Fueled by my former successes, I make the lap and am nearly back to my door when my body gives out and Steven swoops in to support me completely. He’s a big guy, maybe six-foot-two or three. He’s close to Wyatt in height, but his body is bulkier, like my grandfather in pictures of when he was younger. My mom calls it fluffy.

  We get back to my bedside mostly on Steven’s strength, and my dad helps undo the harness so I can sit on the edge of the mattress while he smooths out the sheets and blanket before I lie back. Everything gets caught on my brace—blankets, cords, even my hair somehow. I think my biggest motivator to build strength is to get rid of wearing this thing twenty-four-seven.

  “It’s almost kick-off,” my dad says as the scent of Rose’s soup hits my nose.

  “Oh, my God, I need that now,” I say, turning to my left where my mom has already set up the rolling table with a steaming bowl. Grandpa likes her pozole, but for me, this creamy bowl of perfection can never go wrong.

  “She shredded the chicken a bit finer,” my mom says.

  The spoon is already in my hand and I’m sifting the broth to cool it enough to devour. My grandma’s soup is more like pureed enchiladas, which is probably why I love it so much. Unable to wait, I bring the first bite to my mouth and suck it in, not even caring when it burns my tongue a little.

  “Heaven,” I say, glancing at the discarded oatmeal bowl from this morning. I glower at it and my dad laughs before clearing my old dishes.

  “I’d think he was trying to impress the cute orderlies by helping out so much if they weren’t all six-foot-tall men in their fifties,” my mom jokes.

  “Oh, he’s trying to impress them all right. One of them said he was a fan, and you know Dad. Has to show off how he’s Captain America,” I say before blowing on my next bite of soup.

  My father comes back into the room after a few minutes, probably having taken my dishes all the way down to the cafeteria. He ups the volume on the TV, and I settle in, watching for Wyatt between every slurp from my spoon. After a few minutes, my dad’s phone rings with a FaceTime call. He smiles at the screen and quickly hands the phone over to me.

  “He wanted to watch the game today with his favorite buddy,” Rose says, flipping her phone so the camera captures both her and my Grandpa Buck.

  “Hey, kiddo. Gonna be a tough one today. You ready?” My grandfather’s voice warms me as much as my grandmother’s food, and for the first time since I got here, I feel a tiny sense of home.

  “I have faith,” I say, propping my dad’s phone on my table so I can have everyone in my family with me while I watch the love of my life leave it all out on the field.

  My little sister pops in and out of the camera every few minutes, wanting to share everything about her last week at school with me, including the bit about the boy who picked her last for dodgeball. I make eyes at my mom as Ellie talks about how gross that boy is—his name’s Jacob. Oh, Ellie. He likes you. And you thinking he’s so gross? Yeah, you like him back.

  With Deathtrap parked on the other side of the room and a full belly from real food, I settle in just as Wyatt runs onto the field. Grandpa claps, and I catch him sitting forward in his favorite chair just before Wyatt takes his first snap. He rushes out of the pocket a little early, and I wince, bracing myself for him to pay for it, but he quickly breaks free of a tackle and runs the ball for a fourteen-yard gain.

  My gaze flashes to my dad, who insists on standing when he watches Wyatt play. He folds his arms over his chest and rocks on his feet. He may as well be out there on the field coaching him. The sight makes me chuckle softly.

  The next play is a pass that hits Keaton in the chest, but he somehow can’t hang on to it. And despite Wyatt setting an aggressive tone out of the gate, they end up having to kick after a loss of two on a running attempt and an overthrow out of bounds.

  “It’s all right. We knew Western was going to come out hard,” my dad says. He steps around my bed and takes his phone for a few minutes to swap game plans with my grandfather that nobody can hear or put into action. My mom rolls her eyes, then reaches into her tote bag to pull out a small bag of homemade tortilla chips she smuggled in.

  “Don’t tell anyone. They didn’t want me giving you so much salt but you’re not a senior citizen. I think you’ll be fine.”

  My grin spreads wide as I dig my hand into the oil-stained paper sack. I try to mute the crunch from my first bite, but my father’s Batman-like hearing hones right in, and his hand scoops out about a dozen chips in one swoop.

