Page 36 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Logan, I need you to tell me what you feel here,” Terry directs, making a slight adjustment to my leg.

“Everything hurts,” I shout, but quickly breathe out and follow up with, “Okay, okay.”

I let him maneuver my leg, doing my best to pay attention to the nuances of pain. Some positions and pressure points hurt like the normal kind of game-play pain. But there’s one spot, in the inside of my knee—that spot’s trouble.

“Yeah!” I sit up when he twists it. He relaxes his hold and exhales through his nose. Terry has zero poker face.

“It’s probably a sprain. Let’s hope for a sprain, all right? But we gotta look. You gotta come out.” His eyes hit mine and I take it in stride for exactly half a second.

“Fuck!” There’s zero chance half the stadium didn’t hear that.

“No cart,” I demand, glancing to my side where I can see them getting it ready. “Fucking don’t let them bring that thing on the field, Terry. I swear to God, I’ll get up and sprint out of here and tear the shit out of my knee if they bring that cart on the field.”

Terry shakes his head but waves the cart off.

“Good to see you’re thinking with a clear head,” he grumbles.

“Fuck off.” I’m being a dick. I’ll apologize later. Or now.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

His hand lands heavy on my back.

“I know, Logan. It’s all right. Keep thinking sprain.”

Sprain. Sprain. Sprain.

We ended up winning twenty-one to three. Jax made it to the end zone twice, but goddamn Cam Ledger scored on the last drive. And all I could do was watch from the sideline, balanced on these fucking crutches with ice and this goddamn bionic brace fastened around my entire leg.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s just a sprain. I promise. And yes, they took real scans. It’s a real doctor. I will heal. Two weeks.”

I fall back in my bed, head heavy in my pillow as I let my forearm flop over my eyes. I called Dad to fill him in because I know he was watching. My conversation with him lasted fourteen seconds. And then he handed the phone to Mom. That was thirty-eight minutes ago. I pull my phone from my ear to check the screen. Scratch that. Thirty-nine.

“Hey, Mom. They gave me some pretty strong anti-inflammatories, and it’s making me a little sleepy, so I’m?—”

“Were they muscle relaxers? Those can be addictive, you know. Your Uncle Johnny had issues with pain pills.” She whispers that last part as if someone is tapping our phone line and listening for those key words.

“They’re not. I’m just tired. I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I roll my head to the side and find Rachel leaning against my door jamb, a paper bag in one hand and a bottle of orange juice in the other. She’s wearing her gray sweatpants and her brother’s football shirt, but my number—34—is still smudged on her cheek. I smile at her, my knee suddenly not so bad.

“I love you, too,” I say to my Mom. Rachel’s eyes flicker.

I end the call and toss my phone to the foot of my bed, skootching myself as far to the left as I can to make room for Rachel next to me. She hands me the orange juice and sets the bag on the bed between us.

“You didn’t have to come,” I say, really glad she did.

“I’m missing The Office for you, too,” she teases.

I laugh out then wince, pretending it hurts. She bends toward me but stops herself, placing her hand on my chest.

“You ass. Your knee is hurt!”

I smirk then pull her into me, moving the mystery bag to my other side. I kiss her without even thinking, her comfort so natural. Her presence natural.

“I heard that last part. It’s a sprain?” She grimaces, likely because she knows even a sprain is going to have me out longer than I want. I told my parents two weeks, but that’s probably optimistic.

“Yeah. At least the next two games are really shitty teams.” Of course, that means easy numbers. TDs Cam will get instead of me.

“Yeah, that’s when they put the bench players in anyhow,” she says, winking so I know she knows. They don’t do that in college. She’s trying to make me feel better.

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