Claire (Hart University Book 2) (12 page)

His family had standing. His teammates had standing. His coaches and doctors had standing. Maybe some of his non-football friends had standing, but if so, I wasn’t one of them.

It hurt more than I could bear, and on so many different levels. Will was in pain—physically and emotionally—and I couldn’t do anything to help.

I’d heard a few days before, from Andre, that Hart’s athletic department had barred Will from playing football again. Apparently this was his third serious concussion—I remembered him telling me about the one he’d had in high school—and the second time he’d lost consciousness.

As the days went by with no word from Will, I started to research concussions. What I learned terrified me. Repeated head trauma could lead to something called CTE—Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy—which was, essentially, irreversible brain damage. Professional athletes—football players and boxers, mostly—who suffered from this kind of trauma developed symptoms that resembled early onset Alzheimer’s along with chronic head pain, troubles with balance, vision, and cognition, and severe depression.

These athletes also committed suicide at alarming rates.

Will wasn’t an NFL player who’d endured tens of thousands of blows to the head over a long career. But he’d been playing football since he was a little boy, and he’d had three serious concussions already. In addition to that, according to one medical journal article I read, it was likely he’d suffered hundreds of subconcussive events—blows to the head that weren’t diagnosed as concussions but which, over time, contributed to long-term damage.

After I read all that, I was grateful that the Panthers had barred Will from continuing to play football. But I doubted very much that Will was feeling the same way.

I was sure his mother had told him his health was a million times more important than football. But I wanted to add my voice to hers, and to the voices of the doctors and others who were telling Will it wouldn’t be safe to risk more head trauma. I wanted him to know that his friends cared about his life and health more than anything else.

That they cared about
him
.

It was Andre who told me Will was back at Hart, and that he’d be going back to class in a few days. I sent a short text—
So glad you’re back, please call when you can
—and then waited exactly forty-eight hours to see if he’d get in touch with me.

Crazy scenarios started running through my head. What if he’d actually forgotten who I was? Amnesia could sometimes result from head trauma. But surely if he had something as serious as amnesia, the doctors wouldn’t clear him to return to class?

Unless it was partial amnesia, which—

Which was the stupidest idea I’d ever had. Selective amnesia? Will could remember everything in his life except for me?

Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. No longer caring if I seemed pathetic—or even if I
was
pathetic—I texted Andre.

Has Will mentioned me at all?

The response came within a minute.

Not yet. But he’s coping with a lot right now.

I knew that, of course. But that was the point. I wanted to help. I needed to help.

The next afternoon, after my last class, I headed to Will’s house.

I’d chosen this time of day deliberately. His housemates would be at football practice, which meant that Will, if he was home, would be there alone. Sure enough, when I pulled up in front of his place, Will’s car was the only one in the driveway.

The front door wasn’t locked. I opened it as quietly as I could, and saw right away that the living room was empty.

So was the kitchen. If Will was here, he was up in his room.

Halfway up the stairs, I heard his voice. I could hear Holly’s voice, too, so she was either on speaker or they were Skyping.

Will’s bedroom door was ajar. I stopped in the hallway and waited for their conversation to end.

“But
why
?” Will was saying. “Three concussions and out isn’t some kind of rule. Not every college does that. The NCAA doesn’t have any guidelines on how many concussions you’re allowed to have. I’ve been talking to people at other schools, and if I get a second opinion from another doctor I can transfer and play somewhere else. Maybe even at a higher-profile program. Scouts have been watching me play, mom. I’ve been having the season of a lifetime, in case you didn’t know. Do you really want me to throw that away?”

“As opposed to your life?”

Holly sounded angry, frustrated… and scared.

I could sympathize.

“Will you cut that out? Those aren’t the only options. It’s not a choice between quitting football and dying.”

“That’s not what Dr. Pitney said.”

“One doctor! That’s what I’m saying. If every doctor in the world gave me the same advice, then fine. But I guarantee you that if I saw a hundred doctors, ninety of them would say I could keep playing.”

“And I’m telling you that I don’t care! When it comes to your health, which side of that argument do you think I’ll choose? If it was one doctor against ninety-nine, which side do you think I’d choose?”

“But it’s my life! Not yours. If it’s a risk, then it’s my risk to take.”

“There’s no guarantee the risk will pay off. You know the odds against playing professional football.”

“Of course I know. But even if I only get to finish out my college career, I still want to play. I want to play for as long as I can. Why don’t you understand that?”

“Because I’m your mother! Because I don’t want you to die, or suffer the long-term consequences of repeated head trauma! Do you think I could stand to see you knocked unconscious again? Wheeled off the field on a stretcher, while I sit in the stands wondering if you’re alive or dead? Why don’t
you
understand
that
?”

“It’s my life!
My
life! You can’t just take football away from me. It’s not fair.”

“I don’t care if it’s fair. I’m telling you no. You’re not getting a second opinion. You’re not transferring to another school. And that’s final.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Then a sudden, loud crash and Will’s voice.

“Fuck!”

Had he fallen? Was he hurt?

I dashed across the hallway and pushed the door open.

Will was standing in the middle of the room, his hands on his head. The lamp beside his bed was lying on the floor, the ceramic base cracked and the bulb broken. Beside the bent lampshade I saw his cell phone. Will had thrown it with enough force to knock the lamp from the night stand.

I must have made a noise—a gasp or something—because Will spun around and saw me. He stared, and I stared, and neither one of us said a word for what felt like a long time.

I was shocked. Hearing the rage in his voice a moment ago and seeing the wild fury in his eyes now, I almost didn’t recognize this Will as the Will I’d known for more than a year.

After a minute I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. I couldn’t stand feeling like I was with a stranger. I wanted Will to speak, to reassure me he was the same person he’d always been.

