All Played Out (Rusk University #3) (23 page)

He smiles. “Football is more of a challenge.”

I laugh. And make a mental note to Google him and make sure he didn’t just randomly spring into existence a few years ago.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “I’m sorry I gave you shit about Nell. I read that wrong.”

“Me or her?”

“The two of you together. You didn’t make sense when I considered you separately. But whatever is going on with you two . . . it’s good. I can tell.”

“You’re like some weird version of
The Wizard of Oz,
aren’t you? There’s some old dude somewhere spying on us all with video cameras and telling you what to say. Or you’re secretly a robot or an alien or something.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What kind of messed-up
Wizard of Oz
did you watch as a kid?”

“You two,” Coach Oz barks as passes by us. “Quit gabbing like a bunch of little girls, and get on the field.”

We finish changing clothes quickly as Oz leaves, and when the door slams behind him, I whistle. “Man, Oz needs to get laid. Dude scares me when he gets like that.” Brookes makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m serious. Look at Coach Cole. Guy is still scary as fuck, but since he’s been dating that dance professor chick?
Way
cooler.”

The silence after my statement is a bit too
silent
.

“Coach Cole, are you right behind me?”

“Yes, I am, Torres.”

I shoot Brookes a glare, and the prick doesn’t even bother hiding his grin. I spin. There aren’t many people in the world who can make me feel small, but Coach Cole is one of them. We’re roughly the same height, but the dude has Hulk shoulders and a beard that just screams, “I could kick your ass.”

“Sir, I don’t know if you’re aware of this. But ‘scary as fuck’ is a slang term that means incredibly well respected.”

His expression doesn’t change. Not at all. Freaking stone.

“And ‘dating that dance professor chick’ is slang for—”

“Just shut up and get your ass on the field, Torres.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Because I find you
scary as fuck,
sir.”

He takes a step forward, and I bolt as calmly as I can for the door. I call back, “I was using that as a slang term, remember?”

For a moment I think I see the twitch of a smile beneath his mustache, but it’s gone a second later, and I decide I’m better off hightailing it out onto the field.

“You never know when to stop, do you?” Brookes asks, jogging up beside me.

“I prefer to view that particular gift of mine in a positive light. More like . . . I cross lines no one else is willing to cross. I go where no man has gone before. All boldly and shit.”

“I literally have
no clue
how you and Nell work. None.”

He’s joking, I know. But that particular jab slips past my defenses, and bangs around in my chest for a while as we walk out onto the field. I’m not looking for anything long term from Nell, but if events up to this point are any clue, she’ll probably be done with me before I’m done with her. And even though I’m not trying to get serious, I can’t say I’m looking forward to that. It’s gonna fuck me up to see a girl like her walk away, serious or not. And I can’t afford that. Not right now. Not when I’m on the verge of finally proving myself.

If I were smart, I’d take that thought and end things now. But I do enjoy flirting with that dangerous line.

Maybe that’s what makes me reckless. I don’t know. Maybe it’s Nell, and how freaking powerful she makes me feel. Maybe I’m so eager to prove Coach right, prove Lina and everyone else wrong. Maybe Nell’s assessment of me that first day was right, and I enjoy showing off too damn much.

Whatever the reason, I play hard during practice. As hard as I would play during a game. I take risks, go for catches that I would normally let slide during practice.

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.”