by Lily Cahill
I want to say that this is a game, not a beauty contest. He’s so concerned about behavior and the world’s perception of us, he’s willing to let us lose a game over it. But I just nod.
With four minutes left in the game, I run back onto the field and tap Forrester out. This is our last chance to score the elusive seven points that would have been child’s play for us last year. I push the thought of our gutted team out of my mind. We’re still a team, we can be united on the field, even if we’ve lost our star quarterback and our best wide receiver and all the recruits who broke their commitments after the scandal.
We line up. My muscles are twitching, waiting to be able to move and sprint, hit something hard and feel the slam of another player’s body against mine. The violence of the game makes blood run through my veins like electricity, but I want more than that now. I want the win.
West yells out his call for the next play. He’s going to pass the ball to Riley Brulotte, our tight end, but I can see Lotto’s UW defender’s eyes locked on him, and I know he’s going to need help. Before West even lets the ball go, I’m there, right up on Lotto’s guy. I explode into his body and send him backward like a bomb.
Lotto jumps up for the ball and brings the prize down with him. He gets tackled immediately, but the catch is good for a first down.
First down. No pressure. West has the ball and plenty of chances to get it down the field. Time is ticking away, but we’re so close, on the twenty yard line. We can win this game.
West lets the ball loose, and I’m trying to figure out who the target is, because the ball is heading right to a Husky in front of me. I was geared up for a block, but if I don’t catch this ball, the Husky will. We both launch ourselves into the air, but he jumps higher than me. His gloves wrap around the ball. He hasn’t cradled the ball completely into his chest, so there’s a split second. A tiny chance. I punch the ball upward as hard as I can. It spikes up wildly, and I lunge for it, pivoting my body to angle toward it. I feel something snap, and my body hits the ground hard. The ball is still loose in the air, and I watch it falling. I’d fought so hard to avoid the turnover, but I can’t move.
I watch the ball falling in slow motion, and then, just before it makes contact with the turf, hands scoop underneath it, pulling the ball into a blue-and-silver jersey. Riley gets tackled, but he keeps the ball safely in his arms. Relief pours through me, and I let my head sink back to the ground, closing my eyes and feeling, for the first time, the hot pain searing from my ankle. I scramble onto my feet, but when I try to put any pressure on my ankle, pain shoots up my shin, making my vision go blurry.
I hobble over to the sideline.
“Just need to stretch it out,” I say to Coach Prescott, who’s looking at me wondering if he needs to worry. Forrester takes my place and I sit down, gently easing my foot onto the ground.
The physical therapy team is ready for me. Megan—who I’ve been trying not to think about—comes over with another girl. She’s watching me with intense eyes, a single crease between her eyebrows. It makes her look even more serious than she normally does.
She kneels in front of me, and I can almost see down the open buttons of her polo shirt, but then her silky auburn hair falls in front and blocks the view. I tilt my head, hoping to recover the view, but then the pain in my ankle doubles as Megan unlaces my shoes.
“Where does it hurt?” she asks, that crease forming again between her eyes. It’s cute how it doesn’t wrinkle, it just creases. Like she’s too certain about being worried to have multiple indecisive lines. No, her worry is solid and sure.
She puts her fingers to my ankle, and I wince. I’m dirty and sweaty, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s peering at my ankle with the sort of focus that makes me wonder what it would be like to break her concentration.
I have to admit that I really hadn’t noticed Megan before the party that Coach is still mad about. I mean, I noticed her—that auburn hair stands out—but the uniform khakis and polos the physical therapy team wears aren’t exactly the most flattering garments. Still, I can spot a beautiful woman no matter what she’s wearing, and Megan is definitely beautiful.
And definitely not interested in me. I overheard her saying as much to her friend—the same friend who is pressing ice to my ankle right now. That’s fine, plenty of other girls are (including her friend, from the way she’s batting her eyes at me), but it still stings my pride a little to know that Megan’s already dismissed me.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to twitch my ankle out of her grip. “I just need to stretch it out. I landed on it a little funny, that’s all.”
