Chapter 20 Seth #2
When he came back, he had my duffel slung over his shoulder. "One of the trainers dropped off your stuff."
I changed into sweats while he dealt with discharge papers, grateful to peel off the uniform that still reeked of turf and sweat.
The drive home was quiet.
Tanner had my truck—we’d planned to ride home together after the game, so he’d had the keys all day. The streetlights slid past in orange streaks, and every bump in the road sent a dull throb through my skull.
He kept both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. Didn’t look at me once.
“You’re being too quiet,” I said, breaking the silence.
“You’re supposed to rest. Talking isn’t resting.”
“Tanner.”
His jaw tightened. I watched the muscle flex, watched him swallow whatever he wanted to say.
“I’m fine.” His voice was too controlled, too careful. “We’re almost home.”
He wasn’t fine. Anyone could see that. But pushing him would only make him retreat further, and I didn’t have the energy for a fight. My head was pounding again, the dull ache that had settled behind my eyes sharpening into something more insistent.
The apartment was dark when we got there. Tanner helped me out of the car, one arm around my waist, moving carefully like I might shatter if he jostled me too hard. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t that fragile, but maybe I was. Maybe we both were.
Inside, he guided me to the couch instead of the bedroom.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to get your meds and some water.”
I sank into the cushions and closed my eyes. The apartment smelled like Tanner’s cologne, like the laundry detergent we both used, like home in a way that made my chest ache.
His footsteps came back across the floor. I opened my eyes to find him standing over me with a glass of water and two pills.
“Ibuprofen. The doctor said you could take it for the headache.”
I swallowed them dry, then chased them with the water. Tanner took the glass when I was done, set it on the coffee table, then stood there like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Sit down,” I said. “You’re making me nervous.”
He sat at the other end of the couch. Not touching me. A foot of space between us that felt like a mile.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You need to rest. The doctor said dark rooms, quiet—”
“Fuck the doctor.” I pushed myself more upright, ignoring the way the room tilted. “Look at me.”
He did. And what I saw in his eyes made something cold settle in my stomach.
It wasn’t just fear. It wasn’t just relief that I was okay. There was something else in his face—something I couldn’t name, something that made my chest tight.
“Tanner,” I said, quieter now. “What are you thinking?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hands were clasped in his lap, fingers twisted together, the knuckles white.
“I’m thinking—” He paused, his jaw working like he was forcing the words out.
“About what it felt like to watch them carry you off that field. I’m thinking about how I sat in that waiting room, not knowing if you were going to be okay, and wondering if this is what my mom went through every time she watched my dad play. ”
His voice was steady, too steady, like he was reciting facts instead of describing the worst moments of his life.
“I’m thinking about how every time you step on that field, something like this could happen. And I just have to sit there and watch.” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t do anything, Seth. I just had to wait.”
“I know.” I reached for him, but he didn’t move closer. “But I’m okay. I’m right here.”
“This time.” The words were barely a whisper. “You’re here this time.”
I understood then. The distance he was putting between us wasn’t about anger. It wasn’t even about me, not really.
It was about Patrick. And the certainty that loving me meant accepting he might lose me too. Even if I never set foot on the field again, there were no guarantees the damage hadn’t already been done.
“Come here,” I said. Not a request.
He hesitated, then closed the distance between us. I pulled him against my side, and he came without resistance, his head finding the hollow of my shoulder like it belonged there.
“I’m sorry,” I said into his hair. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
His hand fisted in my shirt. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
“I know. But I’m still sorry.”
We stayed like that for a long time. His breathing evened out, his grip on my shirt loosening.
The headache was still there, throbbing behind my eyes, but it didn’t seem as important as the weight of Tanner against me, the trust it took for him to let me hold him when everything inside him must be screaming to run.
“I need to get you to bed,” he said eventually, his voice muffled against my shoulder. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“In a minute.”
“Seth—”
“Just one more minute.”
He didn’t argue.
When we finally moved, he helped me up with exaggerated care, like he was afraid too much pressure might break something. Walked me down the hall to the bedroom with one hand on my back, steadying me. The room was already dark, the blackout curtains drawn, and I wondered when he’d done that.
I sat on the edge of the bed while he pulled off my shoes, then helped me out of my jacket. His movements were careful, deliberate, like he was memorizing each step.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked. “More water? Another blanket?”
“Just you.”
He froze.
“Stay with me,” I said. “Please.”
For a second, I thought he might refuse. I could see the war on his face—the part of him that needed to be close fighting against the part that wanted to flee before I could hurt him any more than I already had.
Then he kicked off his own shoes, climbed onto the bed beside me, and pulled the covers over both of us.
We lay there in the dark, not quite touching. I could hear him breathing, could feel the warmth of him inches away. The headache pulsed behind my eyes, but I ignored it. There were more important things than pain.
“I’m not going anywhere.” My voice came out rough in the darkness. “You know that, right?”
He didn’t answer for so long that I thought he might have fallen asleep. Then, softly, he said, “Neither am I.”
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a solution, wasn’t a promise that everything would be okay. But it was something.
I reached for his hand in the darkness and found it waiting for me.
He held on like he was afraid to let go.
I watched the shadows on the ceiling, felt his pulse beating against my fingers, and knew that neither of us was going to sleep tonight.
Some things couldn’t be fixed with rest. Some things just had to be survived.
We were going to survive this. Together.
Even if it broke us both to do it.