Savannah askedif this was my first concussion. It’s not. Not my second, either. But it’s been a decade since I’ve had one and this is the first one that I can tell people was an accident and actually mean it.
I’d forgotten how they feel—my head is throbbing, sure, but the nausea is worse, along with the feeling like I got up with my body put back on wrong. The team doctor said to lie here. So I lie in the medical suite room—Savannah’s hand in mine—until noise starts coming from the rest of the clubhouse. The game must be over if the team is coming back.
Savannah drops my hand. Already I miss her fingers against mine.It must be the head injury. But the ache is much lower, right in the middle of my chest.
“I’m gonna talk to the doctor,” she says, but she stops when someone appears in the doorway.
Brayden in his street clothes, hair wet from the shower, as if he barely took the time to dry himself off before coming to see me. He shifts from foot to foot and doesn’t enter.
“Hey, B.” I don’t know why I started calling him that, but every time I do, he gets this look as if he likes it and doesn’t want to admit it.
He takes a cautious step into the room. “Early bus’ll be out in a few minutes.” Because the team has a series of buses back to our hotel.
I sit up on my elbows, then immediately regret it when my stomach turns over.
That must be obvious, because Sav grabs a trashcan and foists it at me. “If you’re gonna throw up, do that in here,” she says.
“You don’t have to do this.”
She and Brayden exchange a look—a couple-ish look—then both turn to me. “What do you need from your stall?” Brayden asks then glares at me when I start to refuse.
I tell him and he stomps off, then comes back a few minutes later with a duffle holding my stuff. I’m still in my game uniform. I need to change to give it to the clubhouse workers so they can do the laundry. I sit up, try to undo my jersey; my fingers stumble over the buttons. I stop, exhausted from even that effort.
“Here.” Brayden drops the duffle, runs his hand up my chest, doesn’t look me in the eye as he undoes my jersey. Once it’s off, he tosses on the floor.
I’m still wearing a compression shirt. Brayden grips the hem at my waist. “Close your eyes,” he breathes, then tugs off the shirt, ruffling my hair in the process.
I can get my pants off myself—gravity does most of that. Midway through, I realize Savannah has turned around and is studying the trim of the doorway as if she’s preserving my modesty. “Let me know when you’re done,” she says, overly loud. Right. This isn’t for her; it’s for anyone else on the team who might see her in here and assume…the truth.
I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt Brayden hands me, then start to gather my uniform from the floor. Brayden puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me, then points to the table. “Sit your ass down.”
“Are you being nice to me so you can order me around?” I ask.
Two spots of color appear on his cheekbones. “No.” But he grabs my uniform and takes it out into the hallway, presumably to the laundry cart, before he comes back. “Great, let’s go.” As if the two of them are just going to walk me right out of here, which they just might.
“My head is fine.” It’s not, but that’s not either of their problems.
“Yeah,” Brayden says, “so here’s the thing about trying to lie to someone who’s done a lot of it. You can’t.”
I think of every time Brayden came stumbling into the clubhouse after a night out, claiming he didn’t have a hangover. “You’re not that good a liar.”
Savannah rolls her eyes fondly. “I’m better at it than both of you. Brayden, get his bag. Asher, stop being stubborn.”
And it’s not until we’re loading ourselves onto the team bus that the question hits me: What, exactly, is Savannah lying about?
I survivethe short ride on the team bus, the loud jostling pile-off that always accompanies the team as we’re going back to the hotel. On my way down the stairs, I’m already dreaming of a quiet hotel room, of turning off every light and going the hell back to sleep, when the Peaches travel secretary stops me.
“Adler.” His voice echoes off the concrete parking lot floor, and I squeeze my eyes shut as a stab of pain goes through my head. I need to suck it up. Sav deals with this all the time.
“We changed your room to one in a quieter wing of the hotel.” He hands me a hotel key card in a paper sleeve. “We already had your stuff transferred. Enjoy the honeymoon suite.”
Which means I’ll be away from the clatter of the team. Probably for the best, since the doctor said they were going to give me a day to rest before the team determines if I should be on the injured list. I thank him, then start into the hotel lobby, the din adding to the mounting pressure in my head.
“Hey”—Brayden jogs up to me—“where are you going?”
“Room got reassigned.”
“Huh.” Brayden looks around, possibly for Savannah, who said she was taking an Uber over with the other WAGs. “You want some company?” he asks.
