“Sir, I don’t know if you’re aware of this. But ‘scary as fuck’ is a slang term that means incredibly well respected.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not at all. Freaking stone.
“And ‘dating that dance professor chick’ is slang for—”
“Just shut up and get your ass on the field, Torres.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Because I find you scary as fuck, sir.”
He takes a step forward, and I bolt as calmly as I can for the door. I call back, “I was using that as a slang term, remember?”
For a moment I think I see the twitch of a smile beneath his mustache, but it’s gone a second later, and I decide I’m better off hightailing it out onto the field.
“You never know when to stop, do you?” Brookes asks, jogging up beside me.
“I prefer to view that particular gift of mine in a positive light. More like . . . I cross lines no one else is willing to cross. I go where no man has gone before. All boldly and shit.”
“I literally have no clue how you and Nell work. None.”
He’s joking, I know. But that particular jab slips past my defenses, and bangs around in my chest for a while as we walk out onto the field. I’m not looking for anything long term from Nell, but if events up to this point are any clue, she’ll probably be done with me before I’m done with her. And even though I’m not trying to get serious, I can’t say I’m looking forward to that. It’s gonna fuck me up to see a girl like her walk away, serious or not. And I can’t afford that. Not right now. Not when I’m on the verge of finally proving myself.
If I were smart, I’d take that thought and end things now. But I do enjoy flirting with that dangerous line.
Maybe that’s what makes me reckless. I don’t know. Maybe it’s Nell, and how freaking powerful she makes me feel. Maybe I’m so eager to prove Coach right, prove Lina and everyone else wrong. Maybe Nell’s assessment of me that first day was right, and I enjoy showing off too damn much.
Whatever the reason, I play hard during practice. As hard as I would play during a game. I take risks, go for catches that I would normally let slide during practice.
After one particularly spectacular catch, my helmet cracks hard against the cornerback tackling me, and my head jerks inside my helmet before my whole body slams hard into the turf.
For a second my ears ring and my vision crosses and crosses even though I’m staring straight ahead. I blink, but it doesn’t stop, and there’s a pressure in my head that feels like I’m a hundred feet underwater.
I climb to my feet carefully, and the grass moves like waves in front of my eyes. I let myself shake my head once to try and clear the fog, but when that only amplifies the pressure, I know that wasn’t just any hit. I struggle to appear normal, to not let on that my head is swimming, and that the weak light from the November sun suddenly feels piercing to my eyes.
This can’t be happening. Not when everything was going so good.
Not now.
Coach blows the whistle, and it cleaves my head open.
I get lucky, and Coach moves on to working on a new play where the first look is to Moore, and the second option is to Brookes. So as they work out the kinks, I’m really only running my route. No one mentions or seems to notice that I’m running a little slower, that my route isn’t quite as straight as it should be. Their eyes are elsewhere, and it helps me hide what experience already tells me.
I have a concussion.
I’ve had two before, and the second, which occurred late in the season last year, was bad enough to leave me vomiting, and the nausea lasted for days. It also had me out for a game, which we ended up losing while I stood on the sidelines. If we hadn’t had an open week the next week, Coach might have even benched me for two games.
This one is mild by comparison. No nausea, just that fuzzy, dazed feeling, sensitivity to light and sound, and the familiar pressure in my head. But the coaches and the trainers are serious about concussions. With my history, they might hold me back from playing this week, mild or no, just to be safe.
And we’re so damn close. We’ve got two games left in the regular season, and we’ve got a damn good chance at getting a bowl game this year. If we win both games, we’d end the season at 10–2, a record that might be good enough to get us into one of the major bowls, a first for Rusk, whose program had always been lackluster prior to Coach Cole’s arrival. That kind of bowl appearance could change the conversation completely.
About the team. About me.
We’d get a lot more attention coming into next season, and the bulk of our team’s strongest contenders will still be here next year. Our most prominent senior this year was Jake Carter, and he’s already been suspended, and we’re doing just fine without him. We could potentially make a go for the title next year. It would be crazy. A long shot. But not impossible, and I can see it all shaping up in my head. I could go into my senior year in a program that gets just as much attention as those powerhouses I’d always dreamed of playing for. The ones that didn’t want me in the end. And all the years of doubt would be worth it.
I’m still thinking of those possibilities when Coach calls practice to a close. I keep my head down in the huddle so no one sees my unfocused eyes. The fatigue is starting to set in, and I have to dig down deep to stand from my kneeling position when Coach dismisses us.
Now is when I’m supposed to tell someone. Even if I’m familiar enough with the symptoms to know what’s happening, I’m supposed to get checked out by the trainer. They won’t send me to the hospital. They would just send me home to rest, probably assign Brookes or Moore to check on me every couple of hours through the night to make sure my symptoms don’t get worse. And then they’d limit my practice time this week to make sure I don’t exacerbate things, and if they’re worried enough . . . bench me.