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"Um, I think he has a concussion," Gabbi says, her cheeks turning pink. She holds up three fingers. "How many fingers?"
"One without a ring."
"What day is it?"
"The first day of the rest of my life."
Coach Marrow mutters a curse.
"Who is the president?"
"An asshole."
Gabbi's expression is rife with worry.
"Don't fret, fairy. My brain is fine," I murmur, trying to soothe her. "I got all your questions right."
"You didn't get any of them right, Atlas," Colter says.
"What? Yes, I did."
Her finger doesn't have a ring on it, Bruce Gorden—the league president—is an asshole, and today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Gabbi reaches toward me and then hesitates. "I'm going to check your head, Atlas."
"You know my name."
"Yes." She prods at the back of my head, probing at the knot already forming there. It hurts like a motherfucker.
"How?" I growl. "Son of a bitch, that hurts."
"You need a CT Scan."
"How?"
"At the hospital."
"How do you know my name, baby?"
Her eyes flash as they lock on mine, a little of that same fire from earlier peeping out. "Hollie," she snaps before looking away from me to Coach. "He needs a CT. He may have a concussion."
I don't. I've had more than my fair share over the years. It comes with the territory when you tend goal. This feels nothing like those.
I'm more concerned with why my future wife is pissed that I know our physical therapist. I've barely even spoken to her.
But I don't get the opportunity to ask. Doc Jessup comes running in, and Gabbi quickly steps aside.
My last glimpse of her is of her round ass as she walks away.
Newsflash: it does absolutely nothing to help the pain in my balls.
Chapter Two
Atlas
"Jesus. It's crowded in here tonight."
"You," Colter says, pointing at me, "shouldn't even be here. You have a concussion."
