Chapter 22

For two days,Sammy hasn’t left my side. The only time he’s stopped touching me is when he has to go to the bathroom. While it’s endearing, my worry for him keeps escalating.

What I’m hoping is, the doctor will finally agree to release me. At least then we’ll both be somewhere more comfortable, and, hopefully, Sammy will finally rest.

Mom and Dad just left to get fresh coffee. Not that I can have any.

Severe concussions suck. Like majorly blow.

It’s still a struggle to remember what exactly happened. Apparently, there’s footage, but the thought of watching it makes my stomach churn and my constant headache pound even harder.

“What about this one?” Sammy’s voice is whisper soft; anything louder pierces my brain with the force of a thousand blades.

“Hmm?” Even speaking is a struggle, but I could listen to Sammy’s comforting voice forever.

“Document control analyst.” He turns his gaze to me. “It says it’s working with a project team and is about ensuring proper document management. Lots of admin and project support.”

A swear, a little piece of my soul shrivels up as he speaks. It sounds boring as hell, but this is Sammy’s new mission since I woke up after a couple of hours of unconsciousness. He’s planning ahead and looking for steady, mostly entry-level positions he can apply for next year before we graduate.

How my landing on my head has Sammy turning into Mr. Responsible is… honestly, it’s disconcerting. I just don’t have the words to tell him all that just yet. Not while everything hurts so much.

“Working with a team’s good. I could handle that.” His voice lacks conviction, but I love him for trying.

“You’re great in a team,” I say softly, squeezing his hand.

His grunt is low as he continues looking through job ads or one of those “what the fuck do graduates do with a business degree” websites. I suspect it’s the latter.

His phone vibrates. He immediately winces, mouthing, “Sorry.”

I simply smile. As long as the phone’s not on my person, shaking my body, it’s all good.

“It’s Mom.”

A smile settles on his lips, easing some of the tightness in my chest that sits there every time I see him pushing himself to potentially do something that I’m sure will make him miserable.

His chuckle is light, so very aware of my pain levels. “Mom wants to know if you’ve tried candied yams.”

“No, but if she’s making it, I’ll definitely try it.”

He shoots me a soft smile as he types on his phone. Another vibration, and he shakes his head with another gentle smirk. “She wants to know ham or turkey.”

“I think that’s a decision for someone else.”

“Turkey it is.” Sammy bounces his brows, and amusement blossoms in my chest.

“Your folks don’t need to go to all this trouble.” It’s touching, but it feels like I’ve sort of taken over festive plans.

With a roll of his eyes, Sammy waves me off. “Puh-lease,” he says with sweet exasperation, “Christmas Eve dinner was always going to happen. Mom and Dad just want to make a bit more of a fuss. I think she’s excited about spending time with your parents, getting to know them better.”

Admittedly, the whole thing is a little surreal, but I’m all for this plan. Our parents have met before. We all had dinner together last year when my folks were in town for a game. But this time is so much more significant.

The door opens, and I wince at the light. It sucks that just a sliver of brightness from the corridor shoots fresh pain into my brain. As it is, the room blinds are closed. A single light—thankfully with a soft yellow glow—is on in the corner of the room.

Vampires have a really sucky deal with the whole daylight thing.

Dr. Patel enters the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. “How’s the patient?” Her volume is considerate and low.

“Ready to get out of here.” If I could win her over with a full, charming smile, I’d do so. The problem is, even a grin is out of my comfort zone.

“In that case, I have good news. Your new CT scans from this morning are great. No changes,” she begins.

“So, no bleeds or swelling?” Sammy clarifies, his hand tight on mine.

“No. The scans remain clear. I’m happy to sign your discharge papers and let you head home. Give me an hour, and you should be good to go.” From the end of the bed, she peers over at me, her gaze assessing and kind. “A reminder that severe concussions can cause issues for an undetermined amount of time. It means you need to listen to your body and do what it wants and needs.”

“And his wrist?”

A heavy thud in my heart makes me wince. With so much pain in my head, it’s so easy to forget about my wrist.