  “Dammit,” my mom mutters. I think she wanted to hoard the chips for herself and me even more than she wanted to hide them from the medical staff.

  Our defense does its job, and the ball is back in Wyatt’s hands after Western goes three and out. My superstitious grandfather insists that my dad put the phone back where it was, and together, he and I root Wyatt down the field in five plays. But with four yards to go, Coach sends in Bryce.

  “Fuck,” I say, getting a quick reprimand from my mom, even though I’ve heard her drop dozens of those over the years while watching my dad. And when Bryce takes the snap and fumbles the ball for a turnover, it’s her turn to drop the F-bomb. I glance her way with pursed lips, but instead of pointing out the hypocrisy, I simply agree with her.

  My dad groans and steps out of the room. I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s pacing with his hands threaded behind his neck while he mentally lists all the things that went wrong with that play. I don’t want to be so hard on Bryce, but this one’s all on him—he has to hold on to the ball.

  The first quarter finishes scoreless, but Wyatt manages to throw deep for a quick touchdown in the second. And by the time the fourth is winding down, we’ve managed to climb up by four touchdowns, the last one scored by a defensive recovery.

  Bryce got in a few more times, mostly to run the ball on sneaks for a yard or two to get first downs. His frustration is obvious on his face, but I’m having a hard time worrying about him in the wake of Wyatt having a breakout game.

  My family celebrates the win, keeping my grandparents on video chat for about half an hour after the game ends. Knowing my end of the bargain I made with Dr. K is coming due, I blow kisses to my grandparents and hug my parents goodbye so they can head home for a little rest of their own.

  Steven’s still on shift, so it’s just him and me walking the hallway. I’m less ambitious now, maybe less motivated too, what with no promise of putting off the next round again, like last time. Plus, I’m tired. I’ve never been tired like this. We make our there-and-back trip down the hallway a little faster than the first attempt this morning, and I settle in for a well-earned nap when he puts Deathtrap back in its corner.

  My room is dark when I wake. I’m not quite sure how long I slept, but based on the rounds I’ve memorized, I’m guessing it was near three hours. The nurse checks my vitals and forces me to stand for a few minutes to keep my body healing. As I shake holding myself up at the foot of my bed, though, I’m not sure how much healing is being done. At this point, maybe sleep would do more good.

  She helps me back into bed, and I snag my phone from its charging cord before she leaves. It’s only seven at night, but it feels impossibly late. I’ve also missed a call and a text from Wyatt.

  WYATT: You must be sleeping. Flight lands at seven your time.

  I reply, letting him know I’m awake, hoping maybe he’s gotten in early. I’m staring at my message, waiting for it to say delivered, when the phone buzzes in my palm with his call.

  “Hi,” I say, sinking down as deep into my thin covers as my brace and this miserable bed will let me go.

  “Was the game that bad that it put you to sleep?” I can hear the bustling airport sounds in the background.

  “Not all of it,” I tease.

  “Ouch!” His voice is raspy, tired from the game and screaming in the locker room, I’m sure. He’s also not sleeping as much as he should. Because of me.

  “Hey, I’m about to get my bag, then we get hauled back to campus. Can I FaceTime you when I get home?”

  Home. We share a home. Well . . . shared a home.

  “Of course.”

  We both say I love you on top of the other’s words, and my face warms like a school child with a crush.

  Wyatt calls back an hour later, this time on video, and it’s nice to see him in our bed. His shirt is off, and he’s wearing the red and black plaid pajama pants I bought him last Christmas. It’s maybe my most favorite look of his, and his skin looks so warm and smooth. His hair is damp from a shower, and I can nearly smell it when I concentrate. And all those sensory things that I draw on from memory flood me, and my heart hurts.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Wyatt says, holding the phone above him as he falls back onto his pillow.

  “Can you put the phone on my side, like I’m lying with you?”

  His gaze feels faraway, but his worried smile translates. Guilt and self-pity are harder to fight off at night.

