by Cora Carmack
After one particularly spectacular catch, my helmet cracks hard against the cornerback tackling me, and my head jerks inside my helmet before my whole body slams hard into the turf.
For a second my ears ring and my vision crosses and crosses even though I’m staring straight ahead. I blink, but it doesn’t stop, and there’s a pressure in my head that feels like I’m a hundred feet underwater.
I climb to my feet carefully, and the grass moves like waves in front of my eyes. I let myself shake my head once to try and clear the fog, but when that only amplifies the pressure, I know that wasn’t just any hit. I struggle to appear normal, to not let on that my head is swimming, and that the weak light from the November sun suddenly feels piercing to my eyes.
This can’t be happening. Not when everything was going so good.
Not now.
Coach blows the whistle, and it cleaves my head open.
I get lucky, and Coach moves on to working on a new play where the first look is to Moore, and the second option is to Brookes. So as they work out the kinks, I’m really only running my route. No one mentions or seems to notice that I’m running a little slower, that my route isn’t quite as straight as it should be. Their eyes are elsewhere, and it helps me hide what experience already tells me.
I have a concussion.
I’ve had two before, and the second, which occurred late in the season last year, was bad enough to leave me vomiting, and the nausea lasted for days. It also had me out for a game, which we ended up losing while I stood on the sidelines. If we hadn’t had an open week the next week, Coach might have even benched me for two games.
This one is mild by comparison. No nausea, just that fuzzy, dazed feeling, sensitivity to light and sound, and the familiar pressure in my head. But the coaches and the trainers are serious about concussions. With my history, they might hold me back from playing this week, mild or no, just to be safe.
And we’re so damn close. We’ve got two games left in the regular season, and we’ve got a damn good chance at getting a bowl game this year. If we win both games, we’d end the season at 10–2, a record that might be good enough to get us into one of the major bowls, a first for Rusk, whose program had always been lackluster prior to Coach Cole’s arrival. That kind of bowl appearance could change the conversation completely.
About the team. About me.
We’d get a lot more attention coming into next season, and the bulk of our team’s strongest contenders will still be here next year. Our most prominent senior this year was Jake Carter, and he’s already been suspended, and we’re doing just fine without him. We could potentially make a go for the title next year. It would be crazy. A long shot. But not impossible, and I can see it all shaping up in my head. I could go into my senior year in a program that gets just as much attention as those powerhouses I’d always dreamed of playing for. The ones that didn’t want me in the end. And all the years of doubt would be worth it.
I’m still thinking of those possibilities when Coach calls practice to a close. I keep my head down in the huddle so no one sees my unfocused eyes. The fatigue is starting to set in, and I have to dig down deep to stand from my kneeling position when Coach dismisses us.
Now is when I’m supposed to tell someone. Even if I’m familiar enough with the symptoms to know what’s happening, I’m supposed to get checked out by the trainer. They won’t send me to the hospital. They would just send me home to rest, probably assign Brookes or Moore to check on me every couple of hours through the night to make sure my symptoms don’t get worse. And then they’d limit my practice time this week to make sure I don’t exacerbate things, and if they’re worried enough . . . bench me.
But it’s Monday. I’ve got plenty of time to recover before Saturday. So instead of going to Coach, I keep my helmet on until I’m off the field and into the dim hallway that leads to our locker room. The darkness is a relief, and only then do I gently pull off my helmet. My head throbs for a few moments, and I slow my steps, but the pain is manageable by the time I step into the locker room.
The trick is not to let anyone look me in the eye. Luckily, the guys have been razzing me about my more low-key behavior ever since that night in the hotel room when I was texting Nell. They’re finally starting to lose interest, and no one comments on how quiet I am as we shower and clean up. As quick as I’m able, I gather my things and head out to my truck, where I’ll at least have a little privacy. I pull myself behind the wheel and immediately reach for the sunglasses I keep in the center console.
