“As opposed to your life?”
Holly sounded angry, frustrated… and scared.
I could sympathize.
“Will you cut that out? Those aren’t the only options. It’s not a choice between quitting football and dying.”
“That’s not what Dr. Pitney said.”
“One doctor! That’s what I’m saying. If every doctor in the world gave me the same advice, then fine. But I guarantee you that if I saw a hundred doctors, ninety of them would say I could keep playing.”
“And I’m telling you that I don’t care! When it comes to your health, which side of that argument do you think I’ll choose? If it was one doctor against ninety-nine, which side do you think I’d choose?”
“But it’s my life! Not yours. If it’s a risk, then it’s my risk to take.”
“There’s no guarantee the risk will pay off. You know the odds against playing professional football.”
“Of course I know. But even if I only get to finish out my college career, I still want to play. I want to play for as long as I can. Why don’t you understand that?”
“Because I’m your mother! Because I don’t want you to die, or suffer the long-term consequences of repeated head trauma! Do you think I could stand to see you knocked unconscious again? Wheeled off the field on a stretcher, while I sit in the stands wondering if you’re alive or dead? Why don’t you understand that?”
“It’s my life! My life! You can’t just take football away from me. It’s not fair.”
“I don’t care if it’s fair. I’m telling you no. You’re not getting a second opinion. You’re not transferring to another school. And that’s final.”
There was a brief moment of silence. Then a sudden, loud crash and Will’s voice.
“Fuck!”
Had he fallen? Was he hurt?
I dashed across the hallway and pushed the door open.
Will was standing in the middle of the room, his hands on his head. The lamp beside his bed was lying on the floor, the ceramic base cracked and the bulb broken. Beside the bent lampshade I saw his cell phone. Will had thrown it with enough force to knock the lamp from the night stand.
I must have made a noise—a gasp or something—because Will spun around and saw me. He stared, and I stared, and neither one of us said a word for what felt like a long time.
I was shocked. Hearing the rage in his voice a moment ago and seeing the wild fury in his eyes now, I almost didn’t recognize this Will as the Will I’d known for more than a year.
After a minute I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. I couldn’t stand feeling like I was with a stranger. I wanted Will to speak, to reassure me he was the same person he’d always been.
“Hey,” I said, my voice sounding shaky. “It’s good to see you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Of all the people I didn’t want to see right then, Claire Stone was at the top of the list.
I’d lost football. The thing that had defined me for more than half my life. The one thing I could do better than most people. The thing that had made Lissa fall for me, and that I’d hoped might help Claire fall for me, too.
Now what did I have to offer? Football was the only thing that had made me special. I didn’t know who I was without it. Even last year, when I rode the bench, I’d thought of myself as a football player first and a student second.
I’d lost my athletic scholarship. My mom and Alex had told me over and over again that they could afford my last two years at Hart, but they weren’t rich and I knew tuition would put a strain on their finances.
My one chance to get everything back was transferring to a school that would let me play. There were plenty of them out there.
But my mother refused to even consider it. I got the sense that Alex was more open to the idea, but there was no question he’d defer to my mom on this one.
Of course I was nineteen, so theoretically I could do what I wanted. But that would mean going against my mother—the one person who’d sacrificed for me my whole life. How the hell could I do that to her?
So now here I was, between a rock and a hard place. I had headaches no pain reliever could touch, and bright lights were still my enemy. I’d let down my teammates and my coach. And if I somehow managed to achieve my best case scenario—convincing my mom to let me transfer to another football program—I’d still have to leave my friends and the team I loved… and Claire.
Seeing her was suddenly unbearable.
“Get out,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
Her head jerked back as though I’d slapped her.
“I just… wanted to be sure you were okay. You didn’t, um, answer my texts.”
I knew I hadn’t. I’d saved them all, along with her emails, and for a few days I’d read them over and over again. I’d listened to her voice mails over and over, too.
Then, after Hart made its final decision about my football career, I’d deleted everything.
“I have a lot to deal with right now. In case you didn’t know,” I added, which was a shitty thing to say.
Her hands squeezed into fists. “I know. Of course I know.” She hesitated. “On my way up, I heard you talking with your mom. It sounds like you, um, want to transfer to another school? Where they’ll let you play football?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. But my mother’s not down with that plan.”
She looked at me with those big blue eyes, and I almost broke down and begged her forgiveness for being an asshole. Then she said:
“I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but Holly’s right. Your life and your health are more important than football. I’ve been reading about athletes and concussions and—”
My head started to throb. “Jesus Christ. You’re not a doctor yet, and you’re not my mother. I don’t need a lecture from you. Just get out, okay? Get the fuck out.”
Claire’s face turned bright red. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as though she was trying to keep herself from crying.
