Mason Vance is the guy everybody wants to be, and he knows it. Heâs the best high school quarterback in New York, a shoo-in for a football scholarship at any school he chooses, and heâs expected to land in the NFL one day. That is, until a broken wrist leaves him fearing whether heâll ever play again.
Desperate to save his damaged ego, Mason sets his sights on Lace. No cheerleader or homecoming queen like his usual type, sheâs too wrapped in her own misery to fall for his pickup lines. Even though she tries to shut him out, sheâs surprised to find heâs there for her when no one else is. Slowly, she lets him into the sad workings of her mind and less-than-perfect life, and Mason finds himself caring about Lace more than heâd ever thought possible. Thatâs why neither of them sees his huge mistake comingâone that instantly fractures everything between them.
Will Mason confront the ugliest side of himself, and in the process see who heâs capable of becoming, or will he fall back into the life he knew before Lace and his injury?
Mason Vance is the guy everybody wants to be, and he knows it. Heâs the best high school quarterback in New York, a shoo-in for a football scholarship at any school he chooses, and heâs expected to land in the NFL one day. That is, until a broken wrist leaves him fearing whether heâll ever play again.
Desperate to save his damaged ego, Mason sets his sights on Lace. No cheerleader or homecoming queen like his usual type, sheâs too wrapped in her own misery to fall for his pickup lines. Even though she tries to shut him out, sheâs surprised to find heâs there for her when no one else is. Slowly, she lets him into the sad workings of her mind and less-than-perfect life, and Mason finds himself caring about Lace more than heâd ever thought possible. Thatâs why neither of them sees his huge mistake comingâone that instantly fractures everything between them.
Will Mason confront the ugliest side of himself, and in the process see who heâs capable of becoming, or will he fall back into the life he knew before Lace and his injury?
Nine seconds were left on the clock. The stadium lights glared down on my teammates and me as we gathered in our last huddle at the twenty-five-yard lineâfourth down. The smell of ripe sweat mixed with turf rubber hung in the air. Trumpets and drums resounded throughout the bleachers. We were down by three, yet the crowd was still chanting, âMason! Mason!â
âLetâs do Play-Action 43. Get to the corner of the end zone, Garrett, and letâs take this game!â I yelled and thrust my hand into the center of the huddle. The other guys piled theirs on top of mine, the weight of their damp palms pushing down on me.
I was only a junior, but I was the starting quarterback, and already in line for a scholarship, even being from little Long Island where football players were mediocre at best. A few college coaches, even one from the ACC conference, were here scouting me because I was by far the best on the team. Best in the county for that matter. That wasnât cockiness, just truth.
âDude, theyâve been all over me tonight!â You wouldâve thought my friend Garrett Clemens was a little girl losing a tennis match instead of the tight end he claimed to be. Coach left me to call the last play, and if we wanted any shot at winning, Garrett had to get open.
âCome on, dude! I know we can make the playoffs again. You got this!â My voice carried over the cheering crowd and marching band. I started the count down, and we all shouted âManhassetâ on three.
Iâd already played awesome today. My extra training this week had paid off big. Iâd proved everything I needed to the coaches here. I probably wouldnât be playing college ball in New Yorkânot competitive enough for meâbut maybe theyâd spread the word to big-time schools about how good I was. Plus, it would be nice to seal the win with this last play.
I glanced at the sidelines as everyone got into position. My mind was wandering already; usually my eyes were on the field from start to finish. I couldnât help but think about the homecoming dance tonight, though, especially when I spotted my date, Sharon Martin, jumping around in that awesome cheerleading uniform.
School dances were pretty junior high, but girls loved them. And if there was one thing I loved more than football, it was having girls throw themselves at me.
Which they did. A lot.
Sharon was a senior. And not just any senior, the senior every guy in school fantasized about at least once or twice. Blue and orange pleats bounced off her thighs as she flashed me her biggest smile. Her blond hair poured over her shoulders like lemonade. Blue, gold, and orange ribbons flowed from her wavy hair down to her chest where the words âManhasset Highâ never looked so good. Then she turned around to shout âO-O-Offense!â at the stands. I wanted to pat myself on the back thinking about how Iâd have her under my arm later . . . and my arm probably wouldnât be the only thing sheâd be under.
