Chapter 20 Seth
SETH
The hit came from my blind side. One second, I had the ball tucked against my ribs, legs churning toward the first down marker. The next, something massive collided with my shoulder, and the world tilted sideways like someone had yanked a rug out from under the whole stadium.
Sound went first. The roar of the crowd turned into cotton, muffled and distant, and then there was nothing but the thud of my own heartbeat and a high-pitched ringing that drilled through my skull.
The lights blurred into smears of white and gold.
I was falling— No, I was already down, grass cool against my cheek, the smell of turf and sweat filling my lungs.
I tried to move. My brain sent the signals, but my body refused to cooperate. Just lay there staring at the glare of the sky overhead, limbs heavy and foreign.
Then the pain hit.
Not sharp—diffuse. A pressure behind my eyes, in my temples, spreading through my skull like someone had filled my head with concrete and it was still setting. Nausea rolled through me. I tried to turn my head, and the world spun so hard I had to close my eyes to keep from throwing up on the field.
Voices. Somewhere above me, voices I couldn’t quite parse into words. Hands on my neck, my shoulders, holding me still. I wanted to tell them I was okay, that I just needed a minute, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out but a sound that might have been a groan.
“Stay still. Don’t move.”
I knew that voice. Coach? Trainer? Everything was running together, blurring at the edges. I tried to open my eyes again and immediately regretted it. The stadium lights stabbed into my skull like knives.
“Landry, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
I squeezed. Tried to, anyway. My fingers felt like they belonged to someone else.
“Good. That’s good. We’re going to put you on a stretcher, okay? Don’t try to move.”
The stretcher. They only brought out the stretcher for the serious shit. The broken bones, the torn ligaments, the head injuries that sent guys to the hospital instead of back to the sideline.
I thought of Tanner in the stands, watching. Watching them strap me down and carry me off like a body bag.
Fuck.
I forced my arm up, waved toward the crowd the way I’d seen other guys do. Letting everyone know I was okay even though I wasn’t sure that was true. The movement sent another wave of nausea through me, but at least my arm still worked. At least I could give him that much.
Then they were lifting me, the world lurching and tilting, and I closed my eyes against the vertigo and let the darkness take me.
I came back in pieces.
First: the smell.
Antiseptic and latex, that specific medical facility scent that never meant anything good.
Then the hum of fluorescent lights, the beep of something monitoring my vitals, the rustle of fabric that might have been curtains.
I opened my eyes, bracing for the stab of light, but the room was dim. Whoever had set it up knew what they were doing.
A face swam into focus above me. Middle-aged woman, hair pulled back, expression professionally neutral.
“Mr. Landry, how are you feeling?”
I took stock. My head still felt like it was packed with sand, but the concrete-setting pressure had eased to something duller. The nausea was still there, lurking, but not as urgent.
“Like someone hit me with a truck,” I managed. My voice came out rough, scraping against my throat.
She nodded like this was expected. “You sustained a concussion. We’re going to run you through some assessments, and then we’ll talk about next steps. Can you tell me what day it is?”
I had to think about it longer than I wanted to. “Saturday.”
“Good. And who are you playing today?”
“Auburn.” That one came easier. The game. The fourth quarter. Fourth and long. “Did we win?”
The question came out before I could stop it, and I hated myself a little for caring about that when my brain had just been rattled around inside my skull like a pinball.
“The game’s still going,” she said. “Let’s focus on you. Follow my finger with your eyes, please.”
The next twenty minutes blurred together. Tests for balance, for memory, for cognition. Some I passed. Others, I wasn’t sure about. The doctor—Dr. Marsden, she introduced herself—kept her expression neutral throughout, giving nothing away.
When she stepped back, she made notes on her tablet and said, “No signs of skull fracture or spinal involvement, which is good news.”
I waited for the rest. The part where she told me when I could play again.
“What does that mean for next week?”
“It means you won’t be cleared.” Her voice wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact. “I can’t make any promises beyond that until we see how you’re healing. Every brain is different, every concussion is different. But I need you to understand—pushing this too soon risks permanent damage.”