“I’m sorry,” I said gruffly. “I just—” I shook my head. “It’s not a good time, okay? Seriously, Claire… you should go.”
“Isn’t there something I can do to help?”
She took a step toward me, and I took three steps back. If she touched me it would all be over. I’d fall apart or cry or some shit, and there was no way I was letting that happen.
“You could sleep with me, I suppose. I could stand to burn off a little steam.”
She froze. Her eyes turned bright, and in the next instant there were tears trembling on her lashes. She blinked, and I saw one tear slip down her cheek before she turned and fled.
A few minutes later I was lying on my bed, my forearm over my eyes.
“What the fuck did you do to Claire?”
It was Andre. I let my arm drop to my side so I could look at him. He was standing in the doorway like a mountain of righteousness, and I’d never felt myself wallowing so deep in wrongness.
“She just showed up, man. I didn’t ask her to come here. I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, so I sent her away.”
Andre took three long steps into the room and stood there glowering at me. “Claire isn’t just anyone. That girl has been worried sick about you. She’s been asking me every day—every hour, sometimes—how you are. If there’s something she can do to help. She cares about you, you asshole. And whatever you said to her had her crying her eyes out. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, probably because she knew I’d tear into you if she did. You hurt her, and the only thing she cares about is protecting you.”
Guilt washed over me, but I hardened my heart against it. If I let anything but anger in I’d fall apart.
“Good for her. Look, I’ve got a headache. Just leave me alone, okay?”
* * *
Going back to class was harder than I would admit to anyone. Loud noises and bright lights still bothered me, looking at computer screens bothered me, and even though I was downing Advil
and Tylenol like candy, the headaches were sometimes so bad I’d sit in the lecture hall with my eyes closed and my hands pressed to my temples, just waiting for the pain to go away.
Eventually it did. Two weeks after I got back to Hart, the headaches started to get better. I was feeling less foggy in the mornings, too.
The only thing that wasn’t getting better was my mood.
The shittiest thing I’d done was not apologizing to Claire. I’d thought about it a hundred times. I’d written a hundred different texts and deleted them all without sending.
I’m sorry I was such a jerk.
Please forgive me.
And most pathetic of all:
I miss you.
But I knew if I made any kind of overture, she’d be with me in a heartbeat. And I still couldn’t stand the idea of seeing her. Not when my life was so fucked up… and not when I was still trying to convince my mom to let me transfer.
If I had my way, I’d be leaving Hart. So what good would it do to patch things up with Claire? That would only make me want to stay—and torture me with what I couldn’t have.
I had enough of that in my life already.
I still thought Alex was my best bet for talking sense into my mom. As November went by I started to feel better—physically, anyway—and I talked to Alex almost every night. I told him about the players I’d spoken to at other schools, and whatever I’d read that day on the internet that bolstered my case. Alex didn’t argue with me; he mostly just listened. I thought that was a good sign until I made an all-out pitch the Monday before Thanksgiving.
“I’m flying home on Wednesday,” I reminded him. “I thought you and mom and I could sit down then and talk about this. I’ve put together some information that should calm her down. Stuff from medical journals and doctors about—”
“Will.”
I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like whatever he was about to say. “Just listen to what I—”
“It’s not going to happen.”
My heart sank. If Alex wasn’t on my side…
“But you haven’t even heard me out yet. You haven’t—”
“Will, I’ve been listening to you for the last month. I’ve been listening to you, and to your mother, and to the sports medicine doctors I’ve called personally.”
Shit.
“But—”
“Will, I love you. And I understand in my gut how you feel about football, because I feel the same way. I told myself I would keep an open mind about your injury because that’s what I would’ve wanted people to do for me when I was a player. And I have kept an open mind. So when I tell you this, it doesn’t just come from the love I feel for you as your stepfather. It also comes from the advice and opinions of medical experts I trust, and from my instincts as a coach. You shouldn’t play football again, Will.”
Ever since the injury on the field, the blows had kept coming. This one, though, felt like the knockout punch.
“I don’t have to do what you say.” My voice trembled like a little kid’s, and I hated myself for that. “I’m nineteen years old.”
“I know. I guess that’s a decision you’ll have to make for yourself. You’ll have to decide who you trust, and who has your best interests at heart.”
My own heart was a raging mess. I knew that my mother and Alex loved me. Of course I did. But I also knew that I loved football, and that I didn’t want to let it go without a fight.
I knew something else, too. I knew there was no way I could go home for Thanksgiving without saying things I’d regret—and maybe some things I wouldn’t be able to take back.
“I’m not coming home.”
“What?”
“On Wednesday. I’m not coming home.”
Silence. Then:
“Your mom and I will come to you, then. You shouldn’t be alone on Thanksgiving.”
The swirl of anger and pain inside me was getting worse every second.
