Chapter 6
SETH
A week after trivia night, I was going insane.
Tanner had barely talked to me since Thursday.
Hadn’t looked at me directly. We’d fallen into this careful choreography of avoidance—him leaving before I woke up, me staying late at practice, both of us pretending the apartment was big enough for two people who couldn’t stand to be in the same room.
It wasn’t.
Wednesday morning, I woke to the sound of his alarm through the wall.
Six-fifteen a.m., same as always. I lay there in the dark, tracking his movements like I’d learned to do over the past seven days.
Shower running by six-thirty. Footsteps in the hallway at six forty-five.
Then—nothing. Silence outside my door that stretched too long.
I held my breath.
Was he going to knock? Say something? Acknowledge that we were both miserable?
The soft click of the front door answered that question. Gone by seven, a full hour before his first class. Running from me in our own home.
I gave it five minutes before getting up. Found fresh coffee in the pot, still warm. Two mugs sitting on the counter—one half-full, abandoned mid-sip. The other clean and waiting. He’d made enough for both of us.
I stared at that empty mug and wanted to put my fist through something. This was what we’d become—silent gestures and careful distance, coffee made but not shared, conversations that never happened. He cared enough to leave me coffee but not enough to stay while I drank it.
I poured it anyway, scalding and black, and tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with someone who wanted me and couldn’t handle wanting me in equal measure.
The coffee tasted bitter. I drank it all.
Thursday afternoon, I had film review until six.
When I got home, Tanner’s bedroom door was closed, light visible underneath.
I stood in the hallway with takeout in my hands, debating whether to knock.
Decided against it. Set the extra container of pad thai in the fridge with a Post-it Note: In case you forgot to eat. -S
Friday morning, the container was empty at the top of the garbage can. The Post-it was still stuck to the fridge, but someone had added to it in Tanner’s precise handwriting: Thank you.
Two words. Better than silence.
Saturday loomed with the weight of routine and dread in equal measure.
Auburn. An away game. I’d be gone overnight—bus leaving early in the morning, game at seven, back Sunday morning. I packed my duffel Friday night, moving through the familiar motions. Phone charger. Headphones. A book I probably wouldn’t read, but always brought anyway.
My ribs were still tender. The bruise on my cheek had faded to yellow-green, but there was a new one forming on my shoulder from Tuesday’s practice.
Coach was running us hard, preparing for Auburn’s secondary.
They were known for aggressive coverage, for corners who liked to punish receivers after the catch.
I wasn’t worried. I’d taken worse.
Tanner’s bedroom door stayed closed all evening. I heard him moving around in there—the soft tap of his keyboard, the occasional creak of his desk chair. Working. Always working. Burying himself in data and padding configurations and anything that meant he didn’t have to face me.
I went to bed early. Had to be up at the asscrack of dawn to get ready. Didn’t sleep much.
Saturday morning, I found a Post-it on the coffee maker.
Good luck. Be safe.
I stared at it longer than I should have. Peeled it off with care and tucked it into my wallet, next to the photo of my grandparents I’d been carrying since freshman year. Wasn’t sure why. Just knew I wanted it with me.
The apartment was still. Tanner’s door closed. He’d either left early or was pretending to be asleep. I shouldered my duffel and left.
Auburn’s stadium was loud.
Their fans had a reputation for being brutal to visiting teams, and they lived up to it. The noise started the moment we took the field for warm-ups and didn’t let up. By kickoff, the sound was a physical thing—pressing against my helmet, making it hard to hear the play calls.
The first quarter went fine. I caught my first target on a crossing route, picked up eight yards before the safety drove me into the turf. Standard stuff. We scored on our opening drive, and Auburn answered back. By halftime, we were tied fourteen to fourteen.
The second half was when things got rough.
Their secondary had figured out our passing game.
The corners started jumping routes, the safeties playing tight over the top.
I was getting hit the moment the ball touched my hands—sometimes before.
In the third quarter, I took a shot on a deep post that left me seeing stars. Got up slow, shook it off, stayed in.
In the fourth quarter, we were down by three. Two minutes left. We had the ball on their forty-yard line.
The play call came in: slant to me on the right side. Quick timing route—catch the ball in the soft spot of the zone, turn upfield, and get what I could. Simple. I’d run it a hundred times.