Now I have to figure out how to hide it at home. I could go straight to my room, but that would be suspicious. Unless I just don’t go home. I could go to Nell’s instead. Or take her home with me. Then they wouldn’t question me going straight to my room. But then again, bringing Nell home is likely to inspire questions, and if Brookes got a look at me, there’s no way he wouldn’t know something is up.
No, the best thing would be to go to Nell’s place and hope she doesn’t mind me crashing there. It takes me a while to find our text conversation on my phone. The screen is too small, and my slight double vision makes it hard to read the words. Once I find it, I type my message from muscle memory and hope that for once autocorrect does its job and fixes any mistakes.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel while I wait, but even that small noise in the closed cab is grating. She answers. And I can tell by the length of the blurred text that it’s just one word. After some squinting and moving the phone around, I finally make out the word.
With a relieved sigh, I start up my truck. Luckily, I don’t have to get on the highway to get to Nell’s place, and I’m familiar enough with the roads to know from memory where all the stop signs are. The double vision isn’t as bad when I’m not looking at things up close, so while the cars around me are slightly fuzzy, I can see them just fine. Even so, I drive at half my normal speed.
I can already imagine that Nell won’t be happy that I’ve driven at all. But I couldn’t risk leaving my truck at the athletic complex. That definitely would have been noticed. It takes me about ten minutes to get to her apartment, and I pull into an open parking spot with no cars nearby.
For a few seconds I just sit there, zoned out, forgetting why I came here in the first place. Then my phone buzzes, and I snap out of it. I don’t bother trying to read the text. Instead I climb out of my pickup, keeping my sunglasses on, and head for Nell’s apartment. I hold tight to the railing on the stairs and make myself focus on the steps. At the top, I brace myself before I knock, knowing the sound will hurt.
Nell answers wearing jeans, and a snug long-sleeved shirt, both of which hug her curves perfectly. All I want to do is sink into her, see if she can chase away this, too.
“Hey,” she says, her voice bright and cheerful and too loud. “What’s up?”
I step past her, removing my sunglasses, but before I can say anything, another voice cuts in. “Hey, Torres.”
My eyes find Dylan on the couch, and damn it, I didn’t even think about her being here. I should find something clever to say, something normal, but my mind is too sluggish, and I’m too tired to mine for the words, so I settle for returning, “Hey.”
I turn back to Nell and gesture toward the hallway that leads back to her bedroom. “Can we?”
She frowns, but nods. “Sure.”
I don’t look back at Dylan as I follow Nell out of the living room. I drag a hand along the wall of the hall to help steady and straighten out my steps. Inside her room, I collapse onto her bed and drop my head into my hands. I hear the door click closed, but Nell doesn’t move after that. She stays at the other side of the room, and when I look up her arms are crossed over her chest and her expression is decidedly wary.
“I’m scaring you,” I say. “Sorry.”
She cuts straight to the point. “What’s going on? Are you . . . Are we . . .”
Aw, shit. She thinks this about her.
I follow her lead and cut straight to the point. �
��No. God, no. We’re good. Great . . . I have a concussion.”
Her arms drop, and her entire posture changes. “What?”
I wince at the sharp word, and her voice is lower when she asks, “What happened?”
I shift and lean back to lie on her bed. “Practice,” I mumble. “Rough tackle.”
I hear her feet shuffle toward me as my eyes drift close. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at a hospital getting checked out?”
“It’s mild. I’ve had these before. I know how it goes.”
And I know that I want to sleep, and now that my head is cushioned on her pillow and I’m lying flat on my back, I’m seconds away from doing just that. The bed dips slightly at my feet, and it jostles as she crawls up to kneel beside me.
I remember Dylan sitting out in the living room and add, “Don’t tell Dylan.”
“Why? Hey, look at me.” She nudges my shoulder, and I pry open my eyes.
She places both hands on my cheeks, tilting my head toward her and looking into my eyes. “I haven’t told Coach. Or the guys.”
