Page 228 of The Fall
“Any episodes of confusion? Lost time?”
If she only knew. “No.”
Something shifts between us. She knows. Of course she knows. She’s seen hundreds of players try to minimize symptoms, to play through damage that compounds with every shift.
“Torey, your health is more important than?—”
“I’m fine.” The edge in my voice surprises us both. “Really. I know the protocol.”
Silence unspools between us. She’s waiting for me to crack and spill whatever I’m hiding, but I’ve gotten good at holding things close. Only Blair knows how to read me.
I can’t lose him. I can’t risk them pulling me from the lineup and sending me for scans that might show... what? That my brain’s manufacturing memories? That time bends around me like light through water?
Or worse.
“Alright.” Dr. Lin picks up her tablet again. “Let’s run through the cognitive tests.”
Numbers backward from 100 by sevens. The months in reverse order. Word associations. I nail them all. She has me balance on one foot, touch my nose with my eyes closed. My body obeys even as my mind fractures along hairline cracks.
“Your motor function looks good,” she says.
Then come the questions.
“Now, can you tell me the date?”
I answer correctly.
“The current president?”
No problem.
“Can you tell me the name of the team you play for?”
“The Mutineers.”
She continues with questions about the team, teammates, set plays, line combinations, penalty kill units.
“Okay, last one: who is the captain of the team?”
“Blair Callahan.”
“That’s right. And does Blair do a good job?”
I blink. “Of course.”
“He does. In fact, I’d say he does such a good job that if, for some reason, someone didn’t feel comfortable speaking to a member of staff, then taking their situation to Blair would be a very smart choice. I’d trust him to make the right call in that situation.” Dr. Lin holds my gaze meaningfully.
Oh. She thinks this might be something I can’t tell her, that it’s something I should take to Blair.
There’s no fucking way I can unload this mess onto Blair.
He’d look at me with those steady blues and try to fix it, try to carry it for me, and I can’t let him shoulder this burden, not when I don’t even know what “this” is.
“Good,” she says at last. “You passed the neurological exam with flying colors. That’s a good sign.”
Sure. If I tell myself it’s all in my head, why do these moments still line up, dominoes in perfect formation?
She taps something on her tablet. “Your test results are consistent with someone who’s taken a hit but isn’t showing signs of serious cognitive impairment. Which doesn’t mean you aren’t experiencing symptoms you’re not telling me about.”