  “Yeah, here.” The camera focus shuffles around as he flips to his left side and jiggles the phone in his effort to prop it up against my pillow. He folds an arm under his cheek and lies flat, looking at me. I touch my own face, wishing it were him.

  “You know I’m not coming back, right?” It’s something I’ve known since I got the news of my injury, and I’m sure Wyatt’s thought about it. Still, the reality demands to be said tonight for some reason. Hard truths.

  Wyatt sucks in his lips and blinks slowly.

  “I know,” he relents after several quiet seconds.

  And I can’t help but feel as though somehow this is the beginning of the end.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Idon’t like leaning on my athlete status to get through school. It feels like cheating. Probably because it is cheating. Every senior athlete gets a no-penalty retake for every test in every class during travel season. In the real world, we should probably be made to plan ahead and set the right priorities—aka put academics first. But football isn’t the real world. Not when it makes so much damn money. And I’m tired today. I’m tired every day lately. I know I blew the online test I took this morning for my finance class, so I need to play my get-out-of-jail-free card while I’ve got it.

  Use it or lose it, isn’t that how the saying goes?

  I rap on the door for my professor’s office. It’s cracked open, so it squeaks and opens a little more from my touch.

  “Dr. Ambrose?”

  I’ve only ever seen this man in a tiny square on my computer, so I’m a little surprised when he swings around in the chair behind his desk and he’s not four-feet tall and bald. Well, he is bald, but it appears to be by choice. And he also seems to be quite large. Then there’s the Air Force shirt he’s wearing that isn’t the kind one buys off the rack somewhere, but rather the type of shirt that’s earned.

  “Ah, Mr. Stone. To what do I owe the privilege of this in-person visit?” He gets to his feet and reaches out his hand for a shake. He nearly crushes my fingers in his grip. Yeah, that’s definitely an earned shirt. Also, he’s definitely still able to pass whatever fitness test is thrown in front of him.

  “I’m not sure if you saw my entry this morning, but the late travel from the weekend caught up with me, and I don’t think I did so well on that last test.”

  Mr. Ambrose sits back in his seat and pulls the gold-rimmed glasses from his face.

  “I’m guessing you want to use your travel retake?” He’s chuckling as he asks.

  He pulls a stack of forms out of his side drawer and flops it down on his desk, along with a pen.

  “Must have been some pretty serious jet lag, what your travel being a whole day ago and all,” he chuckles.

  My brow pinches as I sit down and take the pen in my hand.

  “I . . . guess? I mean, we got in late Saturday. But I’ve had a lot going on, and⁠—”

  “Yeah, yeah. You and the other six guys who came in this morning filling out the same form.” He laughs to himself, the kind of laugh a person lets out when they’re not amused but rather . . . miffed. And if six of us, seven including me, all cashed in our free passes at once, maybe he has good reason to be fed up. Except, I’m not being lazy. If anything, my problem is I’m trying to be too much—too many places all at once. And my head is vacillating non-stop between guilt and paranoia.

  I put the pen down about halfway through the form and stare at it for a few seconds while Dr. Ambrose busies himself typing something—probably an email to a colleague about what a loser I am for taking a freebie.

  “You know what?”

  I stand up, tearing the top sheet in half. I push the stack across the desk, the pen resting on top, and wad my free pass into a tight paper ball in my fist. Dr. Ambrose pushes away from his computer and leans back in his chair as his eyes settle on me.

  “You’re right. I deserve what I get. I’ll keep that score, whatever it is, and if it means I need to be perfect from here on out just to pass, then so be it. That’s what I get. Hell, maybe you’ll get to mark me ineligible for the grades. I won’t even fight it. To tell you the truth, I could use the fuckin’ break.”

  I toss the paper ball into the trash by his door on my way out and walk straight to the weight room where Bryce and Whiskey are waiting for me. I don’t remember taking a breath the entire way, though I must have. I’m still standing. And I have enough of a voice left to tell Whiskey to fuck off when he comments on me walking in late. He has a point—I did set the time for today.

  But still.

  “Fuck off.” I say it again.

