Chapter 22 Seth
SETH
I sat in the exam room while the doctor ran through the tests—follow my finger, walk in a straight line, answer these questions about what year it is and who’s the president—and watched her face for any sign of concern.
There wasn’t one. Just the same professional neutrality she’d shown since my first follow-up visit, the distance of someone who did this a hundred times a week.
“Headaches?”
“Gone.”
“Light sensitivity?”
“Back to normal.”
“Any dizziness, confusion, memory issues?”
“No.” I’d answered too quickly, and she looked up from her tablet.
“You’re sure?”
I thought about the moments when words slipped away from me mid-sentence. The split-second delays between hearing something and understanding it.
“I’m sure,” I said.
She made a note. “Then you’re cleared to start working out again. You can resume practice tomorrow—non-contact drills, conditioning work. Barring any setbacks, you should be good for full contact by the twentieth, which gives you a few days before the bowl game.”
December twenty-sixth. Two weeks away. The team had won the final regular-season game without me, clinched the division while I lay in a dark apartment counting the hours between doses of ibuprofen.
The words should have felt like a reprieve. Three weeks ago, they would have. I’d have texted my teammates immediately, started mentally preparing for the game that could cap off my career.
Now, I just felt tired.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding off the examination table. “I’ll let Coach know.”
“Take care of yourself, Seth.” She held my gaze a beat longer than necessary. “Concussions are cumulative. The next one will be worse.”
I nodded and left before she could see whatever was showing on my face.
The apartment was eerily still when I got home.
Tanner had drawn all the blackout curtains again, even though I’d told him yesterday that light didn’t bother me anymore.
I found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his back to me, cutting vegetables for a stir-fry.
His movements were precise, mechanical—the same motions he’d used for everything since the hit.
Measuring my meds. Timing my ice packs. Making sure I didn’t exert myself.
Taking care of me the way he’d taken care of his father.
“Hey,” I said.
He turned, and I watched him scan my face the way he always did now—checking for pain, for confusion, for any sign that something was wrong. The vigilance in his eyes made my chest ache.
“How’d it go?”
“Practice cleared. Full contact by the twentieth, probably. Should be good for the bowl game.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he smoothed it into a smile. “That’s great. The team will be happy.”
“Yeah.” I moved closer, leaning against the counter beside him. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” The automatic response. The same one he’d been giving me for ten days, even when his hands shook, his eyes went distant, and I caught him crying in the bathroom at three in the morning.
I’d heard him that night. Hadn’t said anything because he’d clearly needed the release, had needed to fall apart somewhere I couldn’t see.
But I’d lain awake for hours afterward, listening to him put himself back together before climbing into bed beside me, his breathing too even, his body too still.
He wasn’t fine. He was drowning, and he was too stubborn to let me throw him a line.
“Tanner.”
“I said I’m fine.” He went back to chopping, the knife hitting the cutting board with sharp, controlled strokes. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. You should rest.”
“I’ve been resting for ten days.”
“One more day won’t hurt.”
I reached over and stilled his hand. The knife clattered against the board, and he went rigid, not looking at me.
“Talk to me,” I said.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” His voice was too flat. “You’re cleared. You can play. Everything’s back to normal.”
“Is it?”
The silence stretched between us. I could feel the tension in his arm, the way he was holding himself together through stubbornness alone.
This was the version of him I’d been watching since the hospital—competent, controlled, completely closed off.
The version that knew how to survive by not feeling anything too deeply.
I hated it. I hated that I was the reason for it.
“I’m going to call Hunter,” I said finally. “Let him know about the clearance.”
“Okay.”
I retreated to the bedroom before I said something I couldn’t take back.
Hunter picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, man. How’d the appointment go?”
“Cleared to get back to it. Should be good for the bowl game.” I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blackout panels Tanner had installed. “Couple more weeks.”
“That’s good news.” A pause. “You don’t sound like it’s good news.”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“What’s going on?”
I rubbed my face, trying to find the words. Hunter had been checking in every few days since the hit—brief calls, mostly logistics, how are you feeling, when’s your next appointment. We hadn’t talked about anything real since before Thanksgiving.
