Tanner’s expression didn’t change. No relief, which surprised me. I’d half expected him to be glad—one less game where he had to watch me risk my brain.
“Okay.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“That’s it? Just okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” He pulled back slightly, and I saw something complicated moving behind his eyes. Fear, relief,guilt, all of it tangled together. “That I’m happy you got hurt? That I’m glad your season might be over? I’m not— I don’t?—”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to be okay.” His voice broke on the last word. “That’s all I wanted. I didn’t want this.”
There was a weight in the space between us, pressing down. All the things we weren’t saying. The look in his eyes that I couldn’t quite read, not just fear, not just relief. Something else. Something that looked almost like grief.
He was out the door before I could say anything else.
When he came back, he had my duffel slung over his shoulder. "One of the trainers dropped off your stuff."
I changed into sweats while he dealt with discharge papers, grateful to peel off the uniform that still reeked of turf and sweat.
The drive home was quiet.
Tanner had my truck—we’d planned to ride home together after the game, so he’d had the keys all day. The streetlights slid past in orange streaks, and every bump in the road sent a dull throb through my skull.
He kept both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. Didn’t look at me once.
“You’re being too quiet,” I said, breaking the silence.
“You’re supposed to rest. Talking isn’t resting.”
“Tanner.”
His jaw tightened. I watched the muscle flex, watched him swallow whatever he wanted to say.
“I’m fine.” His voice was too controlled, too careful. “We’re almost home.”
He wasn’t fine. Anyone could see that. But pushing him would only make him retreat further, and I didn’t have the energy for a fight. My head was pounding again, the dull ache that had settled behind my eyes sharpening into something more insistent.
The apartment was dark when we got there. Tanner helped me out of the car, one arm around my waist, moving carefully like I might shatter if he jostled me too hard. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t that fragile, but maybe I was. Maybe we both were.
Inside, he guided me to the couch instead of the bedroom.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to get your meds and some water.”
I sank into the cushions and closed my eyes. The apartment smelled like Tanner’s cologne, like the laundry detergent we both used, like home in a way that made my chest ache.
His footsteps came back across the floor. I opened my eyes to find him standing over me with a glass of water and two pills.
“Ibuprofen. The doctor said you could take it for the headache.”
I swallowed them dry, then chased them with the water. Tanner took the glass when I was done, set it on the coffee table, then stood there like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Sit down,” I said. “You’re making me nervous.”
He sat at the other end of the couch. Not touching me. A foot of space between us that felt like a mile.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You need to rest. The doctor said dark rooms, quiet?—”
