He clearly doesn’t want to say the words, but under my fiercest glare he finally does. “A grade three.”
Oh. My. God. I’m no medical professional, but I have been hit in the head hard enough that I know Grey Worthington lost consciousness in that car accident.
“Grey…” I say, and get to my knees, one hand on the wall, and press my fingertips to his temple, as if doing so can magically tell me if his brain is no longer bruised.
He sort of laughs and takes my hand in his, kissing my fingers. “I’m okay. I’m really okay.”
But I’m not fazed. “Are you really okay to play? I swear to God if you lie to me, I’ll knee you in the nuts.”
His eyes pointedly shoot to my knees, which are indeed pretty close to the crotch of his shorts. “I’m not cleared,” he says, and then looks up from my knees and straight into my eyes. “But that’s only because they don’t know either.”
“Who doesn’t know?”
Grey swallows. “Everyone. The coaches. Mom. Dad.”
Holy shit. HOLY SHIT. “Why don’t they know about it?”
“Because I don’t want college recruiters to find out.”
I’m absolutely stunned.
And the thing is, I understand. I get not wanting to be judged forever for something stupid in your past—that’s my summer on a plate.
Grey’s talking again. “Dad’s a lawyer, so we can swing college and all, but I don’t want to just walk on somewhere. I want to play. And I don’t want anyone passing me up my senior year because of it.”
I understand that, too—it’s part of why I need to make Coach Kitt’s team. Not just to get in front of recruiters for a full ride, but also so anyone interested in offering me anything won’t think twice about the reputation I dinged when I decked Stacey.
“How’d you keep it from them…? I mean, you had to be checked out after the car accident. I mean, your arm—it’s not like you refused medical attention. How could they not…? How did you keep it from them?”
Again, Grey looks down. Embarrassed or regretful or both. “I came to before the ambulance and cops arrived. They didn’t know I’d been out. And I don’t know how, but I made it through every test. They were way more concerned with not jostling my arm—someone recognized me as Northland’s starting quarterback.”
Wow. Luck and way more deceit than I ever expected from Grey Worthington add up to one big-ass secret.
“So… no one knows but me?”
Grey doesn’t break eye contact, the steel gray reaching into me. Pleading. “No one. Promise me you won’t tell. Please? I can take care of myself.”
The way he says it, I’m back on the stoop that night Dad found out about my secret football career, hearing my own voice as I beg him to listen. Trying to prove that I know what’s best for me. That I can handle it. That I know what I have to do for the future I want.
I search Grey’s face again, doing the math in my head. It’s been more than eight weeks since his accident. I’ve had two concussions in my softball career—both grade twos at ages ten and fourteen—and I know that’s long enough to heal. Still, I have to hear him say it.
“I promise I won’t rat you out.” He smiles briefly, but I put a finger to his lips, ruining the expression. “But I need you to promise me that if you’re not okay, you’ll tell me and we’ll get you to a doctor immediately.”
“I promise.”
I sit back on my heels, appraising the whole Grey Worthington package. And it’s a nice one. “Good. I don’t want my boyfriend to have mashed potatoes for brains. I rather like your brains.”
“Boyfriend,” he says with a grin that makes me wonder if I’ve ever actually said that word to him. How could I not? Grey sits up off the wall and turns to me, and I swear I see the muscles shifting under his white polo in a way that I’ve never seen under his jersey—the pads most definitely get in the way. He runs a finger under my chin and then slips a lock of still-wet hair behind my ear. “I know I’m the one who nixed kissing in football, but I’m fairly certain Jake’s real reason for being so pissed Thursday was because of how I look at you.”
It shouldn’t, but this gives me a little thrill. Right in the darkest corners of my heart, the part that still aches, that’s stitched with that final text from Jake—Can’t deal with the crazy. I’m out.
I close the distance between us, twisting to push up onto my knees, draping my arms over his shoulders. This is a position I’ve never had with him—the kind Helena the Honda doesn’t allow. I’m looking down on him, my chest touching his, the ends of my hair pooling against his collarbone.
“Keep looking,” I say. And then I kiss him.
28
DAD IS WAITING UP FOR ME WHEN I KILL THE IGNITION exactly two minutes until eleven, sitting on the cooling concrete of Danielle’s front stoop, beer in hand.
I get out of the car with my head hanging, furiously trying to remember how I felt back in the locker room. Before Grey made me forget everything. My lips are pink enough to give me away—my head hangs further. I’m actually upset somewhere deep down, but still, I have to work to be the sore loser Dad expects me to be right now.
“Ah, hon, everyone loses.” Dad sets down the bottle and hotfoots it my way. He takes me in for a hug, and despite the beer, he smells of sandalwood and the cinnamon disks he keeps in a bowl on his desk. I melt into him, arms limp at my sides, face buried in his shoulder. “So you lost. But no one can take that performance away from you. Running, leaping, throwing—you were outstanding.”
I sigh into him as he rubs my back. My muscles ache from being drilled to the turf too many times, but it still feels good.
Hearing him say those things feels good, too, especially after months of feeling like nothing but a disappointment.
Dad kisses my hair. “Next week is your week, Livvie.”
And I almost think he’s right.
The next week is as close to my new normal as I allow myself to hope. A steady blur of school, practice, a few stolen moments alone with Grey, dinner with the fam. I miss Addie’s match again, but I make it for a few minutes of Ryan’s, so maybe I’m not totally a horrible person.
By Friday night, the weight of the loss is gone—the bulk of it eaten alive by good old hard work during the week. I’m tired but jazzed by the home crowd, the night air filled with the scent of popcorn as we take the field. There’s a hint of crispness there, too, fall clearing its throat. It’ll be here soon enough. Next week we have a bye, also known as an entire week off from competition. Which means I’m fairly certain by the time we’re on the field again—homecoming, against last year’s state champs—I’ll be blowing into my frozen fingers before every snap.
Tonight, though, there’s just enough humidity to make the ball slick in my fingers. Despite the loss, I’ve gotten the start. Again. I don’t know if Coach Lee is benching Grey because I’m actually better than him or because he’s worried his collarbone still isn’t healed. I don’t force Grey to speculate. We just don’t talk about it.