“Yeah?” He shifted his weight against the counter, settling in like he actually wanted to hear the answer. “What kind of data?”
I glanced at him, expecting the glazed look I usually got when I talked about my research. Instead, his eyes were focused, attentive despite the exhaustion pulling at the edges of his face.
“Force distribution measurements, mostly. I’ve been testing different layering configurations for the padding inserts.”
“The ones you were telling me about last week? With the different materials for different impact speeds?”
Something loosened in my chest. He remembered. “Yeah. Those.”
“And?”
“Six percent improvement in force distribution compared to the last configuration.”
Seth tilted his head. “Six percent. That doesn’t sound like much, but I’m guessing it is?”
“It’s not nothing.” I kept stirring, even though the pasta didn’t need it. “Still a long way from where I’d like it to be, but the overlapping layers are working better than I expected.”
“So what’s next? More layers? Different materials?”
The questions weren’t casual. Seth was leaning forward slightly, beer can forgotten in his hand, like the answer actually mattered to him.
“Both, maybe. I need to analyze today’s data first, figure out where the weak points are.” I paused. “Why do you care?”
Seth shrugged, then winced at the movement. “You’re trying to make helmets safer. Seems like something worth caring about.”
I reached past him for the colander, and he shifted sideways to give me room. The movement brought him close enough that I caught the smell of his soap, something clean and generic beneath the lingering hint of stadium grass.
“It’s progress.” I kept my eyes on the pot, watching bubbles climb the sides. “Still not good enough, but it’s something.”
Seth was quiet. I could feel him watching me—not the way most people watched, already forming their next sentence before you’d finished yours. His gaze stayed steady, tracking my hands as I stirred, and when I paused to check the pasta, he didn’t jump in to fill the silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him uncross his arms, his fingers wrapping around the edge of the counter instead.
“Your dad would be proud of what you’re doing.”
My hand tightened on the spoon. The words landed somewhere beneath my ribs, in a space I hadn’t known was exposed. I stared at the pasta, at the rolling water, at anything that wasn’t Seth’s face.
“Maybe,” I said.
The silence held for three seconds. Four. Then Seth pushed off from the counter, and I heard him pull open the drawer where we kept the forks.
We didn’t talk much while I finished cooking. I drained the pasta, the steam fogging my glasses for a moment until I pushed them up onto my head. Mixed in the sauce. Divided it between two plates. We ate standing at the counter because the table was covered in textbooks, my laptop, and Seth’s playbook, our elbows inches apart in the narrow kitchen.
He ate like he was starving, which he probably was. I pushed pasta around my plate and tried not to stare at the bruise on his cheek. Was that from the game? Was that even possible? It shouldn’t be, not if his helmet was doing its damned job.
“It looks worse than it feels,” Seth said.
I looked up. “What?”
He gestured at his face. “The bruise. I can tell you keep looking at it.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I wasn’t?—”
“It’s fine. Defensive end caught me from the side, knocked the wind out of me. Nothing serious.”
Nothing serious. I’d heard that phrase before. From my dad. From coaches. From every player who’d ever walked off a hit that should have kept them down.
“Okay,” I said.
Seth set down his fork. “Look, I know you’ve got…history with this stuff. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, but I’m also not going to pretend like I don’t play.”
