20. Dalton

TWENTY

"Coach will haveour asses if he sees us doing this. You know that, right?" Maverick says as he lines up on the opposite side of the ball. We had a little disagreement about who's faster, and I'm trying to prove to him that he could never catch me. Tanner isn't with us at the facility today, which is good, because there's no way he'd allow this. Mav isn't technically even supposed to be here. He had a meeting with the Defensive Coordinator, so he dropped down to the practice field, where I started talking shit to him about how our offense carries the team.

I smirk. "If you're scared, just say that. Wouldn't want to embarrass you, Mr. Defensive Player of the Year." I'm goading him. "Wait until I tell your girlfriend you were afraid to go toe-to-toe with me. I'm sure she and I will get a good laugh out of it."

That does the trick. Last thing he wants is for Bella to think he's not the toughest guy on the planet. "Fuck it," he says, going down into a three-point stance. Our backup quarterback, Jamison Sage, holds the ball out in front of him since our offensive line has already taken off for the day and we don't have a center to make the snap. It's just the three of us left on the field, about to do something we definitely shouldn't be doing. These voluntary offseason workouts are pretty relaxed, so we can get away with fucking around for a while after they're over without anyone seeing us.

"Give me a couple seconds to take the handoff since I don't have any blockers," I tell him. "If I get a first down, you have to admit, out loud, that the offense runs this team."

He scoffs. "I could give you ten seconds and it wouldn't matter. You're not making it to the marker." Cocky fucker.

"We'll see," I say, just as Jamison sets up the play.

"Blue, thirty-seven! Blue, thirty-seven! Set, hut!" He pulls the ball back, turning to make the handoff. I take it, tucking it into my arm just as Maverick pushes off the ground and comes my way. I know I can't outsmart him, so I have to outrun him. I take off toward the sideline, moving diagonally toward the first down marker. I can't see how close he is, but I can hear his feet as they pound against the turf, so I know he's hot on my heels. As I approach the marker, I take the ball in one hand, outstretching it to get the first down. But by the time I realize that I'm headed right toward the benches on the sideline, it's too late to slow down. I jump, trying to clear them, but my foot catches and I land head-first on the ground. Pain explodes behind my eyes as I bring my hands up to my pounding forehead.

"Fuck, dude. Are you okay?" Maverick says, kneeling down beside me. "Sage, go grab a medic."

I try to tell him no, that I'm fine, but I'm not completely sure I am. I lay back on the ground, waiting for help, trying to stop the ringing in my ears. It only takes a minute before one of the team trainers comes over and kneels down on the opposite side of Mav.

"What happened?" she asks, shining a light in my eyes. I squeeze them shut on instinct, but when I realize she's checking me for a head injury, I do my best to comply. The last thing I need is Coach Mills finding out we were fucking off and I got hurt. He'll find out eventually, but right now isn't really the best time since I feel like I'm getting hit repeatedly in the skull with a baseball bat.

They help me to one of the motorized carts before we make our way down the tunnel toward the exam rooms. My head is already feeling a little better by the time I get myself situated on one of the tables while I wait for the team neuro consultant to come in. I feel like a fucking idiot because who gets hurt like this during a non-contact offseason workout?

Me, obviously.

"What's going on, Davis?" the doctor asks as he walks through the door. I tell him that I tripped over the benches and hit my head, leaving Mav and Jamison out of it because I don't want them to get an earful. He dims the lights in the room before he sits down at the computer. The darkness helps with the headache as he goes through the list of questions for the concussion screening. I'm able to tell him my name, the date, where we are, and say the months of the year in reverse order without a problem, so that's promising.

We move on to the physical stuff, but when I stand to test my balance, my stomach roils, making me sit back down. I lay back and bring my arm up over my eyes, trying to breathe through the queasiness. I hate throwing up, so I'll do whatever I can to avoid it.

When I think I can stand without puking, we go through the balance testing, which I fail, but not miserably. He tells me I likely have a mild concussion, and that they want to keep me here for a little while longer for observation, but I'll be able to go home without a hospital visit. All I want to do is sleep, but I know I can't right now. I'm also not allowed to look at my phone, so I just lay in the dimly lit room while I wait for someone to tell me I can go. The league doesn't mess around with head injuries, so if you fail any of the initial tests, they make you jump through all sorts of hoops to make sure you're okay.

I've been by myself in the room for about twenty-five minutes when I hear a very loud, familiar voice coming from the hallway. "Where's my husband? Is he okay?" Dia yells, panic apparent in her tone as she tries to get information. I sit up, ignoring the dull throb in my head as I try to get to her.

"Mrs. Davis, just a moment. They're assessing him now?—"

"Dalton!" she yells, ignoring the trainer that's trying to calm her as her voice gets closer. I can hear her quick footsteps as she approaches the room and I call back to her.

"I'm here," I say, loudly enough for her to find me. She stops outside the opened door, relief flooding her expression as soon as her eyes lock on mine. I immediately notice what she's wearing. I could be completely brain dead, but I still wouldn't miss the sight of my wife wearing a Blizzard hoodie with the number thirty-seven embroidered on the sleeve. Without even seeing it, I know it has our last name stretched across the back.

She runs to my side. "Are you okay?" she asks, bringing her hand up to cradle my cheek. "Someone called and said you were hurt. I dropped everything and got here as fast as I could."

I'm still caught off guard by seeing her in my shirt that I don't even register her question. Or the fact that she just called me her husband in the hallway a minute ago to a complete stranger. She wore my clothes when she was staying with me because she hadn't gotten her stuff from Chicago yet. But, she has it now. And she's staying with Blaze and Mads, so why does she even have my hoodie? It's all I can focus on.

