Page 37 of Game Face

“Yep. Seven hours of soldering my spine. Can’t wait.” I add a jolly punch to the air for emphasis, but none of them are buying my hard sell.

“It’s going to go great. You’re in the best hands. This place put my older brother back together when he crashed his bike when we were in grade school, remember? And look at him now—he’s a motorcycle cop,” Whiskey says. I’d forgotten about his older brother’s accident. I remember how upset he was back then, a chubby fifth grader who thought his brother Will walked on water.

“Well, if this place can handle an Olsen boy, then they’re probably ready for me,” I say, reaching my left hand out for Whiskey to hold. He squeezes it, but his eyes shift to my limp right arm.

“Still nothing, huh?” he asks. I wish he didn’t.

“Nope,” I say, clipped.

The short bout of silence that follows puts that topic to bed, I hope. It was a big enough compromise to get rid of the traction devices and only have to live with this collar brace. Dr. K made the case that sleep was more vital to my healing than keeping my right leg and shoulder suspended in the air.

“So, when do you all leave for Western?” I ask, changing the subject back to the world I left behind. If I remember right, I think they’ll be packing up later today. I think their flight leaves early tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, uh . . . about that,” Wyatt starts.

I shake my head and whisper, “No.”

“Don’t worry. I’m going. I’m just taking my own flight. Admin cleared it. I want to be here, though, for tomorrow. I’ll take the red eye. It was cheaper. It’s fine.”

My brow is heavy. I feel it. My face is the one thing that seems to function on both halves. Too bad it’s been scowling so much lately.

“Coach knows what you’re going through. He’s supportive,” Bryce adds, and I’m not sure whether his words are directed to Wyatt or me.

My gaze shifts back to my boyfriend, my stomach knotting up now that I know his decision. I wish he had talked it over with me. I would have told him to go with the team. My mom can call him first. Or my dad can. He would have known as early as he will being here, sitting in that damn waiting room.

“I know you’re upset with me, and I’m sorry. But give me this one win, okay? I need to be here. I feel it.” He brings his fist to his chest with a light pound.

Well, fuck. Fine.

“Hey, we’re gonna give you two time alone. We’ll wait for you in the lobby, Wy. You know, after we visit a few of the candy stripers around this place,” Whiskey jokes.

“You know they don’t call them that anymore, right? And the volunteers are all high schoolers, so maybe don’t do any of that?” Wyatt warns.

Bryce puts an arm over Whiskey’s shoulders as he guides him out of the room.

“I’ll supervise this one,” he says, chuckling on his way out.

Wyatt watches them leave while I study his beautiful face and wait for his gaze to come back to me. He tilts his head, questioning, when it does.

“You and Bryce seem to have found a rhythm.” It’s cautious optimism. I still don’t fully trust Bryce when it comes to Wyatt, but I’m glad to see the stress he was feeling over Bryce being here is morphing into something healthier—dare I say gratitude and a form of friendship?

His lip ticks up.

“Yeah, we have. Not that I’ve been thinking about football all that much.” The weight of my situation hits his voice mid-sentence. I hate that heaviness.

“You should go with the team, Wy. I won’t be able to see you when I’m out of surgery, and even when I can get visitors, I’m probably going to want to sleep.”

His palm lands on top of my binder.

“You finished it, huh?” Wyatt looks up through his lashes, silently asking my permission to review my work.

“I maybe went overboard,” I admit as he pulls the binder into his own hands.

“Walking with help by one month, huh?” He doesn’t look up at me for a response, so I simply say, “Yep.”

He flips a few pages, looking at the long lists of daily rehab exercises I put together with the specialist at Tucson Strong. My mom works with them periodically, bringing one or two of the horses down to visit with some of the kids who get sent there after illnesses or accidents that impact their motor skills. I’ve always felt a connection to that place. I trust it.

“Running a 5K by the one-year mark, huh? That one?—”

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