"Three."
"Liar. You're holding it like it's a four and your jaw is doing the tight thing it does when you're at a five." He reaches toward my shoulder and I lean away from his hand. "Let me see."
"The trainers already checked it. Grade one sprain. Ice and rest."
"Ice and rest. That's it? He hit you two seconds after the whistle, Q. Full speed, blindside, with his whole body behind it. That's not a football play, that's assault with a helmet on." His voice tightens, the usual warmth compressed into something harder. "I wanted to kick the ball at his head. I was calculating the angle. Milo Vark, first kicker in NCAA history to get ejected for targeted violence against a teammate."
"You would have missed."
"I wouldnothave missed. My accuracy was flawless today. Career best, forty-six yards, dead center. I could have threaded it through his face mask." He's trying to make me laugh. It almost works. His expression softens as he settles against my good side. "Seriously though. You okay?"
"I'm okay."
He nods and lets it sit, his hands folding between his knees. For once he doesn't push further, just stays there, only my phone buzzing breaking the silence. I fish it out with my right hand.
Iris:Are you okay?
I type one-handed, my left arm still pinned under the ice pack.
Me:Fine. Tomorrow.
The three dots appear immediately.
Iris:I'm coming over tonight.
I look at Milo. He reads over my shoulder with his chin practically resting on my shoulder, a small giddy sound coming from him.
Me:Yeah. Okay.
iris
Quentin'sshoulderisfine.I press along the joint one more time while he sits on the edge of his bed, tolerating the second examination with the same patient silence he gave me on the field. The trainers already confirmed the grade one sprain but my hands need to verify it for themselves, my fingers tracing the swelling, testing the range of motion until I'm satisfied that nothing has shifted since this afternoon.
Milo hovers behind me making jokes about girlfriend privileges and Sports Medicine adjacent credentials, his voice pitched a little too high, his hands fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. He's nervous. We all are.
"I'm going to my dad's," I say, stepping back from Quentin's shoulder. "Tonight. I'm not waiting for tomorrow's meeting."
Milo's mouth opens. Quentin's hand finds my wrist.
"I need to do this alone."
They don't argue. Milo kisses me before I leave, lingering until he steps out of the way for his brother. Quentin's kiss is brief, his hand squeezing the back of my neck once before letting go.
The porch light is on when I pull into the driveway. He always leaves it on for me, even when I'm not coming over, even when I haven't called ahead. It's been that way since we moved here, since he bought this house three blocks from campus so I'd never be too far away. The light stays on. Just in case.
I sit in the car for a full minute after I cut the engine. The house is a single-story colonial with a yard he mows himself every Saturday and a mailbox that tilts slightly to the left because neither of us has gotten around to fixing it. My mother would have fixed it the first week. She would have also planted something along the walkway and hung curtains in the front windows and made this place feel like a home instead of a house where two people sleep and eat and carefully avoid talking about anything that matters.
You got this Iris. Just rip the bandaid off.
I head inside, unsurprised that the door is unlocked, the smell of coffee grounds and wood polish and the faint ghost of whatever he heated up for dinner meeting my nose. The living room is dark but there's light coming from the kitchen, telling me he’s still awake and probably waiting for me.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I round the corner and find him sitting at the head of the table. Fourteen years ago, he sat in that exact spot and told me that my mother wasn't going to get better. He held my hands across the table and his voice cracked on the word "gone" and I remember thinking that if my father's voice could crack then the whole world might be breakable.
He looks up when I come in. His reading glasses are pushed up on his forehead, a mug of coffee sitting beside a legal pad covered in his handwriting. Game notes, probably. He always reviews his play calls after a win, cataloguing what worked andwhat didn't, building the foundation for next week's preparation. But the pen is capped, and the pad hasn't been touched recently.
"Hey, baby girl."
"Hey, Dad."