"Turn around," I tell her.

"What?" she replies, brows pulled together in confusion.

"Turn. Around," I say, and it comes out as more of a growl than a request. But, fuck. I need to see it for myself. She spins, putting her back to me, and sure as fuck, it's my hoodie. ‘DAVIS' is printed in large ice blue letters on the back, and it makes me want to beat on my chest like a goddamn caveman that she's out in public wearing it.

"You stole my shirt," I say.

She turns back around, jaw almost hitting the floor in shock. "I was worried sick thinking you were seriously injured, and you're worried about a stupid shirt?" She stares at me for a moment before realizing what I just accused her of. Her eyes go wide, looking down at the hoodie that she definitely swiped from my closet before she left and probably didn't want me knowing she had. "It must've fallen into my suitcase when I was packing."

Lie. Her suitcase never even made it into the house that day.

Not that I care. I love that she wanted to take something of mine with her. And the fact that it has my name on it? Even better.

"Alright," the doctor says as he comes through the door, saving Dia from me making her admit that she misses me. "You're okay to go. No phone or television for twenty-four hours, rest as much as you can, and come see me for Return-to-Play Protocol before your next workout." He turns to Dia. "You must be the emergency contact."

"Ummmm," she says, unsure of what to say.

"Yes," I answer, standing up and taking her hand. I feel weak and exhausted. I just want to get out of here and I know they won't let me leave alone.

He nods before turning to her. "Make sure he gets plenty of rest. You can give him headache medicine for the first couple of days if he needs it, but please call us if it goes beyond that."

"Okay," she says, giving him a tight nod. I lead her from the room, putting a hand above my eyes to shield the bright lights. My headache is almost gone, but I don't want to chance it.

We walk out of the building and I go to give her a kiss goodbye as we get to the door of her rental car, but she stops me. "What are you doing?"

I look around. "There's nobody here to see us kiss. I just didn't want to leave without giving you one."

She gives me a bewildered look. "I'm not letting you drive home, Dalton. You have a head injury."

I want to argue because I'm supposed to be the one taking care of her. I don't want to put pressure on her to do things like this when she already has so much to worry about. I just want her to be able to lean on me. "Dia, I don't even think I have a concussion. I'm sorry they called you. When we had to fill out new paperwork for the team, I put you down as my emergency contact because you're closer than my parents. I really didn't expect to get hurt at a non-contact workout. I'm fine." I give her a reassuring look. I never thought I'd want to watch her get in her car and drive away from me, but it's better than her thinking she has to deal with helping me while I'm weak.

She narrows her eyes. "I'm driving you home, Dalton. Then, I'm getting you to your bed so you can rest while I make dinner. It's not up for debate. So, how'd you say it back in Vegas?" The corners of her mouth turn up in a smug smile. "Be a good little husband and get in the car."

Well, fuck.

"In you go," I say to Dalton as I pull back the comforter on his bed. I can tell just by looking at him that his body is completely exhausted. Not that it helped much, but I made him throw his arm over my shoulder while we made our way to the elevator from the parking garage. I just feel so helpless right now. I want to do whatever I can to make him feel better. He's always so happy and energetic, so seeing him being taken down like this is heartbreaking.

"I told you, I"m fine," he says. "I'm already feeling a lot better. I just need to take some medicine for this throbbing in my head. I"m sure that will fix me right up. You don"t need to do anything for me."

"You're always the first one to remind me that I'm your wife and it's your responsibility to take care of me. So, doesn't that go both ways? You need help right now and I'm here. Let me," I plead.

He sighs, laying back on the pillow. He clearly doesn't like looking vulnerable in front of me, but I really do want to be here for him. I've never been anyone's emergency contact before. And even if it's like he said, and he put me down not expecting to get hurt, it still makes me feel good that someone trusts me enough to make me their first call if something goes wrong. "Okay, fine," he relents, looking completely defeated. But his spirits seem to lift a little when he looks back up at me through his lashes, eyes locking on his shirt that I'm wearing. One corner of his mouth turns up just slightly at the sight.

I'm glad he didn't pry further when I told him it must've fallen into my stuff. I really don't want to tell him the truth. That I took it out of his closet before I left to move in with Blaze and Mads. I can't even really explain why I did it. I guess because going through this whole experience with Dalton has made me feel close to him. I knew I'd be sleeping alone, and I wanted to feel like I was still wrapped up in him, even when I wasn't. So, I grabbed the first hoodie I could find and threw it in my tote bag before I left. I didn't realize until I went to put it on that it has his last name across the back.

When I got dressed this morning, I wasn't expecting to leave the house. I certainly wasn't expecting to get a call from the Blizzard facility telling me that Dalton was injured and I needed to get there right away. I threw on Mads' shoes that were in the closet, grabbed my keys, and flew out the door. They didn't give me any information, so I drove well over the speed limit the entire way, expecting the worst. Thankfully, he's going to be okay. But I still wish I could do more to make him feel better.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. I said I was going to cook for him, but I know his stomach was still upset when we left the exam room.

"Not yet," he says. "Can we just cuddle for a while? I bet that would make my head feel better." He gives me puppy eyes, and how can I say no?

"You're really milking this," I chide, already removing my leggings. "I'll lay with you, but no hands. You're supposed to be resting. Deal?" I say, waiting for his response with my hands on my hips.

"Whatever it takes to get you in my bed, Wifey," he replies with an adorable grin.

I climb in next to him, pulling the covers over my body. He loops his arm around my waist and slides me across the mattress, into his warm embrace. It takes no time at all for us to fall asleep, where we stay, holding each other until morning.