“Sprains can be tricky.” The doctor moves to the side of my bed and gently picks up my right arm. She carefully removes the brace and assesses my weak wrist. “There’s virtually no swelling, which is incredible, especially as your body’s already working overtime with your concussion.”

She turns my wrist. It’s sore and tender but not agonizing.

“You need to keep it strapped for at least a week. After that, work with your team’s trainer. They’ll give you strengthening exercises. The positive news is, it’s not a bad sprain. There’s limited bruising. We don’t think any tears. But ligaments sometimes don’t like to behave.”

“Thanks, Doctor.”

She smiles back at me. “Any more questions?”

Shaking his head, Sammy softens his hold on my hand. “No, thanks, Doctor.”

“Okay. One of the nurses will be by soon. They’ll give you some literature about your concussion. Be sure to have lots of downtime these holidays.”

Even though I smile, my heart plummets. It’s still a few days away, but with how I’m feeling, there’s no chance I’ll be able to get on a bus with the team to watch their game.

As the doctor leaves, Sammy stands. I glance his way when I realize he’s staring at me intently.

“Great news, huh? We can get you out of here.”

My smile is half-hearted at best.

The expression he’s directing my way transforms into worry, and he carefully wedges his ass on the bed so he can get close. I melt into his touch. Gentle fingers stroke my head. It’s the best feeling ever, soothing the ache in my temples and the frustration settling like lead in my heart.

“Just look at how quickly your wrist is healing. Before you know it, the headaches will fade, and you’ll bounce right back.” He presses a kiss on my forehead. “We’ll just take each day as it comes.”

My lips twitch, and I want to tease him. Want to call him out and question when he started to be all wise and sensible. Instead, I turn my head into him, capturing his scent. The hospital soap isn’t the most pleasant, but underneath that is Sammy’s familiar fragrance.

I close my eyes, tiredness hitting me.

In an hour, we get to leave, but until then, I just want to sleep.

The pain joltsthrough my skull like lightning, splitting my head in two. It’s a relentless assault, throbbing, pulsing, refusing to let me retreat into the oblivion of sleep. With a stifled groan, I clutch my head, trying to contain the agony.

Beside me, I feel Sammy stir, his concern palpable even in the darkness of the room. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with worry, his hand finding my cheek in the pitch-black.

I try to form words, but they evaporate in the haze of pain engulfing my mind. All I manage is a weak nod, hoping it will suffice to reassure him.

The painkillers I took earlier seem futile against this onslaught, as if my brain has decided to rebel against any attempts to subdue it. I’m caught in a vicious cycle of agony and exhaustion, unable to find respite.

I fucking hate it.

The asshole who’s responsible may have been kicked from his team, but resentment is a vicious, twisted emotion. It’s hard not to drift into frustration and despair.

How Sammy’s putting up with my mood swings and borderline petulant behavior, I have no clue, but I’m grateful he does. I don’t mean to be a grump or complain, so most of the time, I keep my mouth shut.

It’s easier that way. Plus, it hurts less when I stay quiet.

In the distance, I hear the faint sounds of Christmas preparations—laughter, music, the clanging of pans. It feels like a world away, separated from me by an impenetrable barrier of pain.

Desperation claws at me, urging me to find relief, but there’s no escape from the torment within my skull. I feel trapped, isolated, a prisoner in my own body.

Sammy’s hand finds mine, offering a silent anchor amid the storm raging within me. His touch is a lifeline, grounding me in the midst of chaos.

With every ounce of strength I can muster, I whisper, “I’ll be okay. I’ll shower and get up.”

I have no idea how early it is. My in-laws fitted blackout curtains in the office where we’re staying because that’s how incredible they are.

“You don’t have to.”

Warmth spreads over me, a comforting blanket. He’s so damn thoughtful, but I want to do this for him, join in the festivities, celebrate with my family and his. Sammy’s love for the holidays is no small thing.

