My phone stayed dark most of the ride. Hunter had texted.
Hunter
Watched the game. That hit was nasty. You good?
Fine. Just sore.
Tanner’s probably losing his mind.
I stared at that message. Typed and deleted three responses before figuring out what to say.
He’s probably asleep. He doesn’t watch the games.
Doesn’t mean he’s not worried. Have you not figured out that he won’t watch, but curiosity will get the best of him? I’m sure he’s looked at the highlights by now.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say. That I hoped Tanner was worried? That I wanted him to care even though he’d made it clear he couldn’t handle this?
The bus pulled into campus around two a.m. I grabbed my duffel with my good arm and headed for the parking lot where I’d left my car. The walk felt longer than usual, my shoulder throbbing with each step.
The apartment was dark when I let myself in. I set my duffel down as quietly as I could, then stood in the entryway trying to decide whether I should ice my shoulder again or just go to bed.
“You’re back.”
I turned. Tanner was standing in the hallway, wearing sleep shorts and a T-shirt, hair sticking up on one side. His eyes went straight to my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said. “Got in a few minutes ago.”
He moved closer, and I watched his gaze travel over me—cataloging injuries, assessing damage. His jaw tightened.
“You’re hurt.”
“Just sore.”
“Seth.” The way he said my name made my chest ache. Like it mattered. Like I mattered. “You can barely lift your arm.”
“It’s fine. The trainers iced it. I’ll be good by Tuesday.”
“Let me see.”
I should say no. Should maintain the distance he’d asked for, the boundaries he’d drawn. Instead, I set my keys on the counter and turned so he could see my left side.
His fingers were gentle when they touched my shoulder, peeling back the collar of my shirt to get a better look. I heard his breath catch.
“Jesus, Seth.”
“Looks worse than it is.” It didn’t. The bruise was already spreading, purple and angry, the skin hot to the touch. My ribs underneath were tender in a way that made breathing deeper than shallow a bad idea.
“This is—” He stopped. Swallowed. “This is what I can’t handle. This is what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His voice was sharp enough to cut. “Because you keep going out there, and you keep coming back broken, and I keep—” He stopped again.
“Keep what?”
He shook his head. Stepped back. “Wait here.”
I stood in the kitchen while he disappeared down the hall. Heard him rummaging in the bathroom. When he came back, he had an ice pack, a roll of athletic tape, and ibuprofen.
