“Nothing, sir. It’s fine.” I don’t break eye contact.
Lee purses his lips, not buying it. “Rodinsky, don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying, Coach. It’s just bruised. Not injured.”
Finally, Shanks makes eye contact. “How bruised?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I present my leg, pulling up the leggings and shifting around the padding so that the outer side of my knee isvisible in the late-afternoon light. The bruise has lightened from purple to a dark green, making it look like the blip of a thunderstorm on the radar. Abigblip. The thing is the size of my hand and wraps from the side of my knee just above the kneecap, all the way around to the base of my quad.
Shanks gets his nose down there to look, knee brace clicking as he sinks to the turf. Grey and Lee have eyes all over it, too.
“It really is just a bruise.” I want to lie and say that I’ve had it checked out. That my LCL—I looked it up and that’s the outside ligament—is just peachy. But I haven’t. I mean, I think it’s fine, but I really need to be done with the white lies.
Shanks asks, “May I touch it?” I nod, and though he’s careful, I tense so much I know he can feel it, too. The initial damage was done more than a week ago, but continuing to practice has kept it ripe and tender. Shanks stretches to his full height before he speaks. “I believe you when you say it’s just a bruise, but I’m still going to sit you on Friday.”
Lee nods and turns his attention to Grey. “Worthington, the start is yours.”
No.
I want to yell, to tell them that his head is way moreimportant than my knee. But I can’t. I can’t. Ican’t. I can’t do that to him. I can’t sell him out.
So I turn. Grey’s so stunned he just nods and turns away, too. No pithy comments. No nothing.
A hand is on my arm, nails coated in fresh gel polish—Kelly. When I look up, there’s nothing brutal on her face. Just a calm, determined set to her jaw. Her voice is a whisper in my ringing ears.
“You can’t risk making your knee worse. Sitting out is the best thing for you and the team.”
But it’s not the best thing for Grey.
Coach Lee is talking again. “Rodinsky, go with Coach Napolitano and get checked out.”
I look to Grey and there’s a mixture of confidence and relief in his eyes—he’s trying to tell me that he’s okay, that he wishes I weren’t hurt, and that he’s thankful I’ve kept his secret.
As I’m walking away, all I can think is that I may have gotten my boyfriend back, but I lost my chance to protect him.
A bruise to my LCL. Not a sprain, thank God, or I’d be out for two weeks. Napolitano sets me up with a soft knee brace and when I put it on under my uniform, the bottom of it pokes out, visibly marking me as injured. Dammit.
Still, I return to practice and move through themotions, alternating with Grey on the A team. I even run laps after practice in step with Grey, the brace definitely improving the hitch in my stride.
As the rest of the team stalks off to the showers, dinner on their minds, I tug Grey back, tucking him against the chain-link fence that separates the stadium from the alley of asphalt that leads to the locker rooms.
I twine his hands in mine and meet him with my game-day glare. “Tell me the truth. Are you really okay to play?”
Grey doesn’t blink, the sweat on his face dried into fine white lines. His curls are matted down from his helmet, but they still look frustratingly perfect. “I’m fine. I promise.”
A lump is in my throat and I know he can hear it when I ask, “You’re sure?”
His hands come to my face, thumbs cradling my cheeks as if they’re made of glass. “I promise. No more headaches.”
My lips drop open, but before I can insist he tell me again, he’s turned the tables on me. “And your knee? When were you going to tell me about that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, though he’s no dummy to the brace or my diagnosis. “I know what a real injury feels like. It’s not a big deal.”
His little half smile kicks up and his gray eyes flash in the dying light. “So youweren’tgoing to tell me.”
“No,” I admit. “But you would’ve found out Saturdaynight, anyway.” I lean in to him, our lips close enough I can feel his breath. Our pads click together, numbers sixteen and thirteen becoming one. “My homecoming dress does have a pretty good slit in it.” I can’t afford a new dress, so I’m wearing Addie’s from last year, and, yeah, it’s epic.
