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Prologue
Drew
Five Years Ago
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.”
The doctor narrows his eyes on me. “But how many can you actuallysee?”
I want to lie and tell him that I only see two fingers. That I’m not dizzy as fuck, nauseous, and seeing double of every damn thing.
But I don’t lie because my mom would kill me.
“I see four.”
He purses his lips as he types into his computer. It’s been a week since I took a hit on the field during the fourth quarter when we were up by three points.
Thanks to my pass before the hit, we won by nine.
But I got hit hard enough to give me one hell of a concussion. It isn’t my first, but I hope like hell that it’s my last, though football is a tough sport, and quarterbacks get hithard.
My uncle Will taught me that from an early age when I realized that I didn’t want to follow in my dad’s footsteps by joining the Navy. Instead, I wanted to play professional football.
“What’s the prognosis, doc?” Dad asks. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner of the small exam room. I had to have him drive me to the appointment since I can’t see well enough to drive myself.
“Brain injuries are always a mystery,” the doctor replies as he closes the laptop and turns to address the two of us. “Unfortunately, it’s going to take time for your brain to heal, Drew.”
“I have a game tomorrow night.”
“No.” The doc shakes his head slowly as he looks me square in the eye, his own eyes hard and serious. “You don’t.”
“Don’t tell me that I’m out the rest of the season.”
Dad shifts in the chair, and I scowl at the two older men.
“Come on, it’s just a concussion.”
“This one isn’t minor,” the doc replies. “It’s your third this year, Drew, and it’s bad. What did you have for breakfast the morning of the game?”
I sigh in frustration. I can’t remember. That entire day is completely gone from my memory, and it frustrates the hell out of me.
“At least I can play for my senior year next fall.”
The room is quiet again until the doctor clears his throat. “Drew, it’s time to walk away from football.”
“Fuck that.”
“Drew—” Dad begins, but I shake my head and then immediately regret the movement when the room spins and my stomach revolts.
“Football is mylife.I’m damn good at it, and I’ll be going pro. There are already scouts watching me. You can’t tell me that I’m done. That’s not possible.”
“Another concussion could lead to neurological issues, permanent memory loss, and personality changes. You’ll be at higher risk of early-onset Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease.” Doc sighs grimly. “I know that football is important to you, Drew, and that you’re a damn good player. But yourlifeis worth more. I’m sorry to deliver this news, but your days on the field are over. I’ll want you back here in a month for another CT so I can see how your brain is recovering.”
He shakes our hands, and then he’s gone, and before I know it, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, headed toward my childhood home in the suburbs of Seattle.
“I’ll get another opinion,” I mutter as I close my eyes and will the dizziness away. Christ, being dizzy is theworst.