I’m thankful when she doesn’t ask me why. Instead she moves straight into medical mode. “Your pupils appear to be the same size. So, that’s good. Any nausea? Vomiting?”
“No. I told you. It’s mild.”
She leans over me, tilting my head so that the ceiling light shines more on my eyes. “Humor me. What are your symptoms? Blurred vision?”
“Yes.”
“Sensitive to light or sound?”
“Both.”
“Headache?”
I hesitate.
“Mateo? Do you have a headache?”
“Yes, but it’s manageable. I’ll take some aspirin and be fine.”
“Has it gotten worse since you were first hit?”
“No. I swear I’m okay.”
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and it’s amazing how even with my head as foggy as it is, I can zone in precisely on that movement.
“You’ll need someone to keep an eye on you. Monitor your symptoms to make sure they don’t get any worse.”
And here comes the hard part. “I was hoping that might be you. What do you say, sweetheart? Can you play nurse for me?”
Chapter 23
Nell’s To-Do List
• Throttle Mateo. Hug him. Do something to him. I don’t know. Crap . . . I’m in deep.
It’s remarkable how even at times like this he can make a joke. I want to ask him why. Why he came here. Why he doesn’t want to tell anyone about his concussion.
Why me?
Okay, so maybe that last question is less about his concussion and more about . . . everything. We haven’t slept together since last Sunday (well, Monday morning, I guess), though the few times we’ve seen each other, he was certainly very hands-on. But I can’t help but find myself wondering why he would choose me. This, taking care of him, feels distinctly in girlfriend territory. Or am I overreacting? Didn’t I just admit the other day that we were friends above all else? Maybe this is just what friendship with him is like. Sure, he’s taught me more about my body in a few encounters than I ever could have imagined, but I can put that aside for a friendly gesture.
Oh God, who am I kidding? If this were Matty in my bed, my heart wouldn’t be trying to rearrange my rib cage.
I don’t know how to deal with these insecurities because they’re different from the fears I feel about my future or everyday worries about tests and homework and other trivial stuff. These fears are different because . . .
Because there is no correct answer. I like solving problems. I love solving problems. But not like this . . . not when there’s no guarantee I can be right.
Because Mateo Torres is loud, and I’m quiet. Because he’s reckless, and I’m cautious. Because he belongs everywhere, and I don’t.
Because I think I’m in danger of falling in love with him.
So, no . . . this is much worse than fears about classes or jobs or the future. Those things might stress me out on occasion, but when push comes to shove, I’m confident enough in myself to believe that it will all work out, that I will figure it out.
But I don’t think I’m the kind of person who can fall in love. Or at least I didn’t think I was. And even if I’m wrong about that, and I can fall in love, I feel fairly certain that I’m going to be really bad at it.
Falling in love.
I’ll be too clingy or not clingy enough. I’ll have trust issues (trusting him and being trusted by him . . . both are likely to be disastrous). I’ll say stupid things. Or I’ll say smart things that make him feel stupid. I’ll ignore him in favor of doing my work. Or I’ll ignore work for him.
So I can’t fall for Mateo Torres. There are limits to this little experiment, and that has to be one of them.
I won’t be cliché enough to fall for a guy just because he took my virginity. I am ruled by my head above all else.
As I ignore my own issues and focus on him, the pinch of pain at the back of my throat that comes from seeing him like this tells me that the danger is very real. I have to fight a tide of rising panic even though I know he’s right. His symptoms are mild, and with bed rest, he should recover just fine. But it’s just . . . I’ve never seen him this vulnerable. And I want . . .
I am ruled by my head. Nothing else.
He has this glazed look in his eyes, and even though he seems coherent enough and is making an effort to appear as normal as possible, I can tell how tired he is. My freak-out will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, I need to be practical. For his health’s sake. My brain quickly cycles through the necessary information. He needs to rest, but I’ll also need to wake him up periodically to make sure he’s still coherent, still able to be woken up. Which means he’ll be spending the night here. In room. In my bed.
