Content, I let my eyes flutter closed and the world turns black.

Later that evening I’m in the ER, sitting on the edge of a bed waiting for the doctor to examine me.

The hit was the hardest I’ve ever taken. A sledgehammer to the head so powerful I felt my brain knock against my skull. The pounding of it hurts my eyes so I close them. It doesn’t dilute the pain. I shift on the bed and grunt. The sound magnifies by a thousand and the pounding flares anew.

The curtain rattles and the clip of someone’s shoes announces a visitor. I squint an eye open and curse under my breath. My father has arrived. Dressed in a tuxedo, his hair is immaculate and expression aggravated.

My name comes out clipped. “Brody.”

I grit my teeth. “Dad.”

“You want to explain why I’ve been pulled out of my party’s political fundraiser tonight to be here?”

My coach must have summoned him. “I took a hit on the field tonight.”

“And?” he prompts.

“And it was pretty bad.”

His nostrils flare and he turns his head, so furious he can’t even look at me. I might not have called him here, but it hurts that he doesn’t care. The victory from tonight fades, leaving me silent and hollow. I should be amazed at how quickly he can suck the life right out of me with just his presence alone, but I’m not.

Coach Carson flicks the curtain aside and steps in the room, drawing both our attention. Seeing my father, he offers a grim smile and a hand. “Mr. Madden.”

Dad takes it, giving his usual firm squeeze before letting go. “Liam, please.”

“Liam,” Coach concedes and nods his head my way, concern furrowed deep in his brow. “Your boy took quite a knock out there tonight. Thought it best to give you a call.”

“So I hear.” His smile is faint and amused, reducing my injury to a minor triviality. “It’s the way of these things with football, isn’t it? If my son wants to play, he needs to get used to the brutality of the sport. He can’t come running to the hospital for every little bump on the head now, can he?”

Coach Carson’s mouth drops a little. When he closes it, a hard edge lights his eyes. It’s one I know well and usually follows a set of drills that runs us into the ground. There’s a little more steel laced in his words when he speaks next. “Your son is likely suffering a severe concussion. He’ll need someone to take care of him.”

“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth, even though it’s clear I’m not.

“Of course you are.” Dad slaps a hand to the back of my shoulder before squeezing it. His fingers dig in painfully. My head throbs and bitterness swims in my mouth. “Did you win?”

“They won,” Coach interjects, his chest puffing with pride. “Brody played the best I’ve ever seen.”

My father turns his head toward my coach, still gripping me tight. “Can you give us a minute?”

Before he can leave, Eddie steps in the room, my phone outstretched in his hand. He hasn’t showered. Dirt and sweat covers his face and hair sticks to his forehead. My father wrinkles his nose. Letting go of my shoulder, he takes a step back as if grime is contagious. Eddie doesn’t even acknowledge him. “Jordan’s on the phone.”

The heavy weight on my shoulders lightens. Whatever my father has to say can wait. “Thanks, Eddie.” I take the phone and put it to my ear. “Jordan?”

“Brody. I watched the game.” Her voice is panicked. Jordan’s away game was Friday and their flight due in at midnight tonight. I was going to surprise her. Take her home, light candles, and see if she’d let me massage all her sore spots. “Are you okay?”

My throat constricts. I swallow and find my voice. “I’m fine.”

“Brody.” Her voice is now a whisper, thick and hoarse. My fingers tighten on the phone. “You were brilliant. Like a comet streaking across the sky. And then you hit the ground and you didn’t move.”

“I promise you I’m fine. A minor concussion.”

Jordan exhales harshly, the weight of her relief in the sound. “I’m on my way.”

I close my eyes and the pain recedes. When the dial tone hits my ears, I open them. Coach Carson and Eddie have gone. My father remains. I set the phone on the bed and meet his eyes, bracing for whatever comes next.

“Don’t ever waste my time like this again.” His voice is a whip. My skin should be toughened from it, but it’s not. One day, I promise myself. One day I won’t give a flying fuck. “If you do, I’ll give you a concussion you’ll never forget.” His eyes flare from my lack of response. “You hear me?”

Do I hear? The next words escape me, clear and terse and too quick to restrain. “Fuck. You.”

My father’s reaction is swift. He grabs a fistful of my jersey in each hand. My stomach dips with agony when I’m jerked solidly to my feet. The room spins and a groan rips from my chest.

“You ungrateful little shit,” he spits in my face. “Have you forgotten how much I do for you?”

How could I? You’re always there reminding me.

“Have you forgotten what happens if you don’t finish senior year and graduate college?”

My teeth clench until I fear they’ll crack.

“What happens, Brody, if you don’t graduate?”

They’ll keep me from seeing Annabelle. My parents will break my sweet little sister, and I can’t let that happen. She needs me.

I meet my father’s eyes. I hate you.

“I’ll graduate,” I vow.

He lets me go. I grip the bed behind me with shaky hands. “See that you do.”

Jordan

The heat at my back is a furnace, waking me. Rolling over, I open my eyes and see Brody stretched out beside me. It’s still dark out, but I forgot to close the blinds. Moonlight plays across his bare chest. It rises and falls, deep and even. A light sheen of sweat covers the smooth skin. His body takes up most of my bed. I’m wedged on the side between him and the wall so I don’t fall out. My own body is damp with sweat in the cramped, suffocating spot, but I don’t want to move.

Two nights ago I sat in the airport, surrounded by teammates, Brody’s game streaming live from my phone.

He was a blur on the field, his talent extraordinary. You knew you were watching something special. When the ball landed in his hands, the crowd’s roar raised the hair on my neck and goose bumps on my skin. The tackle came swift, from nowhere, crushing him into the ground. When the player got to his feet, Brody remained, his body limp and broken on the field like a trampled butterfly. My throat constricted, fear stealing my breath in the eerie silence that followed.

The cameras cut to the commentator seconds later, leaving me hanging. I rang Brody the moment our plane disembarked. He was awake and talking, but he lied when he said he was fine. His voice was tight, like a rubber band ready to snap. After telling him I was on my way, his exhale was long and weighty, revealing the depth of his relief. Brody Madden, the football star who doesn’t need anyone, needed me.

The very thought squeezes me, making me ache as I lie in the dark watching him breathe. How quickly I’ve come to need him too. Brody won’t leave me intact. He’ll take pieces of me I’m not sure I’ll ever get back, but I can’t deny myself. He grounds me. The pressure I place on myself is crazy. When it overtakes me, he makes me laugh and forces me to take a step back and breathe. We’re both working toward our own separate goal, but his joy on the field reminds me the journey getting there is just as important. It’s not one we’ll take together. Our lives will untangle after college, and we’ll both move in different directions.

We’re not meant to be.

The thought makes me heartsick, but it doesn’t stop the craving that claws at me, unappeased for too long. I want him.