39. Chapter 39

The sound of beeping wakes me. The scent of antiseptic consumes my nostrils.

Fuck me, my head hurts.

My eyes refuse to open, but I'm alert enough to know that I'm lying in a hospital bed after one of the worst hits I've ever received in my entire football career. The stupid dickhead knew what he was doing.

I know that my leap started way before he even thought about tackling me. I remember the impact, the awful cracking sound that the helmet-to-helmet collision made, and the pain. Oh god, the pain was instant. I thought my head was going to explode. But it didn't. I'm alive. Even without opening my eyes, I know I'm alive. There's no way Heaven would have the sound of beeping and this pungent stench. Clean or not, antiseptic should smell a helluva lot better than this.

Plus, I picture Heaven would welcome you with a moist towelette to clean off your past life. Maybe even some leis and a tropical drink. It'd be like arriving in Hawaii. Yeah, the afterlife would be like a tropical oasis. And this hard bed and this scratchy blanket are not it.

Voices pull me from my thoughts of Heaven. They're hushed, but there's a harsh tone to them.

"I told you, Howard," I hear my mom say.

"I'm sure there's a reason. Calm down," Dad says, annoyance flashing through his words.

They sound close, but not next to me. Maybe by the doorway.

"Her reason is that her meal ticket got hurt and she bailed. I told him. I told you all that she's just a gold-digging ho who wants our money."

"Enough, Abigail. She's from a wealthy family. She doesn"t need Quinton to pay her bills."

"Oh, please. Her family left her, so she's clutching on to the first person who has shown her any promise of fortune. It's been three days and she hasn't shown up yet."

I hear Dad sigh, but I don't have the energy to open my eyes. "What's your problem with her? She's the first girl who has ever caught your son's eyes for longer than a hook-up, and you have never given her the time of day. Instead, you're spewing hatred every time you're around her."

Mom's voice goes icy. A shiver erupts across my skin. It feels like we have just been transported to the Arctic.

"And why do you constantly defend her? You got eyes on her? She remind you of all the hoes lining the sidewalks, waiting for you to give them the okay to crawl into your bed? All the hoes who you slept with while I was home raising your boys. I gave up my career to be your wife and raise your kids, and what'd you give us? A roof over our heads was all the payment we got while you slept with every girl with a pulse," she grits out.

Holy shit, holy shit. Mom just dropped some major truth bombs. Eyes, stay shut. I repeat, eyes stay shut.

"That was ten years ago, Abigail," Dad bites out, his voice getting closer. "We worked through our shit, went to counseling, I gave it all up too."

And then silence stretches through the room. A noise comes from beside me—magazine pages turning and Dad sighing.

Do I wake up now? Has it been enough time to act like I didn't just hear all of that? I've been out for three days? And what does she mean "she hasn't stopped by?" Is Brynn okay?

I need answers.

I will myself to open my eyes. They try to fight me at first, but slowly, they begin to flutter open. Once I open them, I blink a few more times, trying to get them adjusted to this bright light. Who puts lights as bright as the damn sun inside hospital rooms?

"P-pops," I rasp out, my gaze finding him sitting in a chair next to my bed, thumbing through an issue of Sports Illustrated.

He pauses, not moving. His gaze seeing my open eyes, he lets out a breath of air. "Son." His eyes fill with unshed tears. "It's damn good to see your eyes open."

My mouth is as dry as the Sahara. I try to wet my lips, but it only makes things worse. Taking the hint, Dad stands up and grabs the pitcher of water sitting next to the bed. He pours a cup before bringing it to my lips.

"Slow," he instructs.

I resist the urge to gulp down the cup of lukewarm water.

"What happened?" I croak, my voice raspy.

"A lot has happened, son." He chuckles, but it isn't full of humor, it's almost like a sad chuckle. "You were blindsided by an illegal hit. The safety was kicked out for targeting, but somehow you held on to the damn ball and scored the touchdown." He pauses, beaming down at me with a proud smile before he continues. "The extra point was good, tying the game. Lafayette miffed the kickoff. We recovered. Coach made some smart decisions—I'm talking shit you don't see until the pros. And Grant caught the game-winner."

"Hell yeah, he did," I respond, not the least bit surprised.

Coach Campbell is a helluva coach. I don"t know why he"s still coaching college and not in the NFL yet. Dad's and my moment is interrupted when Mom comes through the door. She stops dead in her tracks, mouth gaping open.

"Quinton," she says my name, running toward me. "Oh, my baby. It's so good to see those chocolate-brown eyes."

"Hi, Ma," I grit out. Her voice is loud, and my head is killing me. She releases me from her hold, but her hand finds my arm.

Dad stands from his chair. "I'm going to grab the doctor," he says, head down, avoiding eye contact with us.

Mom just stands there staring at me, tears welling in her eyes. It's hard for me to look at her though. I'm trying hard to play dumb about the conversation that they don't know I overheard. A few minutes later, Dad comes in with an older gentleman—I"m assuming he's the doctor—and our team doctor Dr. Anderson.

