A solitary navy figure is lying on the bright green grass. A bulky white-clad player stands a couple feet away. He’s pulled off his helmet, and the cameras project his distressed expression on screens around the entire stadium.

I don’t register that I’ve dropped the glass I was clutching until I feel a spray of icy water against my bare legs. I don’t react, numb to the cold liquid dripping down my shins.

“Who is that?” I ask. “Which player?”

No one in the suite replies. They’re too busy craning their necks in morbid fascination along with the rest of the stadium, but I already know who it is.

“And we’ve got a South Carolina player still down right now. Looks like it’s the rookie quarterback, Jace Dawson.”

I don’t think.

I run.

I sprint back toward the hallway we entered from, passing first my mother and Margaret, and then the six agents who are sitting and enjoying the food.

All six leap to their feet as I rush past, scanning the room for some invisible threat. I hear my parents and Charles calling my name behind me, but their shouts don’t deter me. The need to get to Jace has overridden everything else.

I jab the elevator button several times, but nothing happens. Glancing around wildly, I spot an emergency exit door and rush toward it. One of the agents grabs my arm, trying to stop me. I whirl and elbow him in the stomach, which he clearly isn’t expecting. He doubles over, and I spin back toward the door. I’ve almost made it when I’m grabbed again. I employ another one of the self-defense maneuvers I was taught, this time kicking the agent in the knee. His leg buckles. I’m through the door before he hits the ground.

I race down the endless flights of stairs, until I finally reach the bottom and emerge at the same security checkpoint we passed when we entered the stadium. Only one young woman stands next to the metal detector now.

“The team locker room? Where is it?” I demand. I know agents are only seconds behind me.

She looks startled, both by sudden appearance and urgent tone.

“The team locker room? Is that where they take injured players?” I ask desperately.

This time she answers me. “Sometimes. If it’s more serious, they’ll just take them straight to the hospital.”

“How would they do that?”

“There’s a side entrance that connects to the tunnels. They’ll have the ambulance pull up there.”

“How do I get there?”

She looks at me cautiously.

“Please, it’s an emergency,” I beg.

“Head through that door.” She points to one off to the right. “And just stay straight through the hallway. It will bring you to the tunnel, and the entrance will veer off from that.”

“Thank you,” I tell her fervently before rushing to follow her instructions. I’ve just emerged into the tunnel when I hear footsteps behind me. I increase my already rapid pace, and am rewarded when I see light off to the right that suggests I’m close to the entrance.