“Tanner’s falling apart,” I said. “And he won’t let me see it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been taking care of me since I got home from the hospital.
Perfectly. Managing my meds, keeping track of my symptoms, and making sure I rest. It’s like watching a machine operate.
” I swallowed. “He cried in the bathroom the other night for an hour. Thought I was asleep. And when he came back to bed, he just…pretended nothing happened.”
Hunter was quiet for a moment. “That sounds like Tanner.”
“What do I do?”
“What do you want to do?”
The question sat with me. I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
What did I want? A month ago, the answer would have been simple: finish the season, graduate, move to Wilmington with Tanner, start the next chapter.
Football was just the thing I did until I could do the thing I actually wanted.
But now, lying in the dark while Tanner made dinner in the kitchen, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it had cost him to watch me take that hit. What it would cost him to watch me take another one. What it would cost both of us if I kept playing a game that had already taken so much from him.
“When you decided to go pro,” I asked slowly, “how did you know it was the right choice?”
“I didn’t.” Hunter’s laugh was rueful. “I agonized about it for months. But then I realized I wasn’t choosing between football and not-football. I was choosing between the life I wanted and the fear of going after it.”
“And what life did you want?”
“The one where I got to play the game I loved while building something real with John. The one where I didn’t let fear make my decisions for me.” He paused. “Why are you asking?”
I closed my eyes. “Because I think I know what life I want. And I don’t think it has football in it anymore.”
The words hung in the air, strange and true. I’d never said them aloud before—not to Hunter, not to Tanner, barely even to myself. But sitting in that dark bedroom, cleared to play and dreading every minute of it, I couldn’t pretend anymore.
“Seth.” Hunter’s voice was careful. “Are you sure? This is your last chance. If you don’t play the bowl game—”
“Then I don’t play it.” My voice came out steadier than I expected.
“I’ve already made it through the hard part.
Admitting I didn’t want to go pro, changing my major, building a plan that doesn’t revolve around the field.
Playing one more game isn’t going to change any of that.
It’s just going to put Tanner through hell again. ”
“Is that why you’re doing this? For him?”
“No.” I sat up, something clicking into place.
“That’s the thing. I’m doing it for me. Because I watched him fall apart trying to take care of me, and it made me realize—I don’t want this life.
The hits, the injuries, the constant risk of becoming another cautionary tale.
I never wanted it, not really. I just didn’t know how to stop.
I thought I needed to play to the very last down or I’d regret my choices. ”
Hunter was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was warm.
“Lincoln told me something once, when I was trying to decide about the draft. He said the hardest part of walking away from something isn’t the leaving—it’s admitting you’re allowed to want something different.”
“Your dad’s pretty smart.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego’s big enough.” A soft laugh. “Look, whatever you decide—I’ve got your back. John too. You know that.”
“Yeah.” My throat was tight. “I know.”
“Call me after you talk to Coach.”
“I will.”
I hung up and sat there for a while, listening to Tanner move around the kitchen. The clink of dishes. The sizzle of oil in a pan. The quiet sounds of someone who’d learned to navigate crisis by keeping busy.
Then I stood up and went to find my keys.
Coach Bradley’s office was exactly how I remembered it—cramped, cluttered, walls covered in photos of former players who’d made it to the pros.
I’d spent hours in this room over the past four years, getting feedback on my performance, discussing strategy, listening to speeches about dedication, sacrifice, and what it meant to be a Gray Wolf.
Now I was here to tell him I was done.
“Landry.” He looked up from his desk, surprise flickering across his weathered face. “Didn’t expect to see you today. Figured you’d be taking it easy until practice tomorrow.”
“That’s what I came to talk about.” I closed the door behind me. “I’ve been cleared.”
“I heard. Doc sent over the paperwork this morning.” He leaned back in his chair. “You ready to get back out there?”
I took a breath. “No.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Coach’s expression didn’t change, but I could see his posture stiffen.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I’m done.” I kept my voice steady, even though my heart was pounding. “For good. I’m not taking another hit.”