Her mouth twists to the left, and the pads of her fingers press delicately into my ankle as she moves them toward the outside, closer to the bone.
A sharp pain makes my ankle dart away from her touch. Her brow furrows again.
“I think it’s sprained. We need to get an X-ray to make sure it’s not broken, though.” She stands and brushes off the front of her pants, even though they aren’t dirty. “Chloe, will you go get the golf cart? We’ll head in and see how bad it is.”
“Sure,” Chloe says, bouncing up and giving me one last flirtatious look. “I’ll be right back.”
Megan is standing in front of me, hand outstretched to help me to my feet. I ignore her hand and place my hands on her hips instead. Her body freezes under my touch, but I’m only trying to shift her over. She’s blocking my view of the field.
“The game isn’t over. I’m not going anywhere until we’re through.”
Megan sighs. “We need to get this looked at.”
“After.” I look deep into her eyes, pleading. I need her on my side right now. All she has to do is tell Garrett Patacky, the head of the sports injury team, or Coach Prescott, and I’ll be off the side of the field and in the medic office.
She glances over her shoulder, just in time to see Shane Crews, a running back, take the ball past the line of scrimmage and earn us the down we desperately need. She nods, understanding that I can’t leave when my brothers are out on the field fighting for victory. She leaves and comes back a moment later with tape to wrap the icepack and a cooler to prop my leg on. Then she sits beside me, just as focused on the field as I am.
We watch in silence as West hands off ball after ball, letting the boys run small distances for yards, pushing their way forward in a slow march until we’re right up on the end zone. After the way he’s been throwing, it’s a safer move than risking another turnover. My uninjured leg is shaking up and down like crazy, nervous energy coursing through me. This is it. The last chance for the win. There are only thirty seconds on the clock. Megan puts her hand on my leg, I think to stop me from shaking the bench, but without thinking, I weave my fingers into hers, letting the stability of it calm me down.
The Huskies are onto us by now, and all of the runners have been blocked away from West. He shuffles backward, trying to buy time and find a way out, but there’s was no one. I squeeze Megan’s hand harder. I hate not being out there to help. A Husky breaks past the inside defender protecting West and is running straight toward him, but then West reacts. Instead of getting bogged down and nervous like he normally does, West spins backward, letting the weight of the defender’s momentum get him off balance before he sprints forward into the pocket created by the Husky. West darts and leaps, and when he lands hard on his side, his eyes are closed.
The crowds go nuts, and West finally opens his eyes to see: he’s made it. His entire body is in the end zone.
I shoot out of my seat screaming and pumping a fist in the air. The pain from my ankle brings me back down an instant later. The win feels so good that a grin spreads on my face so wide that not even Megan’s scowl or the pain now shooting up my leg can bring me down.
Chapter Five
Megan
GARRETT TACKS THE X-RAYS up on the wall, the backlight showing the inner depths of Reggie’s foot. I squint at the images, studying the bone structure and feeling relieved that the
re aren’t any breaks.
“It’s sprained,” Garret announces with no emotion, looking down at his clipboard. “Megan’s going to help you with stretching and strengthening. Stay off of it.” He flips his clipboard back over, snapping the metal casing shut, and glances at Reggie, already impatient. His lips are tucked in at the corners like he’s trying to challenge Reggie into asking a question.
“But I can play, right? I mean, I have to be able to play.”
“No, I just said you have to stay off it.” Garrett pronounces each word slowly, like he’s talking to someone with a disability. He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—the panic gleaming in Reggie’s eyes, like a trapped animal, desperate for a way out. Garrett huffs out a sigh. “It’s a bad sprain, you’re definitely out for next week’s game at Stanford, and I highly doubt you’ll be able to play in the rivalry game against Arizona in two weeks. Any other questions, Megan’s your case manager.”
