want to be the best, to stand out from the crowd, so the pros will notice me. He smiled. If they let me play my freshman year, I’ll knock the starter out of his position.

Are you sure you want to move so far?

You’re going to Cambridge, Mass.

Well, yeah, that is where MIT is, ace, Craig said with a grin.

Well, I figure California is far enough from here. Besides, in San Diego I can meet a lot of SEALs and maybe some chaplains at the naval bases.

You’re still stuck on that churchy thing?

Yeah, Patrice and I will probably get engaged before she goes to San Fran for college. I’m still set on being a chaplain in the Navy.

Makes sense to me, after you get some pro time in. Try out those wings you’ve been growing.

Wings? he asked.

Yeah, Brother Larry.

Larry smiled.

So where’s the star of the defense? Craig asked.

At the party with Angie. They’re riding with BJ. He said he’d have them home by one. Larry moved to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling. After a couple of minutes, he asked, Did Dad’s check come in?

Yeah. It’s in the bank. I rode my bicycle over this afternoon.

Craig frowned and picked up the bottle by the neck. Silence reigned for a few moments, then he said, How do you feel about our parents?

What do you mean? Larry asked quietly, carefully conversational. What now? he thought.

I don’t think they’re good at being parents. Craig tapped his fingers on the bottle. We have a twisted family.

Well, I think they screwed up when they added three sons to a daughter. And Sharon’s been dead almost a year and a half, he thought. As long as Larry could remember, his father had lived away from home during the NFL season, beginning with summer camp in July. This past February, when Dad came home after the Super Bowl and Pro Bowls, the three boys were living essentially on their own. Mom had moved out New Year’s Eve and had not returned. They have their own lives without us. The silence ticked away. Of course, if they’d stopped with one son, I wouldn’t be here.

That’s true. Larry, the Math Wizard. Some of the old sarcastic Craig peeked through.

Yeah, that’s me.

… Not much to say they hadn’t said before. More slow-moving time glided from present to past; wafting away unused. Then Craig said, Mom’s moving again.

There it was—what Craig was brooding over. Larry sat up quickly, but jerked to a stop halfway. The pain in his back and ribs wrenched at his consciousness, slowing his movement. With gritted teeth and sheer determination, he shifted his position, put his feet onto the floor and sat upright on the edge of the cushion.

No wonder Craig’s been sitting in the dark, drinking, alone. This is the third move in the last eight months. Their mother flitted from one man’s house to the next. He said, She’s moving out of Crosby’s house?

Yeah. And in with her boss.

She’s moving in with Stephens? Instantly, totally, outrage filled him. Larry erupted from the sofa and landed on his feet. Stephens? When Craig nodded in the affirmative, Larry smacked his right fist into his left palm. Farley Stephens