Page 1 of Cross My Heart

Chapter One

TYLER FANTANA slammed into the dirt, and a meteor hit his chest with scalding force. His heart had stopped beating. Sixty-nine thousand fans shouting, the smell of sweat and grass. Blinding lights, all the cameras.

Groggy, Tyler blinked and shook his head slowly, trying to situate himself.

He flinched. This had happened before, he felt certain. Why did he feel so disoriented?

Right. NFL game at the top of the season, the pinnacle of his career with the San Diego Swells. A pile of guys on top of him.

Suddenly he was back on the ground, blood in his mouth, skull echoing with the impact of the tackle that had brought him down, an entire linebacker landing on his sternum and the sudden crushing pain in his chest as he hit the thirty-yard line sideways and knew in his bones that he’d never get up again in this life.

Team gone. Light gone. Not breathing. Just that jagged, grinding agony like a fist squeezing him into paste.

I already did this. Oh God, please, I already did this.

The world had winked out, only fading back into focus as he woke up in the back of an ambulance, his heart pounding erratically as he gasped for breath and grabbed at the EMTs.

“Tyler?”

Dr. Reynolds’s question yanked him back to the present. The older woman’s voice was firm, professional, and had a no-nonsense edge to it. “Talk to me. Slow breaths. What happened just then?”

He tried to take deep, slow gulps of oxygen. Counted heartbeats. Visualized. All that holistic new age crap. His stupid, screwed-up heart wouldn’t slow down. Where was he? He couldn’t get enough breath to answer her. Why couldn’t he talk? His eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly. “Bad.”

Dr. Reynolds’s office smelled of lemony antiseptic. It was autumn. November. Tuesday? This was another checkup with his cardiologist. His sister had driven him. He still wasn’t allowed behind the wheel. Right. Was Nadia here?

“Stay with me now.” Reynolds stood back, giving him space. “Are you all right? Can you describe the pain? Look at me.” She leaned back and ran a penlight over his pupils, frowning at something. “Your heart rate was— Does that happen often?”

“Maybe.” He shook his head, then nodded. Did she want the truth or the lie? “I don’t know.”

“I was taking your vitals,” Dr. Reynolds said briskly. “Use your three-three-three and breathe for me. Take a moment. Three objects. Three sounds. Three body parts.”

Tyler nodded and tried to focus. He found the objects as he inhaled slowly and shifted his eyes around the bright room, consciously counting each one: Clock. Pen. Shoe. This was so embarrassing.

“I’m going to remove this, if that’s okay.” She leaned in to unwrap the blood pressure cuff from his thick bicep with practiced efficiency.

Velcro rip. Hum of the AC. Paper rustling under him. He held the breath inside himself, and his galloping heart slowed to a trot.

As the cuff loosened, she unthreaded it and stepped back again, presumably to give him space. She glanced over his chart, and her brow furrowed in obvious disapproval.

His muscle mass was way off, whittled down by two months of sitting on his butt.

As she paused to make a note, he made his body parts move: open hand, lick lips, blink eyes. He let the breath out. “Better.”

“Excellent. You see?” Reynolds checked his eyes, waiting until he nodded to continue. She pressed a chilly stethoscope between his pecs and looked at the ceiling, listening for something inside him before she spoke. “Just a panic attack, yes? That’s common. Nasty but normal.”

“It felt like—” He shook his head, wiped his wet mouth. “How do I tell the difference?”

“You ask someone qualified.” Dr. Reynolds crossed her arms. “But anecdotally, cardiac arrest feels like crushing and panic attacks sharper stabs. With arrest, the pain spreads outward from the chest, but the pain of a panic attack stays in one spot. Neither one is pleasant.” Her stethoscope shifted to his back, and the slight pressure made him flinch like an idiot. “Try to distinguish between the memory of pain and your current level of discomfort. It’s not easy.”

“No.” Tyler took a few more deep breaths and let the air out slowly. “These were short and sharp. Memory, I guess.” He pressed a hand to his side. “Jesus.”

“Talk to yourself. Listen to yourself.” She pressed her lips together, regarding him as though through glass. “Blood pressure is still higher than I’d like,” she noted. “And you’ve lost almost four pounds of muscle since our last visit. Potassium levels far lower than they should be. Iron too. Your recovery seems to have plateaued.”

“Sorry, Doc.” Tyler sat awkwardly, perched on the exam table, cringing as the paper liner crinkled beneath him.

“This isn’t blame.” She shook her head. “Your heart has been pushed past breaking, Mr. Fantana. Commotio cordis can cause severe trauma to the valve and surrounding tissues. It needs to heal. Just a time-out is all. A reasonable recovery window. You’re better, but not better enough.”

He nodded and waited for further scolding.