“Hey,” I said, my voice sounding shaky. “It’s good to see you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Of all the people I didn’t want to see right then, Claire Stone was at the top of the list.

I’d lost football. The thing that had defined me for more than half my life. The one thing I could do better than most people. The thing that had made Lissa fall for me, and that I’d hoped might help Claire fall for me, too.

Now what did I have to offer? Football was the only thing that had made me special. I didn’t know who I was without it. Even last year, when I rode the bench, I’d thought of myself as a football player first and a student second.

I’d lost my athletic scholarship. My mom and Alex had told me over and over again that they could afford my last two years at Hart, but they weren’t rich and I knew tuition would put a strain on their finances.

My one chance to get everything back was transferring to a school that would let me play. There were plenty of them out there.

But my mother refused to even consider it. I got the sense that Alex was more open to the idea, but there was no question he’d defer to my mom on this one.

Of course I was nineteen, so theoretically I could do what I wanted. But that would mean going against my mother—the one person who’d sacrificed for me my whole life. How the hell could I do that to her?

So now here I was, between a rock and a hard place. I had headaches no pain reliever could touch, and bright lights were still my enemy. I’d let down my teammates and my coach. And if I somehow managed to achieve my best case scenario—convincing my mom to let me transfer to another football program—I’d still have to leave my friends and the team I loved… and Claire.

Seeing her was suddenly unbearable.

“Get out,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Her head jerked back as though I’d slapped her.

“I just… wanted to be sure you were okay. You didn’t, um, answer my texts.”

I knew I hadn’t. I’d saved them all, along with her emails, and for a few days I’d read them over and over again. I’d listened to her voice mails over and over, too.

Then, after Hart made its final decision about my football career, I’d deleted everything.

“I have a lot to deal with right now. In case you didn’t know,” I added, which was a shitty thing to say.

Her hands squeezed into fists. “I know. Of course I know.” She hesitated. “On my way up, I heard you talking with your mom. It sounds like you, um, want to transfer to another school? Where they’ll let you play football?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. But my mother’s not down with that plan.”

She looked at me with those big blue eyes, and I almost broke down and begged her forgiveness for being an asshole. Then she said:

“I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but Holly’s right. Your life and your health are more important than football. I’ve been reading about athletes and concussions and—”

My head started to throb. “Jesus Christ. You’re not a doctor yet, and you’re not my mother. I don’t need a lecture from you. Just get out, okay? Get the fuck out.”

Claire’s face turned bright red. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as though she was trying to keep herself from crying.

“I’m sorry,” I said gruffly. “I just—” I shook my head. “It’s not a good time, okay? Seriously, Claire… you should go.”

“Isn’t there something I can do to help?”

She took a step toward me, and I took three steps back. If she touched me it would all be over. I’d fall apart or cry or some shit, and there was no way I was letting that happen.

“You could sleep with me, I suppose. I could stand to burn off a little steam.”

She froze. Her eyes turned bright, and in the next instant there were tears trembling on her lashes. She blinked, and I saw one tear slip down her cheek before she turned and fled.

A few minutes later I was lying on my bed, my forearm over my eyes.

“What the fuck did you do to Claire?”

It was Andre. I let my arm drop to my side so I could look at him. He was standing in the doorway like a mountain of righteousness, and I’d never felt myself wallowing so deep in wrongness.

“She just showed up, man. I didn’t ask her to come here. I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, so I sent her away.”

Andre took three long steps into the room and stood there glowering at me. “Claire isn’t just anyone. That girl has been worried sick about you. She’s been asking me every day—every hour, sometimes—how you are. If there’s something she can do to help. She cares about you, you asshole. And whatever you said to her had her crying her eyes out. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, probably because she knew I’d tear into you if she did. You hurt her, and the only thing she cares about is protecting you.”

Guilt washed over me, but I hardened my heart against it. If I let anything but anger in I’d fall apart.

“Good for her. Look, I’ve got a headache. Just leave me alone, okay?”

* * *

Going back to class was harder than I would admit to anyone. Loud noises and bright lights still bothered me, looking at computer screens bothered me, and even though I was downing Advil and Tylenol like candy, the headaches were sometimes so bad I’d sit in the lecture hall with my eyes closed and my hands pressed to my temples, just waiting for the pain to go away.

Eventually it did. Two weeks after I got back to Hart, the headaches started to get better. I was feeling less foggy in the mornings, too.

The only thing that wasn’t getting better was my mood.

The shittiest thing I’d done was not apologizing to Claire. I’d thought about it a hundred times. I’d written a hundred different texts and deleted them all without sending.

I’m sorry I was such a jerk.

Please forgive me.

And most pathetic of all:

I miss you.

But I knew if I made any kind of overture, she’d be with me in a heartbeat. And I still couldn’t stand the idea of seeing her. Not when my life was so fucked up… and not when I was still trying to convince my mom to let me transfer.

If I had my way, I’d be leaving Hart. So what good would it do to patch things up with Claire? That would only make me want to stay—and torture me with what I couldn’t have.

I had enough of that in my life already.

I still thought Alex was my best bet for talking sense into my mom. As November went by I started to feel better—physically, anyway—and I talked to Alex almost every night. I told him about the players I’d spoken to at other schools, and whatever I’d read that day on the internet that bolstered my case. Alex didn’t argue with me; he mostly just listened. I thought that was a good sign until I made an all-out pitch the Monday before Thanksgiving.

“I’m flying home on Wednesday,” I reminded him. “I thought you and mom and I could sit down then and talk about this. I’ve put together some information that should calm her down. Stuff from medical journals and doctors about—”

“Will.”

I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like whatever he was about to say. “Just listen to what I—”