So, yeah, breaking it down until we know exactly what went wrong is a Rodinsky family specialty. Letting go? Not so much.
This feeling isn’t going to go away, but somehow that’s okay, because I know Grey is outside the locker room at this very moment, waiting for me.
And even though this time I’m expecting him, it’s still a shock to see him there, clean and patient. His hands are in his pockets and that little half smile makes an easy spread across his face, despite the stench of defeat that followed us back to Northland.
“Hey, beautiful, wanna get out of here?”
I cock a brow. “You know that line doesn’t really work when I’m the one with the keys, right?”
“No. I was literally asking,” he deadpans.
“Of course you were.” I roll my eyes and try to sock him in the shoulder, but he palms my fist before I can make contact and uses it to draw me into him, his lips catching mine midsmile. All my forward momentum stops, my free hand landing just above his hip, and the only thought in my brain is suddenly OBLIQUES.
We stand like that for I don’t know how long, the starry night and yellow glow of the security lights flowing together into some sort of timeless vacuum. When we separate, I just grin at him and say, “I think you just made me miss curfew.”
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and the screen flashes up at us—10:06 PM.
Nearly an hour. We have an hour alone. With the loss, everyone’s bailed on pancakes at Pat’s Diner.
What Grey says next is something I most definitely don’t expect. “My parents are out of town.”
Grey’s house is pristine. I mean, I knew it would be, but seeing it is something else. Not rich, per se—two years of private school gave me plenty of access to people with houses like that. This is something classic.
Like Danielle’s house, his was built in the fifties. Brick colonial, but not supersize. Hers is smaller—an in-need-of-an-update dinosaur she and Heather scooped up for a steal. Grey’s house is magazine perfect, with glossy white trim, polished oak floors, and real wood furniture, heavy and refurbished.
As promised, it’s empty. Which makes my heart race far more than it did at any point during tonight’s game. Grey grabs a La Croix for each of us—no sugary soda in Coach Kitt’s fridge—and I follow him up the stairs.
We turn the corner and all the doors are shut but one, the silver light of the moon combed over the rug, his blinds obviously open to the night.
When I step in, his room isn’t far from what I imagined—a blend of sporty and serious in a preppy palette. The walls are a muted blue, but covered in orderly—and meticulously aligned—posters.
Classic Joe Montana taken during the blip of time he was with the Chiefs, and Patrick Mahomes in a more recent shot. Colin Kaepernick kneels over his dresser, Marcus Mariota and Drew Brees chill in smaller pictures around the room. Various Jayhawks are sprinkled around—“Mario’s Miracle” frozen in time and Danny Manning bookend his closet. There are baseball players, too, of course, mostly Royals players like Salvy, Moose, and Duffy.
The furniture is dark wood and everything matches, nothing stitched together as money allows. Place ribbons of every color hang from the window frame, a shot of personality layered over white wood blinds. Trophies line two open shelves placed over the pristinely made bed.
Grey shuts his blinds and turns on some Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness. As the chorus of “All Our Lives” hums to life, I suddenly find an interest in small talk I never knew I had.
“So, um… where are your parents?”
Grey sits on the bed. It’s not an invitation—it’s like he needs to sit down for what he says next. There’s a tick to his shoulders I’m sure I’ve never seen. “Touring the wineries of Hermann, Missouri.” The way he says it, the way he’s sitting, there’s something more. “Last-minute trip. Preemptively celebrating Mom’s fortieth birthday.”
Wait. Hold the phone. I’m suddenly doing math in my head, trying to figure out how old she was when she had Grey. He reads the mental gymnastics flipping across my face. “I wrecked her chances to make the 2004 Olympic team.”
I wince.
But that’s not the more in his voice—what comes next is. “Her birthday is actually next weekend, but I guess they figured they wouldn’t miss much with my butt on the bench tonight.”
Well, that’s shitty. I claim a piece of the bed’s corner and place my hand on his arm. “That’s not the vibe I’ve ever gotten from your mom. I mean, pride practically shoots from her eyeballs when she sees you.”
Through a wicked smirk, he sighs. “It’s not that she’s not proud of me—Dad either. It’s just… things have been different since this summer.”
The car wreck. A pang reverberates through my heart, and suddenly I have a lump nestled against my windpipe. We both made mistakes this summer. And the recovery keeps on going—relationships, trust, expectations—what we did bleeds over to all of it. “I know that feeling.”
I meant it as an aside of solidarity. That I totally understand what it’s like to disappoint those you love most. But then Grey reaches out and takes my hand, turning my palm over, his long eyelashes pointed down, examining the lines there—love, fate, life.
“Liv…” he starts, and then stops himself. There’s something heavy hanging off my name. Something substantial enough to hurt. Grey glances up at me through those lashes. “There’s more.”
Not for the first time do I think that maybe he injured another person. But I googled the accident, and got nothing more than two sentences in the Star’s weekly off-season prep roundup about Grey’s collarbone. And it would’ve been something much more if he’d wrecked someone else’s life, along with his left arm. Grey hauls his legs onto the bed and crosses them, his bare knee grazing mine. Even through my jeggings, it’s warm. He leans back against the wall, his thumb running slow circles against my skin.
His mouth drops open, but he still can’t get the words out. I swear I can see fear churning in his eyes.
“What is it?” I ask. “You can tell me, whatever it is.”
The words rush out of him in a single breath. “I think I might have gotten a concussion.”
I blink. “In the car accident?”
His eyes shoot to mine, lips closing before immediately opening again. “Yes—well, I think so.”
“You think so—you don’t know?”
He pauses. “I don’t—I mean I feel like I did after I got one freshman year.”
As his words sink in, the signs solidify in my mind.
Sunglasses to practice when he knows better: light sensitivity.
Our exchange the first day on the track:
Sounds like you’ve been hit in the head one too many times.
Actually, that’s not too far off from the truth.
The Tylenol I’ve seen him pop when he thinks I’m not looking.
Even his half-step slowness during scrimmage—just like Jake, I thought that was Grey’s injured ego, but now it’s suddenly startlingly obvious that something else is.
“How bad was the concussion you got your freshman year?”