The ball is up and high, rocketing toward the end zone. Gonzalez is there, waiting for it to drop at the ten-yard line. He catches it and loops right, snaking down the sideline.
There’s a whistle. A waving of hands. Lots of pointing, the refs saying he stepped out.
I call bullshit because Jaden Gonzalez is a senior and pretty much a professional tightrope walker. But all the Jewell players and coaches are pointing to the spot, down at our fifteen. And the refs are corroborating it.
A golden cheer floats into the night as the Northland bench peters into a frustrated grumble. We now have to get it eighty-five yards downfield on this drive, when Gonzalez was in position to make it all the way down past midfield, well into Jewell territory.
If Grey is daunted, it doesn’t register. He gives me a grin and a piece of a three-way QB fist bump and trots out onto the turf, gathering the offense into a huddle.
Jake gets the first play, snagging it from Grey on a rollout and pushing for four yards when the hole closes on top of him. The next play is a Montana-style dump, barely over the heads of the line, but the target, Tate, falls backward on the plant.
Losing at least a yard.
Meaning we need a yard on the next two plays to keep it moving.
Predictably, Jake gets the next call, barely gaining the needed yard, and audibly chewing out the line for not making room.
Still, the chains move.
But the next two plays aren’t as lucky. Jake gets stuffed both times. Grey goes for another Montana-style dump, but Tate is pushed out of position and the whole thing ends up a fingertip away from an interception.
Grey pulls the offense back into the huddle, and the punter stays on the sidelines, which sort of scares the shit out of me because if we miss the next play, Jewell gains possession inside the thirty. Which means they’ll score in less than a minute—I’d bet every Snickers in Shanks’s freezer.
But Grey holds firm, shouting out White Forty-Two.
A play that is most definitely not on the approved list.
My lungs stutter to a halt as I watch him palm Topps’s snap and rocket back into the pocket, gaining a better view.
Grey’s arm swings back, target in sight: Chow, fifty yards downfield.
Chow dodges his defender and manages to get open. Grey launches the ball toward him, the arc perfect.
But I don’t see if the pass connects.
I don’t see if it’s intercepted.
All I see is Grey being swallowed by gold two seconds after he releases the ball.
The ground seems to shake under my feet as they hit the sod in a tangle, numbers fifty-five and ninety-two landing so hard on top of Grey that they bounce on impact, revealing a flash of orange and white for a split second before devouring him once more.
They lay there in a pile, the only movement a Northland helmet rolling free across the turf.
“Grey!” I’ve never yelled so loudly in my life, but his name is still drowned by the crowd. Helmetless and stiff knee balking, I sprint onto the field, both running toward him and waving my arms, trying to get any ref’s attention for this insane roughing-the-passer bullshit.
But the refs aren’t looking. They’re at the other end, officiating whatever happened with the ball, the brutality of the unnecessary hit completely swallowed in sound.
“GREY!” I reach the pile and start yanking at number fifty-five. “Get off him, you ass!”
Cleary and Sanchez join me, the linebackers much more effective at peeling a combined five hundred pounds off my boyfriend.
The second I see Grey’s face, time screeches to a halt. His eyes are closed, temple to the ground, stripes of turf running the length of his forehead and into his hair.
In my mind, all I can think of is what I know about a grade three concussion: loss of consciousness.
Two of those just months apart and… I—I don’t know. But it can’t be good.
My hands hover above his body, trembling at the thought of making it worse. Because it seems safest, I grab his right hand with both of mine and squeeze. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.…”
Next to me, Nick yells back at the sideline: “We need a medic!”
Khaki rushes the field. Napolitano, trailed by Shanks and Lee. They kneel down, hands braver than mine touching Grey’s head, touching his cheeks. Napolitano’s voice crackles into a radio, requesting the on-site EMT.
“No, stop.…” We all stop and stare as Grey’s voice ghosts into the night, followed by the fluttering appearance of his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Grey!” I’m not sure what I expect, but my heart surges as he blinks, grasping at focus. I flash four fingers in front of his eyes, just because I’ve seen it in so many movies. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Enough to block your face. Don’t do that.” He’s still speaking slowly, but I barely have enough time to move my hand before his hands cup the back of my head, pulling me into a kiss. Inches from our coaches, right in the middle of the field.
It’s quick, and probably not all that obvious from the stands, but it means everything to me.
Grey releases me, attempting to sit up just as the medic crashes to the turf with his pack of gear.
“No movement until I run through the concussion protocol,” the medic warns, forcing Grey to lie back down before flashing lights in his eyes and barking orders. This was something I couldn’t see when Jake went down, and now it makes way more sense why he was on the ground for so long.
“I lost consciousness,” Grey says, and looks to me and Nick to confirm how long—we were the first ones there and he was awake by the time the EMT arrived.
“He was out maybe five to ten seconds,” I say, and Nick nods in agreement.
The EMT takes that in with the efficiency of most health-care professionals. “Any recent head trauma?”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I look to Grey and then to the medic and back to Grey. I open my mouth because this is the exact situation where it can’t stay secret anymore. Screw college football, Grey’s head is worth more than just a scholarship. Feeling my panic, my coming words, Grey squeezes my hand. At first I think it might be to beg for my silence, but then he simply says, “I hit my head in a car wreck this summer.”
The air in my chest won’t come as I watch the coaches for a reaction. Grey’s done hiding.
Coach Lee looks like he’s swallowed a vat of soot. “Excuse me?”
Grey’s eyes slide his way and they actually look relieved. “I was never diagnosed with anything, but it’s relevant. I lost consciousness. I’m sure of it. Just like I did now.”
The medic simply takes in that information without a word, but Coach is sputtering—anger, frustration, and maybe a prickle of humiliation at not suspecting it himself coming out in puffed cheeks and a shaking head.
“You’re a smart kid, Worthington—what the hell were you doing not telling us?”
“Being an idiot,” Grey says as the medic again begins to shine a light into his eyes.
That’s when the shoving starts downfield. The excitement on the other end of the field—a Northland touchdown, as it happens—turning into anger about our laid-out quarterback. The whole crowd notices the action, too, a rumbling silence falling over the stadium.