I shook my head and pulled my gaze away from Sharon. Just nine more seconds to focus. You got this. I crouched, waiting for the refâs whistle.
Johnson hiked me the ball. I turned and faked the handoff before scanning the end zone for Garrett. He had two guys on him already. Maybe I shouldâve actually listened to his whining instead of losing concentration and studying Sharon Martinâs body like she was in the game.
Garvey was open and I had to act fast. I dropped a few steps back, planted, and sent the ball to him. The spiral was a thing of beauty, coiling as it left my fingertips. Before I could exhale, a massive jolt shocked my body and my heart sprang against my chest. Somethingâapparently a huge defensive linemanâcollided against my ribs. I stuck my right arm out as I neared the ground. I shouldâve put it against my side, somehow I knew that, but my brain wouldnât process anything other than âOh shit!â
A loud snap echoed in my ears between the thick layers of my helmet as I landed sideways on the turf. I turned my head to see my limp, crooked wrist through the small cage in front of my eyes. My spit-filled mouth guard stuck to my cheek. Iâm pretty sure I heard myself scream, but every sound was so far away now, even the crowd cheering my name.
The band started playing our school fight song. I guess Garvey caught the ball for the win. I tried to lift my head, but it wouldnât move, my shoulder pads raised up below my chin. My wrist seared like cleats were stampeding across it.
My eyes blinked open and shut. Hands skimmed my neck, pulling my helmet over my ears. Everything was louder now as more hands lifted me under my shoulders and legs. The bright lights slammed directly into my skull. The ground was no longer beneath me; I was in the air, making contact with a stretcher before being shut into an ambulance. My coach sat beside me, a consoling hand on my shoulder. I couldnât tell if I was knocked out or not. Maybe this was all a stupid dream.
âYour parents will meet us at the ER, Vance,â Coach said.
I blinked again, allowing him to come into focus. Definitely not a dream. I wouldâve recognized his burly beard and scratchy voice anywhere.
I nodded, or maybe I didnât. My throat gurgled.
Coach held a Gatorade sport water bottle to my mouth and squirted some inside. I coughed and spat, my eyes fully opening now.
âIs it broken?â I managed, still looking at Coach.
Coach laughed, actually laughed. I gritted my teeth. Was I overreacting? It felt like someone was chiseling away at my arm bones with an icepick. It had to be broken, didnât it?
âIf it ainât, then youâre a lot more flexible than I thought,â he said, the laughter falling away. He clamped his hand on my left shoulder again.
I breathed in, my chest shaking. I coughed and groaned. It was broken. Oh my God, what if I never played again?
My parents were already in the waiting room when the paramedics wheeled me in. My mom rushed over, kissing my head and telling me Iâd be okay. Though her frantic breathlessness and shaking hands werenât convincing. Even my little brother, Chad, sat more quietly than usualâhis hazel eyes bulging. And he was just a goofy fourteen-year-old who never thought anything was serious other than beating the next level on his video games. I guess my wrist was pretty screwed, which only made my heart race more.
My parents and Chad helped me take my gear off. It was pinching and squeezing me in all the worst places now that I wasnât on the field. When Dad pulled my cleats off, the sour stench of my feet probably wafted through every floor of this hospital, waking people in comas, I bet.
The assault on my nose was a cruel momentary distraction from the crushing sensation in my arm. My headache turned into a dull throbânothing like my wrist.
A nurse cut my jersey down the center and then did the same to the laces on my shoulders pads so Dad could slip them off me. The scissors shredded through the middle of my number one as it split in two. I almost cried . . . almost.
