My parents came in next. Sat politely. Asked if I’d prayed about the pain. My mom brought me a devotional, slipped it onto the nightstand between the painkillers and theGatoradelike it wouldn’t stand out. They didn’t say much about football. Didn’t say anything about the guy whowasn’tthere.
Then came the flood.
Ty brought candy. Micah brought an actual plush duck and called it emotional support poultry. Colton snuck in donuts and tried to convince the nurse it was part of my nutrition plan. Will said nothing and just gripped my shoulder a little too tightly when he left.
Daniel and Eli showed up last night with shitty jokes and a handheld fan. Said it was to help cool down the nurses, but I know it was to make me laugh.
I love those idiots.
I really do.
But none of them arehim.
Every time the door opens, I look up. Every single time. And every time it’s someone else, the weight in my chest presses down a little harder.
He hasn’t even checked on me.
Not a message. Not a whisper. Nothing.
I try to reason with myself. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it’s for show. Maybe Coach Harris warned him to stay away.
But even as I think it, I know. Silas wouldn’t stay away unlesshe wanted to. That thought cuts deeper than the hit did.
I shift on the bed, wincing at the ache in my side. The bruises are healing, the fog is lifting. I stare at the ceiling, arms crossed, throat thick.
Three days ago, he kissed me breathless in his kitchen.
Now I’m here, stuck in a too-white hospital room, wondering if I imagined it all. Or worse… if maybe he’s already decided I was a mistake.
Daniel arrives just after noon, all tousled hair and sunglasses perched on his head. He kicks the door open with his foot, a paper bag in one hand and a smug little grin like he’s proud of himself for remembering I like strawberryPop-Tartsand orangeGatorade.
“I come bearing snacks and freedom,” he announces. “You, my little slut, are being discharged.”
I huff a laugh and catch the bag he tosses onto the bed. “About damn time.”
He tosses a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt at me next. “From Ty. Clean. Swear.”
I roll my eyes but tug the sweats on carefully, still moving like an eighty-year-old man with a hangover. Every muscle aches, but the bruises are nothing compared to the hollow ache that hasn’t gone away since Saturday.
Daniel grabs my hospital chart off the foot of the bed like he knows what he’s looking for and pretends to read it upside down. “Cleared for light activity, flirting, and mild pettiness.”
I finish pulling the shirt on. “So, a normal Tuesday?”
He grins. “Exactly.”
But the lightness doesn’t stick. Not for me. I glance toward the window, watching the sun spill across the parking lot.
“Hey,” I say, trying to make it sound casual. “Did anyone… say anything? About Coach Gray? He was pretty upset when I?—”
Daniel freezes.
It’s subtle—barely a pause in the crinkle of the paper bag—but I catch it. And something cold settles in my chest.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “No one told you?”
I turn. My throat goes dry. “Told me what?”
Daniel hesitates, running a hand through his hair like he doesn’t want to say it. Then his eyes meet mine, and the weight behind them hits like another tackle.
