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“Not unless you want to spend the next couple of days here under our watch.”
“Fuck, no. Ask away.”
“Can you tell me what day it is?”
“It was Sunday. I’m assuming it’s still Sunday.”
“Okay. And what about the actual date?”
I sigh and rub my forehead. The throbbing is still there, and I think someone might be pounding on my skull.
“November,” I say after a minute. “November something.”
The doctor hums, and the woman to his right jots something down on her clipboard. “Who’s our current president?”
“Uh. I don’t know.”
“Can you list the months of the year backward?” Dr. Anderson asks.
“December. November. October.” I close my eyes. It’s too bright in here. “August. No. Wait. September, then August. July. June. May. April. Uh. March. February. January.”
“Good. Who were you playing today?”
I open my eyes and stare at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“Do you remember the score?”
“No. But if I’m here I really hope we fucking won.”
“Dallas, you have a concussion. It’s mild, based on the short-term memory loss you’ve experienced and your sensitivity to light and sounds.”
“I’m not sensitive to light,” I argue.
“You can barely keep your eyes open. You also lost consciousness on the field,” Dr. Anderson says, and the blows keep on coming.
“Christ.” It hurts to take a deep breath. “And my ribs?”
“One is very bruised. On your right side.”
I turn and look at Shawn. There are stress lines on his cheeks and he seems years older than when I last saw him. “What the hell happened?”
“What was the last thing you remember?” he asks, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.
I try to sort through the memories, but it’s like I’m seeing flashes of things, not the whole picture.
“It was raining,” I say slowly. “A bad snap. I think I picked up the ball. Then everything gets fuzzy.”
Shawn sits on the edge of my bed, and everyone files out of the room except for Dr. Anderson. I don’t know why they’re acting like this is top secret. I’m sure the internet is already speculating about what’s wrong with me, and a thousand people have probably come up with the wrong diagnosis.
“Your field goal was blocked.”
“God dammit.”
“Then you recovered the ball. It was kind of a mess out there with the mud. One of the Wildcats defenders came at you from the side after you threw a pass and then he tackled you.”
“When I didn’t have the ball?” My blood boils, and I stand up. “Who was it?”
“Sit your ass down,” Shawn says firmly, and I scowl at him. “We’re still reviewing the tapes—and I’m sure the league is too. It was close, Dal. It’s hard to tell if he didn’t know the ball was out of your hands and already committed to the tackle, or if it was intentional.”
