His black-and-white-striped jersey with the number 13 on the back was sewn to his skin; the white shorts he had on were grass stained and specked with blood. Both of his knees were caked in mud. His hair was ruffled and slick from sweat. One of his eyes was turning purple and swelling at a rapid pace, and he had a steady trail of blood flowing down his eyebrow, but it didn’t seem to faze him one bit. Johnny’s attention wasn’t on the medic or the referee shouting commands in his ear. He was too busy looking at me.
