It’s what makes him such an excellent politician.
Just a few more months.
We just have to hold on for a few more months and then we can start over—without him.
The door to the exam room opens with a quiet click and a middle-aged doc with dark hair and tired eyes enters, a stethoscope hanging limp around his neck. His white jacket is pristine, but his scrubs are wrinkled and he looks like he’s had a long night.
I know the feeling.
“Mr. DeLaurentis?”
“Yes, sir.”
The words sound oddly formal in the cramped, uncomfortable room, but I’m not only representing the Wildcats here, I’m representing my father, and any misstep will be held against me in the future.
“I’m Dr. Mackey.” He taps the screen of his tablet, not quite meeting my eye. “You played a good game today.”
Fucking right, I did.
Two TDsandI broke one hundred-yards against our conference rival.
On Homecoming.
The only thing better will be winning the national championship.
“Thank you.” There’s a time and place for the cocky player routine and this isn’t it. “Ohio is a tough competitor.”
The doc smirks. “The Wildcats are better.”
I shrug, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“What happened? Too much celebrating?” He jerks his chin toward the gash on my head as he steps to the sink and washes his hands. “There seems to be a lot of it going around tonight.”
That explains why he looks so tired. Not that I’m surprised.
“No, sir. I dropped something and when I bent to pick it up, I clipped my head on the nightstand. No big deal, but my—”Shit. How to describe Quinn? The doc turns back to me, drying his hands on a paper towel. There’s an amused curiosity in his dark eyes I’m not about to indulge. “My friend thought I should get it checked out.”
He nods and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. Then he moves in to inspect the damage.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.” I had a few beers with the guys, but that was hours ago.
Thank Christ. Alcohol and ER visits are the kiss of death for an NFL draft hopeful.
Not to mention the child of a prominent politician.
Dr. Mackey gently prods my forehead, and searing pain radiates from the point of contact.
I grit my teeth.
“All right, Mr. DeLaurentis. I’m going to give you three words I need you to repeat and remember for later. Understand?”
I nod.
This isn’t my first concussion check, and I doubt it will be my last.
Between Quinn and football, it’ll be a miracle if I make it to the end of the season without another one.
