I keep typing.
Me: It wasn’t about your knee. It was about me. About something that happened to someone I…failed…
I close my eyes. My thumb hovers over the touch pad. Then I let it all pour out.
Me: His name is Xavier. He was nineteen. Smart. Fast. Charismatic as hell. I coached him for two years at the beginning of my career.
He took a hit during practice one day. Light contact. Something that should’ve been nothing.
He stood up, brushed it off, said he was fine. Wanted to keep playing. I let him back in.
I inhale and squeeze my eyes shut as I remember everything from back then. Blinking the moisture gathering in my eyes away I continue.
Me: He was fine that day. Then he was hit again at the next game. He got a concussion.
Took the time off he was supposed to, even though he didn’t want to.
However, I had to stop him from practicing. The very next game, he took a bad hit. He collapsed on the field.
That hit gave him a traumatic brain injury. Now he’s in a full-time care facility. No memory.
A shaky breath that sounds almost like a sob parts my lips, and I swipe at the tears that are now free falling. But still I keep going.
Me: No speech. No recognition of anyone. Me, his parents, his sister, it’s all gone. I go see him all the time. He doesn’t know who I am.
I sit back, staring at the words. I’m not telling him I loved Xavier. Just knowing that it was my bad call of letting him play again so soon after his concussion is what caused his brain injury is enough for now. Maybe Luke will understand why I benched him over something he deems small.
Me: I benched you because I couldn’t not. Because the idea of you going down on my watch made me sick.
Not because I don’t think you’re strong. Or capable. But because I…
The cursor blinks again, the previous messages staring at me. Still no reply, not that I thought he would reply, he left with a guy—he’s probably in his bed right this second. Fuck. Don’t think about it.
Me: I care. Too fucking much.
At least now he knows. Even if it doesn’t change a thing. Even if a real relationship could never work between us.
I set the phone down and lean back, staring up at the ceiling through my tears, heart thrumming like a war drum in my chest. The truth is, I already lost the one person that I thought was the love of my life. And I don’t think I can survive doing it again.
FOURTEEN
LUKE
My head feelslike a jackhammer set to dubstep.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow—only to inhale tequila sweat and peppermint gum and come nose-to-hair with Daniel’s unruly curls.
We’re both fully clothed—thank god. My jeans are wrinkled and twisted at the waist like I passed out mid-strip, and Daniel is star-fished across the mattress like he owns it. Typical.
“Move,” I grumble, nudging him with my foot.
He groans but doesn’t stir. Corpse in a crime scene reenactment. Mouth open. One sock on. The other MIA.
I squint at the room. It looks like we exploded a glitter bomb in the middle of a Taco Bell drive-thru. There’s a trail of wrappers on the floor, one of my shirt’s hanging off the lamp like it’s trying out for a burlesque show, and my glitter eye makeup exploded across the rug. Mystery solved on the glitter.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, as persistent as a drunk hookup trying to score a round two. I roll over with agroan and fish it from my pocket, wincing at the assault of light. Notifications light up the lock screen.
7 Prism messages.
