Chapter 10 #2
“Is it?” he asked, voice dropping low. “You been doing too much on the weights?” he asked critically, looking me over. “I was only gone a couple of weeks, why do you look like you drank all the protein shakes?”
I looked down at myself. “Been doing extra lifts, you know. Building strength.”
He licked his top teeth and gave me a flat look. “Putting more strain on it won’t make it stronger. PT now,” he held up his hand. “Don’t argue with me, Dante. We both know I’ll get what I want.”
I walked past him, turned, and walked backward, facing him. “Almost, almost, said I missed you, Coach.”
He grinned at me. “You won’t be feeling so sentimental tomorrow morning at five twenty when I see what else you’ve been doing since I’ve been gone.”
“Sadist!” I turned around and headed to the physical therapy wing, his chuckle following me, knowing Coach Hembry would already be telling someone to expect me.
I’d just gotten there when an older PT guy stepped out of a treatment room, wiping his hands on a towel. “Was about to pack it in for the day, but T.J. Hembry’s back in town and already raising hell. Says his star QB needs treatment.”
“Sorry, Doug. I can come back.”
He snorted like I’d told the world’s dumbest joke. “T.J.’s just back. You want him to kick both our asses?”
I laughed, hopping up on the treatment bed while he shut the door behind us.
“So,” he said, leaning against the counter, “what’s ailing you, Dante?”
“Took a hit to the shoulder in the championship game,” I said, rolling it once. “It’s fine — just a niggle. Been putting in extra weights to strengthen it, but it’s not settling as I’d like.”
Doug’s hands found the joint, pressing and testing until the ache sharpened enough to make me grit my teeth.
“A niggle,” he said knowingly. “Seems like more than that. You need to cut down the strain you’re putting on it, less practice, more time in the physical therapy wing. Simple routine for the next few weeks, you’ll be fine.”
“Really?” I asked him.
“Yeah, we’ll still get you a scan and have a closer look. Probably just needs some TLC.” He worked his fingers over my shoulder and down my back, assessing the whole time. “You took more than one knock in that game; no surprise you’re still feeling it.”
I winced as his fingers dug into another tender spot I hadn’t known I had. I was a quarterback; if I woke up in the morning pain-free, then it meant I’d stopped playing.
Doug sniffed as he stood back. “They’ll let me know if this is to go in your file, or do you already know?”
I frowned. “Why wouldn’t you put it in my file?”
His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Less paperwork. Less . . . confusion. No one needs to make it a thing.”
The way he said it made something cold curl in my gut. Around here, I’d always figured you spoke up when something was off, it went in your file, and therefore became permanent. Which is why I was keeping my extra meds to myself. But maybe I’d been mistaken, and not everyone played it that way.
I didn’t argue, but the comment stuck in my head, even as he returned to working the joint loose with practiced hands.
I’d heard it over the years — someone saying they’d ‘see how it settled’ before making it a thing — but paired with what I’d overheard in the weight room this morning, it hit different.
Payouts. Quiet. Now . . . injuries that didn’t make it to paper. Individually, maybe nothing. Together? It didn’t sit right. Was there more going on that I needed to know?
Doug finished up, slapped me lightly on the back, and told me to ice it later.
I left the treatment room, the smell of antiseptic fading behind me, but the conversation clung.
By the time I hit the dorms, the afternoon haze had given way to the low hum of campus nightlife — laughter, music spilling out of open windows, the steady beat of footsteps on the walkways. I headed inside, running the shoulder once more under my palm. Still tender. Still not right.
Dustin was sprawled on the couch, gaming headset half off his ear, a bag of chips balanced on his chest.
“Yo,” he said without looking away from the screen. “How come you got out of training?”
“Had to go to the treatment room.”
Dustin glanced at me. “Why? You really hurt?”
“Nah. Shoulder’s still niggling.” I reached over and snagged his chips. “You have snacks.” I took a handful.
He grabbed the bag back, glaring at me. “Yeah, I have snacks, don’t think I don’t know you’ve been eating my stash.”
“Dust, I would never.”
“Two protein bars, three peanut butter cups, and a bag of M&M’s.”
I screwed my nose up in disgust. “You know I don’t like peanut butter. I didn’t touch your candy.”
His eyes narrowed as he considered me. “You still ate my protein bars.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine, I took your protein bars.”
“You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass for stealing,” he grumbled, returning to his game.
“I mean, you could try?”
“Asshole.” He hid his grin behind a fistful of chips as he stuffed his face. “Your dry cleaning’s back,” he told me as he chewed. “You and the team have that thing with the donors on Saturday.”
Right, I’d almost forgotten. “The ‘thing’ you’re not attending, that thing?”
“Hey, I got commitments.”
“You got shit is what you mean to say.” I looked over at Noah’s room. “He’s going, though, right?”
Dustin looked far too smug. “Yup. His dry cleaning came too.”
“You’re an ass for ditching this.” I leaned over and snatched his chips. “This is a team event.”
“It’s a pencil pusher event, and we both know that you’re the only one they’re interested in seeing anyway.”
“Not true.” I tossed his chips back to him. “Where’s Noah now?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“Defense got pulled behind. Coach Holt wanted them to do an extra lap for—” Dustin shrugged — “who knows. Holt forgets it’s offseason.” He ate more chips. “Told him we’d wait for him for dinner if he wanted.”
“Cool.” I dropped into the chair opposite him. “You ever notice stuff around here . . . not always making it into the official reports?”
That got me a glance. “What kind of reports? The Defensive Coordinator holding his line back to run an extra route isn’t a crime.”
I flipped him off. “Dick, I meant like injury reports?”
He paused his game. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged like it was nothing. “Could be anything. Just . . . stuff you’d expect to be on paper, but it’s not.”
He gave me a long, slow look, then went back to his game. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, man.”
“I’m not.” I pushed up out of the chair. “Just wondering.” I headed to my room. “Forget I said anything. I’m going to call my sister, see how she is.”
“Tell her I said hi,” he called after me.
I left him to his chips and kill count, but I caught the slight frown he wore as I walked away. He’d heard me — maybe not everything I was asking, but enough to know I wasn’t just shooting the breeze.
“Hey,” Dustin called, and I turned back. He’d sat up a little, the chips sliding to the floor unnoticed. “Your vibe is weird. You want me to ask around?”
“Nah,” I said, pushing my bedroom door open. “Not yet.”
But the truth was, yeah — I did. I would. Just not where anyone else could hear.