My head whips up in surprise. It would have been nice to get a little notice. I need the experience, but still. “I…,” I start the sentence without having an end.
I’m too busy with homework to do my job. Reggie overheard me say some mean things and hates me now. Reggie makes me nervous and I don’t want to be stuck alone with him for even a minute.
All those things are true, but it’s the last one that makes my stomach flop over. Why do I feel so jittery around Reggie? He’s just a football player … no, a patient. Just like any other patient.
Garrett looks at me with raised eyebrows. This is the man that I have to get a letter of recommendation from in order to get into MSU’s graduate school, my top choice. But really, I’m not sure any decent graduate schools will accept me without a letter of rec from my overseeing physical therapist. If you don’t get a letter of rec from the physician you study under, you’re basically done for. I could kiss my therapy career goodbye before it even started.
“You?” His voice is laced with disdain as he prompts me to finish my thought.
I have to do this job, and I have to do it well. I have to earn Garrett’s respect. “I can’t wait,” I finally say, trying to infuse some cheer into my voice.
Reggie’s head is slung down. He’s picking at his fingers, looking even more miserable than I feel. Of course he doesn’t want to get stuck with me. After what he overheard me say about him, I don’t blame him.
“Great.” Garret shoves the clipboard into my hands. “I’m going to go help with the cool down for the rest of the team. Don’t forget to lock up before you leave.” He slams the door behind him, leaving just me and Reggie in the office alone.
Reggie is still studying his hands, refusing to make eye contact with me. The silence stretches between us, the hum of the air conditioner filling the space. The silence gets heavier the longer it goes on and finally I cough, just to get out from under it.
“I don’t think there’s much more we can do tonight. Just ice for twenty minutes and then heat for twenty minutes on and off. It’ll reduce swelling and keep your muscles from spasming. I don’t want to irritate it further by working it right now.” I start gathering supplies out of the cupboards, anything to keep from getting too close to Reggie. “I’ll send you home with a couple ice packs and a heating pad. Other than that, we just need to get you into a good brace to keep you from accidentally moving it or re-injuring. You’ll be able to get around fine with some crutches.”
I’m basically rambling at this point, but I don’t want to do stop and pause. If I fill all the silence, maybe this won’t be so awkward. I grab a set of crutches from a supply closet and extend them to fit under Reggie’s huge frame, but he grabs my arm before I can hand them over. I freeze; his hand sends a jolt through my body. His skin is a milky brown against my white, freckly arms.
“I’m not using those.”
“Okay.” His hand is still on my arm, so warm against me. “We have a wheelchair. I’m happy to take you back to your dorm if you want.” I start to pull away, and his fingers slip from my arm, the air feeling too cold where his touch had been. I grab the wheelchair and pop it open. “I’ll help you up.” I hold my hand out, but Reggie doesn’t take it.
His eyebrows wrinkle and one arches above the other. “I’m not using that either,” he says, with his head shaking slightly.
“Well, you can’t walk home, so it’s this or the crutches.” I’m starting to get irritated now. It’s almost three and I’m supposed to meet a study group at the library in thirty minutes. I don’t have time to waste arguing about crutches and wheelchairs.
“Nope.”
I pull my hair back, tight from my scalp, making the skin tingle at the hair line. “Reggie,” I try to stay calm, but saying his name makes my heart beat faster. I’m the physician in the situation, I have to remain in control. I take a deep breath and try again for patience. “Your dorm is half a mile from here. You can’t walk it.”
Reggie doesn’t budge. “There is no way I am going to be wheeled around like an invalid, and I’m not hobbling my ass across campus on those crutches.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I explode, practically yelling. I grab Reggie’s arm. His forearm is so thick and roped with muscle, my hand doesn’t even cover half the circumference. I pull, and his muscles tighten under my grip, turning his arm to stone. Unsurprisingly, he still doesn’t budge. I pull harder, frustration welling inside me, and feel the familiar tug of a challenge. I can’t move him, but the competitive part of me won’t let go.
