Now, I just felt tired.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding off the examination table. “I’ll let Coach know.”
“Take care of yourself, Seth.”She held my gaze a beat longer than necessary. “Concussions are cumulative. The next one will be worse.”
I nodded and left before she could see whatever was showing on my face.
The apartment was eerily still when I got home.
Tanner had drawn all the blackout curtains again, even though I’d told him yesterday that light didn’t bother me anymore. I found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his back to me, cutting vegetables for a stir-fry. His movements were precise, mechanical—the same motions he’d used for everything since the hit. Measuring my meds. Timing my ice packs. Making sure I didn’t exert myself.
Taking care of me the way he’d taken care of his father.
“Hey,” I said.
He turned, and I watched him scan my face the way he always did now—checking for pain, for confusion, for any sign that something was wrong. The vigilance in his eyes made my chest ache.
“How’d it go?”
“Practice cleared. Full contact by the twentieth, probably. Should be good for the bowl game.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he smoothed it into a smile. “That’s great. The team will be happy.”
“Yeah.” I moved closer, leaning against the counter beside him. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” The automatic response. The same one he’d been giving me for ten days, even when his hands shook, his eyes went distant, and I caught him crying in the bathroom at three in the morning.
I’d heard him that night. Hadn’t said anything because he’d clearly needed the release, had needed to fall apart somewhere I couldn’t see. But I’d lain awake for hours afterward, listening tohim put himself back together before climbing into bed beside me, his breathing too even, his body too still.
He wasn’t fine. He was drowning, and he was too stubborn to let me throw him a line.
“Tanner.”
“I said I’m fine.” He went back to chopping, the knife hitting the cutting board with sharp, controlled strokes. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. You should rest.”
“I’ve been resting for ten days.”
“One more day won’t hurt.”
I reached over and stilled his hand. The knife clattered against the board, and he went rigid, not looking at me.
“Talk to me,” I said.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” His voice was too flat. “You’re cleared. You can play. Everything’s back to normal.”
“Is it?”
The silence stretched between us. I could feel the tension in his arm, the way he was holding himself together through stubbornness alone. This was the version of him I’d been watching since the hospital—competent, controlled, completely closed off. The version that knew how to survive by not feeling anything too deeply.
I hated it. I hated that I was the reason for it.
“I’m going to call Hunter,” I said finally. “Let him know about the clearance.”
“Okay.”
I retreated to the bedroom before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Hunter pickedup on the second ring.