I had to pee real bad after all the Gatorade and water during the game, but I still had my cup on and it was about as uncomfortable as a bunch of pins sticking me now that I was sitting still. Since I was out an arm, my dad had to help me take it off . . . which meant he had to help me take my pants off, too . . . then put them back on since I had nothing else to wear. Seriously, this night was supposed to be the best yet and right now, it couldnât have been any worse.
I had to wait for the ER doctor for hours, but at least the nurse hooked me up to a sweet morphine drip, which faded the pain nicely into the background.
The doctor called me in around the same time that the homecoming dance wouldâve been ending. Iâd gotten some texts and Snapchats before putting my phone away altogether. They just reminded me how I wouldnât be getting with Sharon Martin, which of course sucked, but not nearly as much as wondering if my football career was over.
âWill I still be able to play football?â I asked, voicing that overwhelming concern as the doctor gathered all the tools heâd need to set my wrist.
He pulled over some metal thing that looked like a torture device. âProbably, but youâll be out for a while,â he said, parking the contraption next to me. âIt depends on how you heal over the next couple weeks. Plus, surgery is still a possibility, so youâll have to see what your doctor says.â
âThen how can you be sure Iâll be able to play football?â
âNothing is certain.â He strung loops from the top of the metal appliance. âBut usually people can resume activity after a break, just with maybe a bit more pain at first . . . and of course, a lot of time and physical therapy.â
Great.
He slipped my pointer finger, middle finger, and thumb into those small nooses hanging from the silver coatrack-looking thing, suspending my arm in the air.
âNow, speaking of pain, this is going to hurt a little,â he said as he positioned my arm.
Please, dude, nothing could hurt as bad as my bones being cracked and separated all over the place. It couldnât hurt as bad as football being nothing but a distant memory.
âShit!â I screamed as he slowly moved my arm into place, my fingers ripping right from my hand. My wrist made some disgusting popping noise. I swore flames were burning through my whole body. Okay, it did hurt, and not a littleâa lot.
I barely noticed my mom squeezing my other hand so tight her fingernails left indents in my palm. Though, for once she didnât scold me for cursing.
After the doctor set my wrist, he molded plaster around it. It was hard and dense and went up to the middle of my bicep.
âYour doctor will probably put you in a smaller cast, but unfortunately this is how we do it in the ER,â he said as he went on to bandage the plaster with a roll of ACE wrap. âBetter to have it move as little as possible, though, while the break is new.â
It would definitely move as little as possible, more like not at all. I was officially restricted. I sighed, hating the feeling of the heavy material squeezing around my arm as it sagged from my shoulder. Hating the feeling of my elbow bent in place. Hating the feeling of everything being different already.
Fractured is a peek into the toxic culture of high school. This coming-of-age story is from the point-of-view of Mason Vance, star quarterback of his high school, and despicable ladies man. Don't hate the player--hate the game? You should be aware that this game has tragic pieces all over its board.
When Mason is out of commission with a broken wrist, he meets Lace, a girl like none he has known before. Overnight the big man on campus struggles to deal with his first real-life stressors, and meeting Lace has him reconsidering who he is and how he treats other people. It's his transformation that worked for me. It's what I enjoyed about the book. Mason grows realistically throughout the narrative.
The character's organic maturation makes it easy to read this story without getting bogged down in the distasteful toxic masculinity. There is a constant balance between the group of friends Mason has back at school and the discoveries Mason has about treating other people. And Mason realizes that even when people don't treat themselves well, it's not his place to mistreat them either. The author waves this flag a few times about the importance of respecting others. One of the things the reader learns about Mason is that we have to find a reason to respect Mason at some point in order to enjoy the book.
Some things that didn't work for me was that a lot of the dialogue was simple and stilted to the point of being trite. Another issue I had was that I felt like the author was selling me something but not providing me with the goods. She was telling me that Mason was a womanizer, but there is little womanizing happening with him. It's all things the characters say happened; the author shows little occurring.
I enjoyed this book coming from a boy's POV, and there should be more books from this angle. I recommend this for anyone looking for a meaningful young adult novel about transformation.
I voluntarily reviewed a complimentary advance copy of this book.