No. I need to stop, step back. I am in charge here, I remind myself. I finally release my hold and step away, blowing back the wisps of hair that have fallen into my face. Reggie’s just watching me, grinning, which makes me even angrier. I cross my arms and feel the corners of my mouth curling down into a frown. This seriously can’t be happening.
“You’re like a nanny goat trying to move a bull.”
I cross my arms over my chest. At nearly six feet tall, I’ve never felt weak. But Reggie is making me feel puny. “Am I supposed to be the goat in that analogy?”
Reggie’s mouth breaks from smirk to full smile. “You’re stubborn enough.” He’s almost laughing.
I throw up my hands in frustration and pace in front of him. “So, what? You camp out here for two weeks? Is that your big plan?”
“I’ll tell you what.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Let’s order a pizza, I haven’t eaten since before the game started and I know you haven’t either. When the sun goes down and campus is quieter, I’ll let you take me the back way to my dorm.”
“Fine.” It’s not like I have much of a choice. He’s clearly not moving until he wants to.
His smile splits wide. “Great, what do you like on your pizza?”
Reggie orders a spicy Hawaiian pizza, and I crack open my anatomy book. My last year of college is proving to be the hardest. The courses are more specific to physical therapy and the sheer amount of memorization is breaking my brain. There are so many muscles, bones, arteries, and tissues all connecting and intertwining. It leaves me with a constant mild thrum of a headache.
I’m staring down at the book, trying to make notecards out of the information, but I can’t focus. The words float through my mind, not sticking hard enough to mean anything. My gaze flits up from the text to the empty, quiet room.
The main sports therapy office is expansive. With just the two of us in here and the lights low, it feels like we’ve snuck in after hours. The room looks half like a doctor’s office and half like a gym. I’ve perched on my favorite table—the one that lets me lean against the wall while I work—but now I think sitting here is a mistake. My table puts me close to Reggie. Closer than any other two tables we could have chosen. Ours come practically together in the corner, and as I sit with my anatomy book on my lap, Reggie’s head where he lays down on his padded table is almost level with my knee.
My eyes keep drifting over to him. He’s playing with his phone, not bothering me, but he’s just so big. It’s like his sheer presenc
e takes up all the air in the room. Come on, Meg, focus. I flip the page of my book too hard and tear it halfway up the middle. His eyes glance to my lap at the noise and then back to his phone.
I start scribbling furiously on my notecards, barely understanding what I’m writing, just wanting to feel like I’m at least getting something done tonight. Maybe I’ll be able to flash through the cards later and they’ll magically make sense.
Then Reggie starts humming. It sounds absentminded, but it isn’t. Even though he isn’t singing, the words stream through my brain anyway, taking my focus even further away from my studies.
Hip bone connected to the thigh bone.
Thigh bone connected to the knee bone.
Knee bone connected to the shin bone.
“Do you mind?” I say, my voice shrewish.
Reggie smiles that half-smile again, and if it wasn’t so goddamned cute on him, I’d slap it off his face. “Sorry. Just keeping myself entertained.”
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“You know what they say.” He points to his elevated ankle that’s currently wrapped in the heating blanket. “When life gives you lemons, you have to find the silver lining.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
I’m about to argue, but a knock on the door stops me. I hop down from my stool and open the door to the delivery guy. The sweet and salty smell of the pizza floods the room, and my stomach rumbles.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Already paid for. Have a good one.” The extra large pizza box burns on my forearm as I close the door.
Reggie has maneuvered himself up into a sitting position, and I place the pizza next to him. I shuffle through my wallet, looking for enough cash to make up my half.
“Don’t worry about it,” Reggie says, sliding a slice of pizza out of the box.
“No, you don’t have to do that.” I pull out my half of the cash and hold my hand out, but Reggie doesn’t take it. Instead he hands me the slice of pizza.