  The silence between him and Bryce while I move plates to the bench press bar is palpable. It’s full of judgement. I pop my head up after I put a clip on the right side of the bar, and when my eyes meet Whiskey’s, he immediately looks away. I’m like a predator sniffing out weakness. Or maybe I’m the weak one looking for an easy kill.

  I grab the forty-five-pound plate from Bryce’s hands and push it on the other side, snagging the clip from Whiskey’s grasp before he has a chance to help. Without looking either of them in the eyes, I flop down on the bench and center myself under the bar. Perfectly still, I wait for one of them to get in position to spot me, but when it becomes clear neither of them intends to, I drop my hands to my forehead and growl like a wild animal.

  “Dude, you’re still in your jeans. You want to talk about what’s up your ass this morning?” Whiskey kicks the edge of my shoe lightly after he calls me out, and I lift my head enough to see I’m not only in my jeans, but I’m also still wearing the polo shirt I slipped on for my meeting with Dr. Ambrose.

  I might have had a mental breakdown.

  “I’m a little rattled today, is all,” I say, pulling myself up to straddle the bench. My gym bag is by the door, my change of clothes inside. I vaguely remember tossing it there when I marched in here.

  “You don’t need to be here, you know.” Bryce’s observation, however right, eats at the source of my anxiety.

  “You’re right. I don’t need to be here,” I say, meeting his stare. “But I should be here.”

  We lock eyes for a few seconds while Whiskey looks on. I give my friend enough credit to understand how fucked up this co-quarterback relationship I find myself in is.

  “Do you want to know the difference between us?” Bryce finally says.

  I shrug and shake my head, my anger and frustration quickly morphing into defeatism.

  “I don’t know, Bryce. What is it? Your determination to just keep pushing until our roles are reversed? Or the fact that if you blew a test like I did this morning, you’d have no qualms taking the free do-over. Because why shouldn’t we take advantage of our perks. Or is it that you sleep fine at night, while I . . . ha! Bryce, I hardly fucking sleep at all!”

  My face feels hot, and my chest is heaving with my ragged breath. I’m so emotionally spent that I’ve exhausted myself. Peyton and I barely got to talk yesterday. And I couldn’t visit because of some nerve tests she had, and I needed to watch film to make sure I never throw an interception again. Ha! Like that’s a curable fault.

  “You done now, jackass?” Bryce sits on the bench across from me and leans forward, his elbows balanced on his knees as he levels me with a hard stare.

  I breathe in deeply, then exhale, blinking away the latest rush of rage attacking me. I don’t like feeling like this, like life is unfair. I haven’t felt this way since my dad died.

  “I’m done. Sorry,” I say, lifting my hand in gesture.

  “You’re forgiven. Now, do you want to know the serious answer?” He’s reminding me a lot of Peyton’s mom right now. Maybe a little bit of my own, too.

  I nod.

  “The difference between us is I would have picked football. Every time. Tough test I should study for? Fuck that—football. My teammates need attention? Screw them, football is mine. They can get their own game.”

  I pull my mouth into a wry smile and lift a shoulder, not sure where he’s going with this. I mean, it’s big of him to admit he’s a selfish asshole, but not sure I’m getting clarity from his⁠—

  “The best person to enter my life needs my help? I’m busy. With football. She’s broken and hurting? Fighting for her self-worth? Her dignity? Her life? That sucks, but man . . . I have football.”

  Oh.

  “I had a gift in my hands. And I fucking chose football every single time. You? You chose her. You chose her over that dumb test that won’t matter a decade from now. You chose her over getting on an airplane ten hours earlier for a game you weren’t sure you would get to start in.”

  He stands up and closes the distance between us, dropping his hands into the pockets of his joggers as he breathes out a sad laugh.

  “Wyatt, you chose her over sleep, over your own ambition, over football, and you know what? You were right. Every fucking time you made that choice, you were right.”

  My lungs fill at his words, and my pulse shakes my limbs back to life. He’s right. If he’s feeding me bullshit to get me out of the way, then bravo to him for one hell of a performance. Because I believe him. Bryce might have just become the better person he said he wanted to be. That right there—his words? Those were genuine.