The medics lift Hannah carefully and begin carrying her away. I stay right beside her, taking her hand in mine and giving it a squeeze so she at least knows someone who cares about her is here, even if she isn’t conscious of it.

“I’m right here, hummingbird,” I murmur, my voice low. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m vaguely aware of the announcer’s voice saying something over the PA as we rush out of the arena, but the words don’t register. Once we’re outside, I help them load Hannah up into the back of the ambulance that’s already parked and waiting for us. All of them know better than to try to stop me from riding with her—and I don’t think they could hold me back if they tried.

When they’ve finished getting her situated and her gurney locked in place so it won’t move on the drive, I take her hand in both of mine again and sink down onto the bench built into the wall beside her.

My eyes burn as I look at her pale, wan face, her eyes closed as if she’s in a deep sleep. Her skin is pale, but she’s still breathing regularly, and the machines the medics hooked her up to are showing a steady, regular heartbeat.

The tightness in my chest eases slightly as I look at the beeping monitor. She’s stable. Whatever is happening, at least she’s stable.

I can’t help wondering if this is somehow connected to our breakup. Was she already dealing with something? Is that why she pushed me away?

My chest lurches with anxiety at the thought. Images of the last time I saw Hannah flash through my mind and guilt pools in my stomach, because I want more than anything to know what’s going on with her. But at this point, I don’t even know if I’m ever going to be able to speak to her again.

What if she doesn’t wake up?

I squeeze her hand tightly with mine, silently urging her to pull through this, whatever it is. Now I have some idea of how terrible it must have been for her to be at my side when I took a hit in that game a while back, not knowing if or when I’d wake up. But she stayed with me the entire time, and she didn’t let anyone come between us—not even her dad.

The ambulance tears through the streets, sirens wailing as traffic parts before us. Inside the cabin, the medic works efficiently, checking Hannah’s vitals and adjusting an IV drip. I keep her hand firmly in mine while staying out of his way.

“BP is stabilizing. Heart rate normal,” the medic reports to his partner. He glances at me with a hint of sympathy. “She’s holding steady.”