I tried to move. My brain sent the signals, but my body refused to cooperate. Just lay there staring at the glare of the sky overhead, limbs heavy and foreign.
Then the pain hit.
Not sharp—diffuse. A pressure behind my eyes, in my temples, spreading through my skull like someone had filled my head with concrete and it was still setting. Nausea rolled through me.I tried to turn my head, and the world spun so hard I had to close my eyes to keep from throwing up on the field.
Voices. Somewhere above me, voices I couldn’t quite parse into words. Hands on my neck, my shoulders, holding me still. I wanted to tell them I was okay, that I just needed a minute, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out but a sound that might have been a groan.
“Stay still. Don’t move.”
I knew that voice. Coach? Trainer? Everything was running together, blurring at the edges. I tried to open my eyes again and immediately regretted it. The stadium lights stabbed into my skull like knives.
“Landry, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
I squeezed. Tried to, anyway. My fingers felt like they belonged to someone else.
“Good. That’s good. We’re going to put you on a stretcher, okay? Don’t try to move.”
The stretcher. They only brought out the stretcher for the serious shit. The broken bones, the torn ligaments, the head injuries that sent guys to the hospital instead of back to the sideline.
I thought of Tanner in the stands, watching. Watching them strap me down and carry me off like a body bag.
Fuck.
I forced my arm up, waved toward the crowd the way I’d seen other guys do. Letting everyone know I was okay even though I wasn’t sure that was true. The movement sent another wave ofnausea through me, but at least my arm still worked. At least I could give him that much.
Then they were lifting me, the world lurching and tilting, and I closed my eyes against the vertigo and let the darkness take me.
I came back in pieces.
First: the smell.
Antiseptic and latex, that specific medical facility scent that never meant anything good.
Then the hum of fluorescent lights, the beep of something monitoring my vitals, the rustle of fabric that might have been curtains.
I opened my eyes, bracing for the stab of light, but the room was dim. Whoever had set it up knew what they were doing.
A face swam into focus above me. Middle-aged woman, hair pulled back, expression professionally neutral.
“Mr. Landry, how are you feeling?”
I took stock. My head still felt like it was packed with sand, but the concrete-setting pressure had eased to something duller. The nausea was still there, lurking, but not as urgent.
“Like someone hit me with a truck,” I managed. My voice came out rough, scraping against my throat.
She nodded like this was expected. “You sustained a concussion. We’re going to run you through some assessments, and then we’ll talk about next steps. Can you tell me what day it is?”
I had to think about it longer than I wanted to. “Saturday.”
“Good. And who are you playing today?”
“Auburn.” That one came easier. The game. The fourth quarter. Fourth and long. “Did we win?”
The question came out before I could stop it, and I hated myself a little for caring about that when my brain had just been rattled around inside my skull like a pinball.
“The game’s still going,” she said. “Let’s focus on you. Follow my finger with your eyes, please.”
The next twenty minutes blurred together. Tests for balance, for memory, for cognition. Some I passed. Others, I wasn’t sure about. The doctor—Dr. Marsden, she introduced herself—kept her expression neutral throughout, giving nothing away.