Our college house is plastered with decorations. It looks like a Christmas elf vomited over every square inch of the communal spaces. Sammy’s smile, his genuine joy, is worth the brain overload of color and light.

“I’ll be fine. More painkillers and sunglasses, and I’m ready for you to open your gift.”

He presses against my side, his naked body flush with mine and sending delicious heat over my skin. When he buries his face carefully in the juncture of my neck and shoulder, I feel his smile. “Thanks, sweetheart, but if it’s too much, just say, and we’ll come back here.”

I expel a hum of agreement. There’s no point trying to argue with him about his leaving the celebration to be by my side.

“Let me get you some fresh water and your meds. I’ll turn the fairy lights on.”

As Sammy sets about making me comfortable, I stretch carefully and wiggle my fingers and toes. It’s going to be a full-on day, and I want to make the most of it.

We got here yesterday after Sammy’s training with the team. He arrived home still damp from the shower but had snuggled up with me before he’d packed a few things for us and settled me in the car to collect my parents from their hotel so we could all head to his hometown.

After dropping my folks at an Airbnb just a block away, we headed here before Sammy squirreled me away to hide in the darkness of his dad’s office. But with tomorrow being Christmas Day, we’ll be celebrating today before staying the night and heading back to college midmorning for basketball training.

Both my folks and Sammy’s have tried to convince me to stay here, and while I know I can’t handle the trip to watch Sammy play, I want to be waiting in our bed for him as soon as he gets home.

“Here.”

Under the soft glow of the fairy lights, I focus on the white pills in Sammy’s palm. I take them gratefully and wash them down with the glass of water he hands me. “Thanks.”

After pulling on sweats and hoodies, we stick our feet in the matching slippers we found at the end of the futon yesterday. They’re cute and a little cheesy and feel ridiculously comfortable.

When we enter, the kitchen is bright. Immediately, Nova hugs me gently and ushers me into the sitting room. The main lights are off again, and the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree give just enough glow to help us see, since the curtains are closed, keeping out the rays from the rising sun.

Everyone’s up and all smiles, their conversation dying down, their voices softening when they see me.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, even managing a smile.

Mom and Dad wrap me up in their arms, wishing me the same; Sammy’s dad follows with a gentle hug a moment later, and fuck, I’m already exhausted.

“Let me go help Nova. She keeps trying to shoo me away.” Mom’s all smiles. It’s a relief that she and Sammy’s mom seem to genuinely like each other, though. The same goes for Dad and Leroy.

“What are you looking at?”

Sammy’s nose is buried in his phone. A quick glance my way, and from the grimace he fails to hide, I have my suspicions.

“You should just delete all your apps.” While I haven’t read any of the comments or the posts about Sammy outing our relationship on live TV, he’s shared a few with me. Do I suspect he’s not told me everything? Absolutely. While I get that he’s trying to protect me, I don’t give a shit about anything anyone has to say.

The most important people are in this house with me.

“I swear, Kieran didn’t get this much attention.” A trickle of exasperation winds its way into his tone. “Which, you know, is great. The only attention he should have is because of his skills on the court.” He shakes his head. I’m a little envious of the movement.

There are a few moments in the day when I almost feel human—usually once the pain meds have kicked in. But even then, I’m too scared to do something as simple as shake my head.

“Why are there so many dicks in the world?”

The fact that he doesn’t follow up with a lip twitch about actual dicks lets me know just how frustrated he is. I cringe on the inside even as I ask, “What’s being said?”

He hesitates, but whatever he sees on my face must tell him I want to know. I suppose I’m morbidly curious. On top of that, I don’t want Sammy to take all this on by himself. It’s unfair.

I’ve lived a privileged life in the grand scheme of things.

White, a man, just smart enough to attend college and do a little better than okay. My folks do all right financially. They’re not rolling in dough, but they’re meticulous savers. Me joining the alphabet mafia is the first time I’ve left myself open, vulnerable to assholes and bigotry.