"Quinton, I'm Dr. Patel. How's the pain, on a scale of one to ten?" he asks, scanning over my chart.

"A seven," I answer. I don't know. I hate when doctors ask you to rate your pain. There isn't a definition for each number. I'm more than a little uncomfortable.

"Seven is certainly to be expected with a head injury like the one you sustained. You suffered a moderate concussion, but we have no reason to believe there are any other brain-related injuries," he adds.

Thank fuck it isn't anything severe. I can deal with a concussion. What I can"t deal with is a brain injury that's going to keep me from playing.

"What about football?" I ask, bouncing my eyes from Dr. Patel to Dr. Anderson.

Dr. Anderson takes over the conversation, resting the chart he's holding in front of him. "You won't be able to play in the conference title game—"

My body immediately reacts to his statement, trying to sit up higher in the bed.

He raises a hand, stopping me from speaking.

"But as long as things go well over the next week, and given we win on Saturday—"

"Which we will," I mutter.

Dr. Anderson gives me a small grin before continuing. "And when we win, we don't see any reason why you won't play in the playoff game."

A relieved breath escapes my lips.

"We'll let you get some more rest," Dr. Patel states, turning to leave.

"Wait," I add before the doctors have a chance to leave the room. All eyes look at me. "Why'd it take me so long to wake up?"

"Your body needed the rest," Dr. Patel answers. "Your body was just exhausted, so it let your mind rest a little longer. There were times you'd stir and we thought you were awake, but your eyes never opened. We monitored you closely, and no red flags popped up."

Nodding my head, I accept the doctor's answer. The two men leave the room, leaving me with just my parents, who are avoiding each other, staring only at me.

"I-I I'm going to get some rest."

"You do that, son. We'll be back later to check on you."

They both stand, Mom kisses my forehead and Dad squeezes my arm.

And with that, my eyes drift shut again. The last thing I see is my parents leaving the room. But it's the last thought that keeps me from drifting into a deep sleep: where's Brynn?

It's not long, or at least I don't think it's long before I'm stirred from sleep. A sense of someone watching me washes over me, and all I can think is that Brynn is here. Eyes slamming open, I see the faces of some of my teammates, my best friends, my brothers. Grant, Tyler, and JP are sitting in chairs, scrolling on their phones.

"Don't you fuckers have a game to get ready for?"

Heads snap to me.

"Oh shit, he is awake," comes from Tyler.

Then JP is chiming in with his own comment. "We missed your ugly mug too much."

We all chuckle.

"Pshh, you know I'm fly as fuck."

"How bad is that brain of yours?" Grant jokes back. And we all laugh before a somber moment stretches over us. "Dude, don't pull that shit again," he adds.

The severity cloaks the room.

"It's not my fault that dickhead hit me illegally."

"Run faster," JP quips, and I toss up my middle finger.

"Man, fuck y'all," I add before finding Grant. "What's going on with Brynn?"

All three guys look at each other, no one wanting to answer. Staring at them, I just wait.

It's Grant who pipes up first. I knew he'd be the one to tell me. "She kind of just shut down. We've all been trying to check in on her, but she's a mess."

I think back to my time on the field, after I got hit. I'm trying to piece everything together. I remember being semi-alert. I could hear the trainers talking to me, both Grant and Tyler telling me, "you've got this," but then it just gets kind of fuzzy after that.

"Di-did I give a thumb's up?"

Grant just shakes his head.

Fuck.

She had to have been scared shitless, and I know seeing me get hit like that would've triggered her past trauma she's been working so hard to heal. I mean, we just told each other we loved one another, even though I've been loving her from afar for years.

"Q, I've never seen her like this," JP whispers.

Head snapping up, my eyes bore into him, but he just looks as worried as I'm feeling. "Explain."

"Quiet, reserved, lost in her head. Cody's picked her up from the bar two nights in a row, blacked out in a booth," JP explains.

"Sunday night, I found her in their backyard, sprawled out on her back in the grass, smoking a bowl with a bottle of tequila half drank next to her," Grant adds.

"And I passed her on campus yesterday. Her hair was in a mess on top of her head with bloodshot eyes and dark circles lining her face. Dude, she was in the baggiest pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt I've ever seen on her. I don't know how she managed to keep them up," Tyler says, eyes trained on his folded hands in his lap.

I did this to her.

And my mom's haunting words come rushing back to me. "Seems everyone you love dies."

The color drains from my face as my eyes slide over to find Grant's. He must see what I'm feeling, because he reaches beside him to grab the wastebasket just as a bout of nausea hits me. Grabbing the wastebasket, I empty whatever is in my stomach.

"We're watching her, Q. We're trying to bring her back to herself. She might think she's alone, but she's got us," Tyler says, squeezing my leg.

Our conversation is interrupted when Coach Campbell comes striding into our room. He sees me holding the wastebasket.

"Need me to get a nurse?"

I just shake my head. He nods and makes his way over to the bed.

I don't even listen to what he's saying. All I can think about is getting out of the goddamn hospital and finding my girl.