Our exchange the first day on the track:
Sounds like you’ve been hit in the head one too many times.
Actually, that’s not too far off from the truth.
The Tylenol I’ve seen him pop when he thinks I’m not looking.
Even his half-step slowness during scrimmage—just like Jake, I thought that was Grey’s injured ego, but now it’s suddenly startlingly obvious that something else is.
“How bad was the concussion you got your freshman year?”
He clearly doesn’t want to say the words, but under my fiercest glare he finally does. “A grade three.”
Oh. My. God. I’m no medical professional, but I have been hit in the head hard enough that I know Grey Worthington lost consciousness in that car accident.
“Grey…” I say, and get to my knees, one hand on the wall, and press my fingertips to his temple, as if doing so can magically tell me if his brain is no longer bruised.
He sort of laughs and takes my hand in his, kissing my fingers. “I’m okay. I’m really okay.”
But I’m not fazed. “Are you really okay to play? I swear to God if you lie to me, I’ll knee you in the nuts.”
His eyes pointedly shoot to my knees, which are indeed pretty close to the crotch of his shorts. “I’mnotcleared,” he says, and then looks up from my knees and straight into my eyes. “But that’s only because they don’t know either.”
“Who doesn’t know?”
Grey swallows. “Everyone. The coaches. Mom. Dad.”
Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. “Why don’t they know about it?”
“Because I don’t want college recruiters to find out.”
I’m absolutely stunned.
And the thing is, I understand. I get not wanting to be judged forever for something stupid in your past—that’s my summer on a plate.
Grey’s talking again. “Dad’s a lawyer, so we can swing college and all, but I don’t want to just walk on somewhere. I want to play. And I don’t want anyone passing me up my senior year because of it.”
I understand that, too—it’s part of why I need to make Coach Kitt’s team. Not just to get in front of recruiters for a full ride, but also so anyone interested in offering me anything won’t think twice about the reputation I dinged when I decked Stacey.
“How’d you keep it from them…? I mean, you had to be checked out after the car accident. I mean, your arm—it’s not like you refused medical attention. How could they not…? How did you keep it from them?”
Again, Grey looks down. Embarrassed or regretful or both. “I came to before the ambulance and cops arrived. They didn’t know I’d been out. And I don’t know how, but I made it through every test. They were way more concerned with not jostling my arm—someone recognized me as Northland’s starting quarterback.”
Wow. Luck and way more deceit than I ever expected from Grey Worthington add up to one big-ass secret.
“So… no one knows but me?”
Grey doesn’t break eye contact, the steel gray reaching into me. Pleading. “No one. Promise me you won’t tell. Please? I can take care of myself.”
The way he says it, I’m back on the stoop that night Dad found out about my secret football career, hearing my own voice as I beg him to listen. Trying to prove that I know what’s best for me. That I can handle it. That I know what I have to do for the future I want.
I search Grey’s face again, doing the math in my head. It’s been more than eight weeks since his accident. I’ve had two concussions in my softball career—both grade twos at ages ten and fourteen—and I know that’s long enough to heal. Still, I have to hear him say it.
“I promise I won’t rat you out.” He smiles briefly, but I put a finger to his lips, ruining the expression. “But I need you to promise me that if you’renot okay, you’ll tell me and we’ll get you to a doctor immediately.”
“I promise.”
I sit back on my heels, appraising the whole Grey Worthington package. And it’s a nice one. “Good. I don’t want my boyfriend to have mashed potatoes for brains. I rather like your brains.”