I lined up against their corner. He was good—quick feet, physical at the line. I got off clean with a sharp release inside, found the open space, and looked back for the ball.
It was low and behind me. I twisted, reaching back with both hands, eyes on the leather.
Caught it.
And then the safety arrived.
I didn’t see him coming. My focus was on securing the ball, on getting my feet down, on turning upfield.
One second, I was making the catch. The next, a helmet drove into my left side and the world tilted sideways.
I hit the ground hard, my shoulder taking the full impact, and the breath punched out of me.
Pain exploded through my left side.
I lay there for a second, inventory running on autopilot: fingers moved, toes moved, I could breathe. Nothing broken. Just every nerve in my shoulder screaming, ribs protesting where they’d already been tender.
Hands on my face mask. The team doctor saying my name. I blinked up at him.
“How many fingers?”
“Two.”
“What’s the score?”
“Down by three. Two minutes left.”
“Stand up for me. Slow.”
I got to my feet with help. The crowd noise felt distant, muffled. My shoulder was on fire. I tried to lift my left arm and bit back a sound.
Coach was on the sideline, watching. I saw him debating. I shook my head, pointed at the field. I’m good.
His face said he didn’t believe me, but we were running out of time. He nodded once.
I stayed in.
Two plays later, Marcus hit me on a quick out. I secured the catch, braced for impact, took the hit, and somehow kept my feet. Turned upfield. The end zone was right there. I dove for it as the corner dragged me down, and the ball crossed the plane before my shoulder hit the ground again.
Touchdown. Extra point was good. We won by four.
I barely remembered the celebration. Just knew my shoulder hurt like hell and I had to get through the handshake line and wait out the post-game press before I could get to the training room.
The trainers iced it for twenty minutes while everyone else showered. Told me to keep it iced at the hotel, see our team doctor first thing Monday. Nothing torn, likely just a deep contusion to the shoulder and aggravated ribs. I’d be sore for a few days, but I’d be fine for practice on Tuesday.
I nodded and tried to remember if Tanner had said he’d be home when I got back tomorrow.
The bus ride back was long and uncomfortable.
I couldn’t get my shoulder into any position that didn’t hurt. Ended up slouched against the window, ice pack wedged between my shoulder and the seat back, trying to sleep and failing.
My phone stayed dark most of the ride. Hunter had texted.
Hunter
Watched the game. That hit was nasty. You good?
Fine. Just sore.
Tanner’s probably losing his mind.
I stared at that message. Typed and deleted three responses before figuring out what to say.
He’s probably asleep. He doesn’t watch the games.
Doesn’t mean he’s not worried. Have you not figured out that he won’t watch, but curiosity will get the best of him? I’m sure he’s looked at the highlights by now.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say. That I hoped Tanner was worried? That I wanted him to care even though he’d made it clear he couldn’t handle this?
The bus pulled into campus around two a.m. I grabbed my duffel with my good arm and headed for the parking lot where I’d left my car. The walk felt longer than usual, my shoulder throbbing with each step.
The apartment was dark when I let myself in. I set my duffel down as quietly as I could, then stood in the entryway trying to decide whether I should ice my shoulder again or just go to bed.
“You’re back.”
I turned. Tanner was standing in the hallway, wearing sleep shorts and a T-shirt, hair sticking up on one side. His eyes went straight to my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said. “Got in a few minutes ago.”
He moved closer, and I watched his gaze travel over me—cataloging injuries, assessing damage. His jaw tightened.
“You’re hurt.”
“Just sore.”
“Seth.” The way he said my name made my chest ache. Like it mattered. Like I mattered. “You can barely lift your arm.”
“It’s fine. The trainers iced it. I’ll be good by Tuesday.”
“Let me see.”
I should say no. Should maintain the distance he’d asked for, the boundaries he’d drawn. Instead, I set my keys on the counter and turned so he could see my left side.
His fingers were gentle when they touched my shoulder, peeling back the collar of my shirt to get a better look. I heard his breath catch.
“Jesus, Seth.”
“Looks worse than it is.” It didn’t. The bruise was already spreading, purple and angry, the skin hot to the touch. My ribs underneath were tender in a way that made breathing deeper than shallow a bad idea.
“This is—” He stopped. Swallowed. “This is what I can’t handle. This is what I meant.”
“I know.”