He paused, a T-shirt clutched in his hands. “What?”
“Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He pulled the shirt over his head, disappearing into the fabric for a moment. When he emerged, his expression had smoothed into something neutral. “I’ve got my capstone presentation today. I should focus on that.”
“I know. But you’ve been—” I stopped, not sure how to finish. Distant? Careful? Acting like you’re waiting for something bad to happen? All of it was true. None of it felt right to say.
“I’ve been stressed,” he said. “It’s a stressful time.”
“For both of us.”
His eyes met mine, and I saw something flicker there—acknowledgment, maybe, or guilt. Then it was gone, and he was grabbing his bag from the chair by the door.
“I’ll see you tonight. Good luck at practice.”
He left before I could answer.
Practice was brutal.
Coach had us running drills like we were preparing for a championship game instead of the final regular-season matchup against a team we’d beaten in the past seven meetings. I understood the logic—momentum mattered, and we needed a convincing win to lock in our bowl position—but understanding didn’t make my lungs burn any less.
“Landry!” Coach’s voice cut across the field. “You’re half a step behind on that route. Again.”
I ran it again. And again. By the fifth repetition, my legs felt like they were filled with sand, but the timing was finally there—crisp, precise, the kind of execution that would make scouts sit up in their seats.
Not that it mattered. Not that I wanted it to matter.
The hit came during the scrimmage portion—a safety who read my route better than he should have, arriving the same moment the ball did. His shoulder drove into my ribs, right where the bruising from the Ole Miss game had finally started to fade. I went down hard, the air punched out of my lungs, stars bursting across my vision.
“Landry!” Someone was shouting my name. Hands on my shoulder, my face. “You good?”
I blinked up at Davis, the field tilting around me before it steadied. My ribs screamed when I tried to breathe. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“That was a clean hit, but Jesus.” He helped me sit up, and I had to bite back a groan. “You sure nothing’s broken?”
“Just bruised.” I pushed myself to standing, ignoring the way my left side burned with every step. “I’ve had worse.”
Coach was watching from the sideline, arms crossed. I could see him calculating—how hurt was I really, could I play through it, was I going to be a liability when it mattered. I straightened my spine and jogged back to the huddle, pretending every step didn’t send pain radiating through my torso.
The rest of the practice blurred together—more drills, more repetitions, more of my body reminding me that it had limits I kept ignoring. By the time we finished, the sun was setting and my ribs had settled into a deep, throbbing ache that promised to be worse tomorrow.
I was the last one in the locker room. Took my time in the shower, letting the hot water work at the knots in my shoulders, putting off the moment when I’d have to check my phone again. When I finally stripped off my practice gear, the bruise on my side had spread into something ugly—purple and black across my ribs.
Two more voicemails waited on my phone. And a text from my father that made my stomach drop.
Your mother is upset. Call her back. This is getting ridiculous.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark.
The apartment wasquiet when I got home.
Tanner’s bag was by the door, his laptop open on the coffee table, but he wasn’t in the living room. I found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with a cup of tea going cold beside him, staring at nothing.
“Hey.”
He startled, turning to face me. “Hey. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Just got here.” I moved toward him, then stopped. Usually, I’d reach for him automatically—his hip, his shoulder, some point of contact to ground us both. But something in his posture said don’t, so I stayed where I was. “How’d the presentation go?”