Sammy’s black skin means our experiences are so different. I wouldn’t even try to imagine or presume anything about the day-to-day systematic racism he experiences. All I know is what he’s shared and the times I’ve witnessed—and tried to shut down—racist bullshit and, more often, implicit bias.

“Sammy,” I push.

He releases a sigh before saying, “I’m not reading you anything, but there’s stuff about us and the team.”

Yeah, I can imagine. Five out players on a single team must be some kind of record. Add in an assistant coach and a generally supportive fan base from what I witnessed before our relationship was shared with the world, and you’ve got a team that’s not just breaking records on the court but also breaking barriers and stereotypes off the court, right?

Maybe that’s the drugs that are working their way through my system talking. But surely it’s a testament to the progress we’ve made as a school, if not a society, and a celebration of diversity in basketball.

Sammy saying, “Some idiots are congratulating Carlisle and the Pythons, tagging on their disappointment that they didn’t take more of ‘us’ out” douses my pretty thinking in a gallon of gasoline and throws a match on it.

So, maybe not a celebration of diversity in basketball after all.

“Please delete that shit, Sammy.” Exhaustion ripples through me. I haven’t even had a decaf coffee or breakfast yet, but my brain needs a break from social media and offensive dickwads.

I suspect Sammy hears the tension and tiredness in my tone, as he closes out whatever app he’s been looking at and places his cell on the table. “Done.” I witness him shaking off the heavy weight of what he’s read, and a couple of beats later, he grins at me. “So, gifts.”

And just like that, he transforms. It’s not even fake. I know each of Sammy’s smiles, and genuine excitement all but vibrates from him.

All I can say is, I’m relieved I already bought and wrapped his gift before the concussion. “Sounds good.”

Effortlessly, he jumps up, dots a kiss on my forehead, and bounds into the kitchen. His voice is low as he rushes our moms. Meanwhile, I glance around the room, remembering we weren’t alone when that whole conversation was being had.

Concern clouds my dad’s usually smiling face, his shoulders tense with the weight of parental worry. He stares at me with furrowed brows before glancing at Leroy, his gaze reflecting a shared understanding. Leroy stands tall beside the fireplace, his indignation palpable as he clenches his fists.

This is the last thing I want. I understand their worry and frustration, but this is my and Sammy’s life now. Together, we’ll keep moving forward. My injuries are already massively impacting our celebration. I don’t want the conversation they heard to bring down everyone’s mood even more.

“So, Malik,” I say, switching the focus, “what’s the plan with those gifts under the tree?”

Putting down his phone, Sammy’s youngest brother grins at me. “As soon as Mom’s here, I can start passing them out. After that, it’s a free-for-all.”

“It’s pretty cool that we’re celebrating a day early. We usually do gifts Christmas morning.” Denzel offers an up-nod as though I’m responsible for our basketball schedule and the need to leave early tomorrow.

Carrying a couple of mugs, Sammy heads back into the room. He passes me my decaf coffee, which I try not to sneer at, and sits next to me.

“Thanks.” I inhale. It smells pretty real. Maybe I can convince myself it’ll give me a caffeine hit if I keep taking a big sniff before every mouthful.

Movement at the door catches my attention. Nova enters, saying, “We’re here.”

Mom’s at her side, a soft smile immediately on me.

“Yes!”

A burst of pain at the noise, and my body flinches.

“Malik,” Sammy hisses.

“No, no, it’s fine.” I focus on Malik. The poor kid looks panicked. “Honestly, Malik, I’m cheering on the inside with you.”

It takes a moment for his guilt to clear. As soon as it does, he focuses on the gifts under the tree while I nudge Sammy.

When our gazes connect, I whisper, “It’s fine. Please don’t make a big deal.”

The argument’s there, easy for me to read in his expression. I narrow my eyes at him, expecting a throb of pain. When it doesn’t come, my frown eases.

“The painkillers are working.”

Eventually, he nods as he holds my hand and brings it to his lips.

He is so sweet and attentive, but people walking on eggshells around me is beginning to grate on my nerves. I’m grateful, truly—but I’m counting down the days until life gets back to normal.