Mateo
It’s amazing how one night can change everything. Not just the sex, but everything, from the moment I first entered her apartment.
Talking to Nell about her doubts somehow inadvertently lessened mine. Neither of us found any solutions at dinner that Sunday, but talking about it, commiserating with someone else who’s facing a similar situation, makes it easier to bear.
And of course, the mind-blowing sex didn’t hurt either.
I find myself using Nell as my mental shield. As the next game approaches and the pressure mounts to perform as well as I did last week, I use her face to push away the thoughts of failure. When I start to stress about living up to the expectations of my coach and my team and myself, I think about her in her kitchen or her spread over my lap in my truck or her taking her own pleasure against me in her bed.
When I think about her, nothing can fucking touch me.
Then I have to think about something else entirely for a while because thinking of Nell like that while I’m in public always presents a problem.
I live for the moment when I can see her again, when I can park my fears and stresses at the door and lose myself in her arms. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should be thinking about what this means. She’s graduating next month, and even though she’s not leaving immediately, she will leave eventually.
But I tell myself I’ve got time. I’ll figure out exactly what it all means later.
Whatever she’s doing to me, it consumes me enough to overcome my insecurities and fears. She pushes everything else out, delays the doubts, and I ride that solution all the way to another win on Saturday. I end up with a few less catches, but two of them were huge plays with major yardage. And at the end of the game, Coach claps a hand on top of my shoulder pad, and the look in his eyes says it all.
It’s happening.
We’re now 8–2, and one of those losses wasn’t even conference play. With two games left, we’re finally starting to make some waves. They’re calling us the “big surprise” of the season and the “little team with big heart.” And it feels like we’re on the verge of something huge.
Something real.
Which is a little how I’m feeling in all aspects of my life lately.
The Monday after the game, I’m feeling high on life and on Nell. As I promised her when we’d been texting after our last away game, I spent the week texting her dirty things. She hadn’t quite texted me anything dirty back yet, but she’d asked a few questions. Why I said certain things, what I liked. I figured I was close to getting her to text me back.
I send her one quick text before I lock up my phone for practice.
I’m about to put the phone away when I’m surprised by her immediate reply.
Fuck. How the hell am I going to be able to concentrate on practice now? I’m an idiot.
I toss my phone in my cubby as Brookes comes to stand next to me.
He says, “So, I guess this means I was wrong.”
“About?”
“Nell. That’s who you were texting, right?”
I shrug. Because Nell and I haven’t really talked about how we’re going to play this with everyone else. She’d had a big project due today that she spent last week working on, and I’d been gearing up for the game, so we’d only seen each other a couple times.
“That’s a yes,” he says.
“Tell me something, how do you know this shit? It’s fucking creepy, man.”
He smiles. “I pay attention.”
“To what? My Internet history? Do you have my phone tapped? Did you bug my room?”
“To your face, bro. It’s all there. When I mentioned her name, you reacted for a split second, and then immediately covered it up. That told me I was right.”
“Why are you here playing football instead of working in the CIA or something?”
He smiles. “Football is more of a challenge.”
I laugh. And make a mental note to Google him and make sure he didn’t just randomly spring into existence a few years ago.
“Seriously, though,” he says. “I’m sorry I gave you shit about Nell. I read that wrong.”
“Me or her?”
“The two of you together. You didn’t make sense when I considered you separately. But whatever is going on with you two . . . it’s good. I can tell.”
“You’re like some weird version of The Wizard of Oz, aren’t you? There’s some old dude somewhere spying on us all with video cameras and telling you what to say. Or you’re secretly a robot or an alien or something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What kind of messed-up Wizard of Oz did you watch as a kid?”
“You two,” Coach Oz barks as passes by us. “Quit gabbing like a bunch of little girls, and get on the field.”
We finish changing clothes quickly as Oz leaves, and when the door slams behind him, I whistle. “Man, Oz needs to get laid. Dude scares me when he gets like that.” Brookes makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m serious. Look at Coach Cole. Guy is still scary as fuck, but since he’s been dating that dance professor chick? Way cooler.”
The silence after my statement is a bit too silent.
“Coach Cole, are you right behind me?”
“Yes, I am, Torres.”
I shoot Brookes a glare, and the prick doesn’t even bother hiding his grin. I spin. There aren’t many people in the world who can make me feel small, but Coach Cole is one of them. We’re roughly the same height, but the dude has Hulk shoulders and a beard that just screams, “I could kick your ass.”
“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.
But it’s Monday. I’ve got plenty of time to recover before Saturday. So instead of going to Coach, I keep my helmet on until I’m off the field and into the dim hallway that leads to our locker room. The darkness is a relief, and only then do I gently pull off my helmet. My head throbs for a few moments, and I slow my steps, but the pain is manageable by the time I step into the locker room.
The trick is not to let anyone look me in the eye. Luckily, the guys have been razzing me about my more low-key behavior ever since that night in the hotel room when I was texting Nell. They’re finally starting to lose interest, and no one comments on how quiet I am as we shower and clean up. As quick as I’m able, I gather my things and head out to my truck, where I’ll at least have a little privacy. I pull myself behind the wheel and immediately reach for the sunglasses I keep in the center console.
