When she stepped back, she made notes on her tablet and said, “No signs of skull fracture or spinal involvement, which is good news.”
I waited for the rest. The part where she told me when I could play again.
“What does that mean for next week?”
“It means you won’t be cleared.” Her voice wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact. “I can’t make any promises beyond that until we see how you’re healing. Every brain is different, every concussion is different. But I need you to understand—pushing this too soon risks permanent damage.”
Permanent damage. I thought of Patrick McBride, the man I’d never met, who haunted every corner of Tanner’s life. The man whose brain had been damaged so many times that it killed himslowly, each year turning him into someone his family couldn’t recognize.
I thought of Tanner, waiting to find out if I was going to become another cautionary tale.
“There’s someone here for you,” Dr. Marsden said, like she could read my mind. “He says he’s your brother?”
The only person who’d claim to be my brother to get past hospital security was someone who wasn’t actually my brother. Someone who knew the system well enough to game it. A tired smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite the pounding in my skull. Tanner, who’d spent enough time in hospitals watching his father deteriorate, knew exactly what lie would get him through those doors fastest. He needed to see me—needed proof I was still breathing, still here. And honestly? I needed him too. Needed him close enough to touch, to remind both of us that I was okay.
“Yeah,” I said. “Can I see him?”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Ten minutes. Then you need to rest.”
Tanner looked worse than I felt.
His face was pale, almost gray under the fluorescent lights. His eyes were red-rimmed, the skin around them puffy in a way that told me he’d been crying, probably more than once. His hands were shaking—a fine tremor I could see even from across the room.
Relief hit first, so strong my chest ached with it. He was here. He’d stayed.
Then the guilt came crashing in behind it.
He stopped just inside the door, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come closer. Like he was afraid of what he’d find if he did. And I hated myself for putting that look on his face—for being the reason he’d spent God knew how long in another waiting room, reliving every trauma this sport had already carved into his life.
“Hey,” I said. My voice still sounded wrong, scratchy and rough.
Something crumpled in his face. He crossed the room in three steps, and then he was there, hands hovering over me like he didn’t know where to touch, like he was afraid I might break.
“Hey.” I caught one of his hands, pulled it to my chest so he could feel my heart beating. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
“You weren’t moving.” The words came out cracked, ragged. “Seth, you weren’t moving, and I couldn’t—I didn’t know if?—”
“I know.” I tugged him closer until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hip pressed against my side. The contact helped—grounded me in my body, reminded me I was still here, still solid. “I know. I’m sorry.”
His laugh was bitter, wet. “You’re sorry. You took a hit that could have killed you, and you’re apologizing to me.”
“Didn’t kill me.” I reached up to cup his face, and he leaned into my palm like he couldn’t help himself. His cheek was wet. “Wasn’t even close.”
“You don’t know that. You were unconscious, you don’t—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I watched them carry you off on a stretcher. Do you understand what that felt like?”
I did. Or at least, I could imagine. Tanner, who’d watched his father die by inches, who’d sworn off everything connected tothis sport specifically because he couldn’t bear to watch anyone else get hurt—sitting in those stands, watching me go down, not knowing if I was going to get back up.
“I saw your hand move,” he said, quieter now. “When they were carrying you off. You waved, and I— That’s the only thing that kept me from completely losing it. Knowing you were conscious.”
I thought of that moment, forcing my arm up through the vertigo and the pain, thinking of him in the crowd.
“I knew you were watching,” I said. “I couldn’t let you think?—”
“Stop.” His hand came up to cover mine, pressing my palm harder against his cheek. “Just stop.”
We sat there for a long moment, breathing together. The monitor beeped steadily beside us. Outside, I could hear distant footsteps, voices, and the muted sounds of a medical facility going about its business.
“I won’t be cleared for next week.” The words came out flat. “Concussion. They don’t know how long it’ll take for me to be cleared to play.”
