The plan is imperfect and risky but better than any alternative that I can think of. "Two days," I say.
They both nod.
"And then it's done. One way or another." Milo slides off the counter and crosses to me, his hand finding mine. "No more hiding."
We end up in my nest, the way we always do when the apartment gets too heavy. The blankets Milo stripped yesterday are back from the wash, still warm from the dryer, and he tucks them into the gaps without being asked. His hands smooth thefabric with care, his fingers adjusting the folds until they sit the way I like them.
The moment we’re tucked in, with the Vark brothers on either side of me, I realize what was always missing. It was this. Being held by people who don't need me to hold myself together. Being the one in the middle instead of the one holding the edges.
It was never about the blankets.
quentin
Twodaysofwaitingfeels like holding a lit match between my fingers and watching it burn down to the skin. I channeled it the way I always do. Film study until my eyes ached, extra reps after practice when the field was empty, and reviewing the opposing team's defensive schemes until I could predict their blitz packages in my sleep.
Milo caught me rewatching game tape at two in the morning and physically closed my laptop, which I let him do only because he was right and I'd never admit it. The plan is simple. Win the game. Face the consequences after. Everything else gets compartmentalized, packed into a box I won't open until the final whistle blows.
Except Chad isn't cooperating with the timeline.
Pre-game warmups tell me everything I need to know. The smug performance he wears like a second skin is gone, the bicepflexing and the loud declarations stripped away, replaced by something darker.
He runs drills with a focus that I'd almost respect if it weren't aimed so specifically at me. Shoulder checks during stretches that linger a beat too long, his body angling into my space instead of past it. A late shove during the scrimmage walkthrough that the position coach either doesn't see or chooses not to address. Each one targeted and each one delivered with eye contact, daring me to react.
I don't give him anything. My face stays neutral, my body absorbs the contact, and I run the next drill like nothing happened. Milo catches my eye from across the field where he's warming up with the special teams unit, his kicking tee set up on the thirty-yard line. His expression asks the question. I give him a single shake of my head.Not now.
The stadium starts to fill as we continue to warm up, their voices building over the marching band's fight songs and the announcer's pre-game introductions. Scouts sit in a roped-off section near the press box with their clipboards and tablets out, and I file their presence away the same way I file everything else, useful information stored for later when I have the bandwidth to care about it.
Iris is in the stands, section C, fourth row, the same spot she always sits for home games. Her laptop is closed for once, tucked under the seat, her attention fully on the field. She's wearing the team colors with a teal and gold scarf wrapped around her neck, her braids pinned up with the gold clips. My eyes find her during warmups without my permission and I have force them back to the field before anyone notices where I'm looking.
Just get through the game.
The first quarter is clean. Chad focuses on the game, leaving me alone. By the second quarter, we’re sitting at 14-7. I line up in the backfield and read the defensive front, counting bodiesin the box while the play clock ticks down. The call is a screen pass designed to pull the linebackers upfield and let me slip underneath for the catch. It’s a simple execution that I've run a hundred times in practice.
The ball snaps and I sell the block, holding my position for two counts before releasing. The pass hits my hands and I turn upfield, picking up fifteen yards before the safety closes the angle and my foot catches the sideline. The whistle blows, ending the play.
Chad's hit arrives two full seconds later.
The impact comes from my blindside, his shoulder driving into my ribs with his full weight behind it, and my feet leave the ground before I can brace for the landing. The turf catches my left shoulder first, pain detonating through the joint that locks my whole arm up. The crowd noise shifts around me, cheering cutting to a collective gasp, and two yellow flags hit the turf while I'm still on my back trying to get my arm to respond to basic instructions.
Pain spreads outward as I stumble to my feet, trying not to make a big deal out of what absolutely was on purpose. "I'm fine." I wave them off before the medics reach me.
"You need to get checked—"
"After the drive."
Coach is screaming at the refs from the sideline, his headset yanked down around his neck, his face a shade of red I've never seen on him before. The penalty flag is for unnecessary roughness. Fifteen yards, automatic first down.
Chad is standing exactly where he delivered the hit, his helmet tilted back on his head, staring at me with an expression that isn't remorse or satisfaction. It's frustration. He wanted more of a reaction. He wanted me on the ground, the trainers carting me off, the crowd seeing what happens to people who take things that belong to him.
I hold his gaze for three seconds, then turn back to the huddle and run the next play with my shoulder screaming through every step, my left arm tucked against my ribs while the running back takes the carry.
The trainers reach me on the sideline before I can wave them off again, two of them flanking me with their med kits, already reaching for my shoulder. I'm in the middle of telling them I'm fine when Iris appears at the edge of the field. She hops the railing separating the stands from the sideline, the security volunteer near the gate stepping aside because everyone on this field knows who she is, and by the time I register what's happening she's already pushing past the trainers and standing in front of me with her hands reaching for my face.
"Don't." I try to step back but her palms are already on my jaw, her dark eyes scanning mine for signs of concussion before moving to my shoulder. Her fingers press along the AC joint with a precision that tells me she's been paying attention in every Sports Medicine lecture she's ever audited, and the contact sends a jolt through the injury that makes me hiss through my teeth.
"You're not fine." Her voice is steady but her hands are shaking against my skin, the tremor so slight that only I can feel it. "You're getting checked out. Now."
"Iris—"