“You guys can come out if you want, but I won’t be here. I’m going to take a road trip and think things through. I’ll call you next week.”
I ended the call before Alex could say anything else, and then I turned off my phone so I wouldn’t know if he tried to call back.
The truth was, I had no intention of taking a road trip. I would stay here, although if my mother and Alex made an appearance I would definitely take off.
So what did I want to do over the holiday break? Just about everyone I knew would be gone.
Get drunk, I decided.
And after that?
I’d see where the spirit took me.
Chapter Fifteen
I got a call from Andre on Tuesday night. After we finished talking, I sat cross-legged on my bed and stared at my phone for a long time.
Then I went to Julia’s room to ask her for a really big favor. Once we figured out the details, I called my dad.
“I have something to tell you that you’re really, really going to hate.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I can’t come home for Thanksgiving this year.”
“Okay, you’re right. I really, really hate that.” He paused. “You have three minutes to make your case.”
I took a deep breath. “You know everything that’s been happening with Will?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’s in a bad place. A monumentally bad place. I’m scared to death for him, Dad. I just talked to Andre, and apparently Will’s decided to stay here over the break. Alone. And if he spends the week the way he’s spent the last two days—”
“How has he spent the last two days?”
“Drinking.”
“Damn. I don’t need to tell you how stupid and dangerous that is, on a lot of levels. He’s underage, he had a serious concussion not long ago, and—”
“I know, Dad. That’s why I want to stay. We’re going to do an intervention.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Will’s friends. Some of us, anyway.”
I could hear my dad’s sigh all the way from Iowa. “That’s something his parents should be doing, sweetheart.”
“If he was going to listen to his parents, I wouldn’t be talking to you about this.”
“I know you mean well. But, Claire—”
“Maybe no one can get through to him right now. Maybe we won’t be able to help. But we have to try. And, look. I have his mom’s phone number. If there’s anything we can’t handle, I’ll call her. All right?” I paused. “But I don’t think I’ll have to. Will’s a wonderful, incredible person. Underneath all the stuff he’s going through right now, he’s still a wonderful person. I just want to remind him of that.” I paused again. “Please, Dad. Please. I’ll make it up to you and Jenna over Christmas, okay?”
He pounced on that immediately. “Does that mean you’ll stay with us for the whole break? You won’t spend two weeks in Boston like you were planning?”
I sighed. “Fine.”
“All right, then. You can spend Thanksgiving at Hart helping your friend. But if anything is off, anything at all, you’d better call his folks like you said you would—and you’d better call me, too.”
Relief spread through me. “I will. I promise. And, Dad? I love you.”
I already had my bag packed for my trip home, so I didn’t have to waste time on that. I left the dorm, tossed my suitcase into the trunk of my car, and drove to the bar Andre had called from.
Del was waiting for me out front.
“Will’s inside with Andre and Tony,” he said. He looked worried, which was disconcerting. Del never worried about anything.
“I’ll wait here for you guys,” he said, sticking his hands into his pockets. “I’m not that good in a crisis. This is more Andre’s scene.”
I found them in a booth way in the back. The bar was dark and seedy and smelled like cheap beer and air freshener, and it struck me as exactly the kind of place you’d expect to serve an underage kid carrying a fake ID.
I slid into the booth b
eside Will and across from Andre and Tony. Will had his head buried in his arms and he was snoring loudly.
“How many drinks did he have?”
“Five,” Andre said.
I looked at Will, sprawled out over the scarred wooden table with his head in his arms and peanut shells stuck in his hair. It looked like he hadn’t shaved since yesterday.
“Five drinks did that to him? He’s such a big guy.”
“I know, but he’s not usually much of a drinker. He doesn’t have a tolerance built up or anything.”
I dug into my mental files for some of the info I’d looked up after Will’s injury.
“People can be more sensitive to alcohol after a concussion.” I frowned. “I bet his doctor told him that at some point. I bet he knows he shouldn’t be drinking.”
Tony was looking frustrated. “Of course he knows. But he’s not in a mood to listen to reason.”
Andre nodded. “I guess he had a bad conversation with his folks or something. Anyway, that’s when he decided not to go home for Thanksgiving—and when he started drinking. He skipped his classes today, too.”
“Okay.” I leaned across the table to emphasize my next point. “If this plan is going to work we have to be all in. Are you sure you and Dyshell can make it out to the cabin tomorrow night? There’s no way I can do this alone.”
“We’ll be there,” Andre said. “We already cleared it with our parents. Coach won’t let me off practice tomorrow, but after that we’ll hit the road.”
Tony was looking at a weather report on his phone. “It’s supposed to snow tonight. Where’s this cabin again?”
“Out in the Berkshires,” I told him. “I saw that report, too, but they’ll have the roads plowed by tomorrow afternoon.”
Claire (Hart University Book 2) Page 10