Now I have to figure out how to hide it at home. I could go straight to my room, but that would be suspicious. Unless I just don’t go home. I could go to Nell’s instead. Or take her home with me. Then they wouldn’t question me going straight to my room. But then again, bringing Nell home is likely to inspire questions, and if Brookes got a look at me, there’s no way he wouldn’t know something is up.
No, the best thing would be to go to Nell’s place and hope she doesn’t mind me crashing there. It takes me a while to find our text conversation on my phone. The screen is too small, and my slight double vision makes it hard to read the words. Once I find it, I type my message from muscle memory and hope that for once autocorrect does its job and fixes any mistakes.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel while I wait, but even that small noise in the closed cab is grating. She answers. And I can tell by the length of the blurred text that it’s just one word. After some squinting and moving the phone around, I finally make out the word.
With a relieved sigh, I start up my truck. Luckily, I don’t have to get on the highway to get to Nell’s place, and I’m familiar enough with the roads to know from memory where all the stop signs are. The double vision isn’t as bad when I’m not looking at things up close, so while the cars around me are slightly fuzzy, I can see them just fine. Even so, I drive at half my normal speed.
I can already imagine that Nell won’t be happy that I’ve driven at all. But I couldn’t risk leaving my truck at the athletic complex. That definitely would have been noticed. It takes me about ten minutes to get to her apartment, and I pull into an open parking spot with no cars nearby.
For a few seconds I just sit there, zoned out, forgetting why I came here in the first place. Then my phone buzzes, and I snap out of it. I don’t bother trying to read the text. Instead I climb out of my pickup, keeping my sunglasses on, and head for Nell’s apartment. I hold tight to the railing on the stairs and make myself focus on the steps. At the top, I brace myself before I knock, knowing the sound will hurt.
Nell answers wearing jeans, and a snug long-sleeved shirt, both of which hug her curves perfectly. All I want to do is sink into her, see if she can chase away this, too.
“Hey,” she says, her voice bright and cheerful and too loud. “What’s up?”
I step past her, removing my sunglasses, but before I can say anything, another voice cuts in. “Hey, Torres.”
My eyes find Dylan on the couch, and damn it, I didn’t even think about her being here. I should find something clever to say, something normal, but my mind is too sluggish, and I’m too tired to mine for the words, so I settle for returning, “Hey.”
I turn back to Nell and gesture toward the hallway that leads back to her bedroom. “Can we?”
She frowns, but nods. “Sure.”
I don’t look back at Dylan as I follow Nell out of the living room. I drag a hand along the wall of the hall to help steady and straighten out my steps. Inside her room, I collapse onto her bed and drop my head into my hands. I hear the door click closed, but Nell doesn’t move after that. She stays at the other side of the room, and when I look up her arms are crossed over her chest and her expression is decidedly wary.
“I’m scaring you,” I say. “Sorry.”
She cuts straight to the point. “What’s going on? Are you . . . Are we . . .”
Aw, shit. She thinks this about her.
I follow her lead and cut straight to the point. “No. God, no. We’re good. Great . . . I have a concussion.”
Her arms drop, and her entire posture changes. “What?”
I wince at the sharp word, and her voice is lower when she asks, “What happened?”
I shift and lean back to lie on her bed. “Practice,” I mumble. “Rough tackle.”
I hear her feet shuffle toward me as my eyes drift close. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at a hospital getting checked out?”
“It’s mild. I’ve had these before. I know how it goes.”
And I know that I want to sleep, and now that my head is cushioned on her pillow and I’m lying flat on my back, I’m seconds away from doing just that. The bed dips slightly at my feet, and it jostles as she crawls up to kneel beside me.
I remember Dylan sitting out in the living room and add, “Don’t tell Dylan.”
“Why? Hey, look at me.” She nudges my shoulder, and I pry open my eyes.
She places both hands on my cheeks, tilting my head toward her and looking into my eyes. “I haven’t told Coach. Or the guys.”
I’m thankful when she doesn’t ask me why. Instead she moves straight into medical mode. “Your pupils appear to be the same size. So, that’s good. Any nausea? Vomiting?”
“No. I told you. It’s mild.”
She leans over me, tilting my head so that the ceiling light shines more on my eyes. “Humor me. What are your symptoms? Blurred vision?”
“Yes.”
“Sensitive to light or sound?”
“Both.”
“Headache?”
I hesitate.
“Mateo? Do you have a headache?”
“Yes, but it’s manageable. I’ll take some aspirin and be fine.”
“Has it gotten worse since you were first hit?”
“No. I swear I’m okay.”
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and it’s amazing how even with my head as foggy as it is, I can zone in precisely on that movement.
“You’ll need someone to keep an eye on you. Monitor your symptoms to make sure they don’t get any worse.”
And here comes the hard part. “I was hoping that might be you. What do you say, sweetheart? Can you play nurse for me?”