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Suddenly, she’s positive and upbeat, supportive and sweet. Like she didn’t just slam the bathroom door in my face and shove me out of her private pain fifteen minutes ago.
“Sure.” I take a drink of water and gnaw into the protein bar, hoping that, even if I can’t have coffee, the hydration and calories will help me focus. “What’s first?”
“I have to ask you a few questions for background. We’ll discuss some of your medical stuff, too. Then we’ll hop into the assessment. It’s a few hours long.”
It sounds like torture, especially when she sips coffee, flips through notes, and looks too damn beautiful doing it. “Sure.”
I grit my teeth and grip the table so I don’t jump on her—or her cup.
“Have you ever had a problem speaking before these episodes began?”
“Never.”
She jots notes on the assessment. “Have you had a hearing exam in the last twelve months?”
“Yeah, the neurologist insisted we check everything from top to bottom after the concussion in the NFC Championship Game but before the Super Bowl. That came out clear.”
“Brain scan? I know they aren’t completely indicative of issues, but did your neurologist find anything? I know CTE can’t be diagnosed without an autopsy, so he wouldn’t have laid that label on you. Let’s not resort to that to get a diagnosis, okay?”
She’s teasing me. Leave it to Harlow to joke through a serious subject. I think she handles everything rough with humor or deflection, maybe a touch of sarcasm, too. “Let’s not. The scan I had back around the first of February looked good but…”
“These things develop over years and decades, yeah. Tell me when you first noticed your difficulty with speech.”
“I couldn’t speak for a few hours after my last concussion. I could think, but that’s the first time I became aware of the disconnect between my brain and my mouth.” I don’t admit how much that worried me. But I sweated until my words returned. “Then again after the Super Bowl, I was supposed to go straight from the field to the shower, then to a press conference. I got through most of my canned statement all right, but when the reporters broke in and started pelting me with questions about my future in football and what I intended to do if I wasn’t extended another contract, I remember feeling my words freeze up.”
That’s when panic really set in.
“The idea of never playing again made you anxious, I take it?”
“I already knew I was done. For my health, I had to be. Admitting it felt impossible. I intended to announce my retirement that night, but I couldn’t—literally. I cut the press conference short by stomping out. The press painted me as pissy about the question, but I was frustrated about being unable to make my announcement after a reporter handed me the perfect segue. Later, my coach covered for me, telling everyone that I’d been dizzy and severely dehydrated.”
“I remember seeing a clip of you on the news. The press made a big deal about your curt responses and abrupt end. So that was the first time you’d been unable to speak in public? It caught you off guard?”
“Yeah. I was stunned that I suddenly couldn’t talk. I was especially baffled since I hadn’t suffered another concussion that day.” I still have no idea why it happens selectively. I mean, I’ve pinned it down to being tired or anxious. The combination together is almost a guarantee that I’ll fuck up.
“What did you tell your coach?”
“About that night? Nothing. I said I didn’t feel good. He made up the rest of the cover story. I went to a team party that night that lasted into the wee hours before I had to be up for more interviews the next morning. I was fine. We did Disney World and the White House. No problems. So I thought I was all right, that the whole incident had been a blip. Then it happened again when I realized I couldn’t avoid announcing my retirement. Then again when my sister got married. I couldn’t finish the toast I had planned.” I’d had to plead a migraine to everyone, lie that I couldn’t read the words swimming in front of my eyes.
“It’s happened twice in the past couple of days.”
Three times if I’m being picky. But she doesn’t need to know about my conversation with Griff just now. So I simply nod.
“Does anyone in your family have this same issue? Or ever had trouble in the past?”
I shake my head. “They all seem normal. No one has ever expressed any problem. Samaria is actually really good off the cuff. She’s in sales.”
Harlow taps the pencil’s eraser against her temple and stares at the paper in her hand. “Any new medications in the last six months? Something that may have altered your brain chemistry?”
“No.”
“Did you tell your neurologist about your problem?”
“I haven’t seen him since February.”
She gives me a long-suffering sigh. “You could have called him when the problem persisted.”
“And admit I had a problem at all?” I send her a quelling stare in jest…mostly.
