How to Score by Robin Wells Page A

raised his head and winced. “How long was I out?”
    “A couple of minutes. An ambulance is on the way.”
    “I don’t need an ambulance.” Chase struggled to sit up.
    Sammi pushed him back down. “Yes, you do. You’ve got a pretty big cut in your head and you probably need stitches.” She looked around. “Anyone got a first-aid kit?”
    “I do,” Bubba said. He waddled over to his front table, scavenged around under it, then waddled back, red-and-white case in hand.
    Sammi’s fingers trembled as she opened it and pulled out a wad of gauze. She leaned down and placed it on his head.
    Chase jerked away. “Ow!”
    “Hold still. I need to apply pressure to stop the bleeding.”
    “I’ll be fine. Let me stand up.”
    A siren keened through the air in the distance.
    “Not until the medics get here,” Sammi said in her firmest voice.
    To her relief, he didn’t argue. She held the gauze to his forehead as the ambulance pulled into view, the siren shrieking. It stopped in the parking lot, and two attendants bounded out of the back double doors.
    “Over here!” Bubba called, waving his arm like a NASCAR flagman.
    The attendants hurried over. They looked at Chase’s head, asked questions, and peered into his eyes. “We need to take you in,” the shorter medic said.
    “No,” Chase said, struggling to sit up. “I’m all right.”
    “You need stitches.”
    “Well, then, I’ll drive myself to one of those doc-in-the-box places.”
    “You’re not driving anywhere,” said the medic with the gray mustache. “Your pupils are uneven, which means you have a concussion. You’re gonna need a CT scan.”
    “But I can’t just go off and leave all of this stuff.”
    “I’ll watch your booth for the rest of the day,” Chloe offered.
    “I’ll help,” Bubba chimed in. “An’ I can pack it up and haul it off and store it with my stuff. Don’cha worry about all this. Just get yourself patched up.”
    “My-my car,” Chase mumbled. “I don’t want to leave it way out here.”
    “I can drive it to the hospital behind the ambulance,” Sammi volunteered.
    Chase shook his head, then winced. “No. That’s okay. I’ll come get it later.”
    He was afraid she’d wreck it, Sammi thought with dismay. Well, who could blame him? A boulder formed in her throat. “If you don’t trust me to drive it, Chloe can and I’ll stay here.”
    He looked at her—or rather beside her; his eyes didn’t seem to quite focus—and gave her a crooked smile. “I trust you.” With an effort, he reached into his side pocket, withdrew his keys, and held them out. “It’s the blue Ford Explorer parked on the left side of the lot.”
    The weight on her chest lightened a bit, but her throat felt strangely tight. She nodded. “I’ll see you at the hospital.”

    The emergency-room doctor opened the door to the treatment room an hour and a half later, his white coat flapping. Chase’s vision was so blurred that it looked like there were two of him, merging together, separating, then converging again. The doctors—correction—doctor was a tall man in his midthirties with a thin face and a congenial smile. He aimed it at Sammi, who was sitting in a chair against the wall.
    Chase pulled the ice pack off his throbbing head and tried to focus. Sammi had been with him since he’d first arrived, and the truth was, he was glad she was there.
    Although only God knew why. The woman was worse than the seven plagues of Egypt.
    “What’s the verdict?” Chase asked.
    The doctor settled onto the backless wheeled stool beside the examination table, and turned toward Chase, his two faces smiling. “No sign of a fracture, but you’ve definitely got a concussion.”
    Great. Just great. Chase put the ice pack back on his head.
    “You’ll need to take it easy for a few days. Do you have someone to stay with you for the next twenty-four hours?”
    “I don’t need anyone. I’ll be fine,” Chase said.
    The doctor frowned. “You have to