Only this time, Dylan’s here. And I’ll have to tell her something.
“Okay,” I say. “Let me get you that aspirin.”
As I make my way to the door, he says, “Thank you. You’re amazing.”
“Don’t thank me yet. If I think you’re getting worse, I’m taking you to the hospital. I don’t care how ‘fine’ you are.”
His mouth twitches, an almost smile. “You think I’m fine?”
I roll my eyes, even though a part of me finds it adorable that he’s still flirting with me even after we’ve already slept together.
Ruled by your mind, Nell. Focus.
I leave to retrieve the medicine and some water. On my way to the kitchen, Dylan catches me, “Is he okay?”
“Hmm?” Crap. What do I tell her? “Oh yeah. He’s just tired from practice, I think. And . . .” Here goes nothing. “Well, I know you told me to stay away from him, but I like him. We’re . . . seeing each other.”
There. Neither of us has really talked yet about telling other people that we’re sleeping together. We’re both so busy with my classes and his football stuff that we didn’t want to have to split our limited free time by answering questions about ourselves. But this is the only explanation, besides the truth, that I have for why he’d show up here and want to go straight to my room. It will justify why we’re spending hours cooped up in my room, and keep people from disturbing us.
“That little bugger, he pulled it off.”
“What?”
“He asked me about you. Wanted to know how to talk to you. I honestly didn’t think he had a chance, or that he was serious enough to wear you down, but he did it.”
Oh, he was plenty good at wearing me down.
She asks, “And you like him? For real like him?”
I have to fight the urge to drag her onto the couch and spill everything I’m feeling, to ask her what love feels like, just so I’ll know that what I’m feeling isn’t it. And if it is . . . damn it, now is not the time.
“Yeah. I like him. Listen, he needs my help with something, can we talk about this later?”
She gives me a smirk, and I’m sure she’s thinking of a very different something
that I might help him with, but she says, “Sure. I think I’ll go over to Silas’s. Spend the night there.”
I’m stunned for a moment at how supportive she is of all this. From the way she’d first talked about Mateo, I figured she would think I was crazy. That was a big part of why I hadn’t told her before even though I was dying to talk to someone. But now she’s practically throwing me into his arms, leaving us the apartment all to ourselves.
With a glass of water in hand, I make my way back to my room to find him struggling to stay awake. I close the door behind me and move to his side.
“Hey.” His smile is sleepy and soft, and it makes him look sweeter. Less intimidating. I might want to be ruled by my mind, but there’s a fist around my heart, and the poor little organ seems to struggle to beat against it, to beat against how terrifying it is to want a person this much. I shake out a few pills and hand them to him along with the water. He pops the aspirin into his mouth and then leans his head up far enough to swallow a mouthful of water.
Then I reach down to pull off his sneakers. They’re longer than the length of my forearm, and they look even bigger when I place them on the floor beside my bed.
“Nurse Nell,” he murmurs in his deep, gravelly voice.
“Do you want to be under the covers?” I ask.
“Depends. Will you be under there, too?”
I roll my eyes. “You need to rest.”
“I can multitask.”
And oh, I want him to. But we can’t. He’s ill, and I’m . . . me.
He shifts up to a sitting position, and though he could probably do it by himself, I pull back the covers when he stands. I wait for him to climb back into the bed, but instead he steps closer to me and lifts a hand to my cheek. He leans down at the same time I tip my head up, and he rests his forehead against mine. His eyes are closed, and mine are open. And this close I can see his dark long lashes, and I can see the slightest hint of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He doesn’t say anything. Nor does he move to do anything more than touch me. He takes a deep breath, and I place a hand on his chest to feel the way it expands and then falls. He breathes again, and it feels like he’s taking a piece of me into his lungs with him, and just when I’m about to close my eyes, he pulls away and crawls into my bed.