Permanent damage. I thought of Patrick McBride, the man I’d never met, who haunted every corner of Tanner’s life. The man whose brain had been damaged so many times that it killed him slowly, each year turning him into someone his family couldn’t recognize.
I thought of Tanner, waiting to find out if I was going to become another cautionary tale.
“There’s someone here for you,” Dr. Marsden said, like she could read my mind. “He says he’s your brother?”
The only person who’d claim to be my brother to get past hospital security was someone who wasn’t actually my brother.
Someone who knew the system well enough to game it.
A tired smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite the pounding in my skull.
Tanner, who’d spent enough time in hospitals watching his father deteriorate, knew exactly what lie would get him through those doors fastest. He needed to see me—needed proof I was still breathing, still here.
And honestly? I needed him too. Needed him close enough to touch, to remind both of us that I was okay.
“Yeah,” I said. “Can I see him?”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Ten minutes. Then you need to rest.”
Tanner looked worse than I felt.
His face was pale, almost gray under the fluorescent lights. His eyes were red-rimmed, the skin around them puffy in a way that told me he’d been crying, probably more than once. His hands were shaking—a fine tremor I could see even from across the room.
Relief hit first, so strong my chest ached with it. He was here. He’d stayed.
Then the guilt came crashing in behind it.
He stopped just inside the door, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come closer.
Like he was afraid of what he’d find if he did.
And I hated myself for putting that look on his face—for being the reason he’d spent God knew how long in another waiting room, reliving every trauma this sport had already carved into his life.
“Hey,” I said. My voice still sounded wrong, scratchy and rough.
Something crumpled in his face. He crossed the room in three steps, and then he was there, hands hovering over me like he didn’t know where to touch, like he was afraid I might break.
“Hey.” I caught one of his hands, pulled it to my chest so he could feel my heart beating. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
“You weren’t moving.” The words came out cracked, ragged. “Seth, you weren’t moving, and I couldn’t—I didn’t know if—”
“I know.” I tugged him closer until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hip pressed against my side. The contact helped—grounded me in my body, reminded me I was still here, still solid. “I know. I’m sorry.”
His laugh was bitter, wet. “You’re sorry. You took a hit that could have killed you, and you’re apologizing to me.”
“Didn’t kill me.” I reached up to cup his face, and he leaned into my palm like he couldn’t help himself. His cheek was wet. “Wasn’t even close.”
“You don’t know that. You were unconscious, you don’t—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I watched them carry you off on a stretcher. Do you understand what that felt like?”
I did. Or at least, I could imagine. Tanner, who’d watched his father die by inches, who’d sworn off everything connected to this sport specifically because he couldn’t bear to watch anyone else get hurt—sitting in those stands, watching me go down, not knowing if I was going to get back up.
“I saw your hand move,” he said, quieter now. “When they were carrying you off. You waved, and I— That’s the only thing that kept me from completely losing it. Knowing you were conscious.”
I thought of that moment, forcing my arm up through the vertigo and the pain, thinking of him in the crowd.
“I knew you were watching,” I said. “I couldn’t let you think—”
“Stop.” His hand came up to cover mine, pressing my palm harder against his cheek. “Just stop.”
We sat there for a long moment, breathing together. The monitor beeped steadily beside us. Outside, I could hear distant footsteps, voices, and the muted sounds of a medical facility going about its business.
“I won’t be cleared for next week.” The words came out flat. “Concussion. They don’t know how long it’ll take for me to be cleared to play.”
Tanner’s expression didn’t change. No relief, which surprised me. I’d half expected him to be glad—one less game where he had to watch me risk my brain.
“Okay.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“That’s it? Just okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” He pulled back slightly, and I saw something complicated moving behind his eyes. Fear, relief, guilt, all of it tangled together. “That I’m happy you got hurt? That I’m glad your season might be over? I’m not— I don’t—”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to be okay.” His voice broke on the last word. “That’s all I wanted. I didn’t want this.”
There was a weight in the space between us, pressing down. All the things we weren’t saying. The look in his eyes that I couldn’t quite read, not just fear, not just relief. Something else. Something that looked almost like grief.
He was out the door before I could say anything else.