Chapter 24

: Andi

I hate to say it, but Brandon was right. They do encourage rest after a concussion. They also encourage you to be supervised for the first 24 hours or so. I’m going to listen to the first part of the advice and ignore the second.

Mostly because I don’t have anyone to help me out.

It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.

I text Carlos that I’m being discharged and slowly walk outside to wait. As emergency-room visits go, this was pretty good. In and out in just under two hours. Pretty straightforward.

I’ve got a handful of paperwork that has me on activity restrictions for at least a week, which means no trip to Birmingham for me. If I’m not in Birmingham, I won’t be able to go to Atlanta either.

I mean, I can, technically. Flying isn’t out of the question. I’ll message Nathan and see what he says. I have to call out for the game anyway. I’m not supposed to have a lot of screen time, so I’ll have to take off from my day job as well.

A mini vacay. All it took was a minor brain injury. Go me.

I see my car pull up. Then I see who’s driving it.

Did Brandon not understand what the point of all of this was?

I move as fast as my body permits and slide into the passenger side, keeping my head down while also trying to scan for people recording us. It’s dark out now, so it’s hard to see much of anything. All this is way too much for my bruised brain to handle. I pull the hood up on the sweatshirt and push my hair over my face instead. I grab the sunglasses off my center console and put them on.

“Why are you here?”

“You need someone to drive you home. I wasn’t going to ask Carlos to do that. Plus, he and Landon had plans. We inconvenienced them enough.” He’s looking straight ahead. “I’ve got your stuff in the back. What’s your address?”

I turn and see my clothes folded neatly.

Brandon Nix touched my underwear.

I should be embarrassed. Instead, I feel a little thrilled.

Oh God, what is happening in my head right now? Are hallucinations and irrational thoughts part of this?

I tell him my address, which he promptly types into his phone. It looks like it belongs in my holder. He glances over at me. “Just close your eyes and rest. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit. My head hurts. I was nauseous too, but they gave me some Zofran for it.”

“Well, while you were off getting all drugged up, I solved our problem.”

I recline the seat a little and shift around, trying to get comfortable. “What do you mean, you solved our problem?”

“I found the perfect organization for us to work with.”

I lower my sunglasses to look at him. “Explain.”

“I figured it had to be a plausible reason that you and I would work together. But it seems like the only thing we have in common is messed up siblings.”

I start to protest, but Brandon holds up his hand to silence me. He continues, “You know what I mean. So I found this organization, Ryan’s Case for Smiles. They have a whole program that supports siblings of kids with chronic illnesses like cancer.”

“My brother doesn’t have cancer.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. They have online stuff and even events for the siblings. Not the kids who are sick, but their brothers and sisters who often get overlooked. You know, the ones who don’t get the attention because they’re healthy.”

“I want to disagree with you, but I don’t feel up to it.”

“Can’t you admit that I hit a home run with this?”

I squint at him, trying to see him more clearly in the darkness. Thanks to the sunglasses, I can barely make anything out. “You made a baseball reference. Shouldn’t it be a soccer one?”

“I played baseball too. I wanted to play football, but my mom wouldn’t let me.”

“I’m trying to picture you playing football. You’d be too small.”

“I could have been a running back, back in the day. Those guys are about my size. Or I could have been a kicker or punter.”

“You do have quite the boot.” I don’t mean to compliment him, but it’s the truth. I’ve seen him score a goal on a direct free kick from at least 45 yards. That’s totally field goal range.

“What about you? Is there anything you wanted to do that your parents wouldn’t let you?”

I try to think. “Nothing’s coming to mind. I worked hard in school and tried not to bother them too much. Life was hard enough as it was. I didn’t need to add any stress to their lives. I played soccer of course. I couldn’t do travel or anything. Just regular school sports. My parents were always there, except on days when Benj had therapy or the weather was bad.”

“Isn’t a hallmark of playing soccer braving the weather? The school season goes from the heat of summer to snow. Where did you grow up?”

“Benj doesn’t do well in weather extremes. Or if it’s raining. We lived in South Dakota when I was young, but my parents moved to Denver after Benj was diagnosed, so they could be closer to the specialists. There isn’t much in South Dakota, aside from cows.”

“I’d think you were exaggerating but I just came from a ranch in Wyoming, so I believe you. There are more cows in Wyoming than people. How old were you when you moved?”

“Almost 11.”

“That’s a tough time for an upheaval. I started traveling at about 12. I went to live with a host family because we didn’t have a competitive enough league where we lived, and my father wasn’t going to uproot just for me. I ended up in the USSL Training Academy and playing for the USSL U18 team. I was initially drafted by the Sacramento Saints before being traded to the Nevada Renegades and then the Boston Buzzards.”

“You were on the National team as a youth?”

“Yeah, before I hit the adult league. I was ... a bit of a shit show from 18 until about 20. If Sacramento hadn’t already had me under contract, I don’t think I would have had a career. I still played, of course, but things were a little dicey then. Lots of people gave me a pass because of the accident and all.”

“So, you’re saying you’re settled down then?” I find that hard to believe.

“Off the field, yes. On the field, I play with the same amount of passion I always have.”

“Why are you like that during games?” If asked about this later, I’ll claim I don’t remember. He’s being so open that it might be my only shot to find out.

“Like what?”

“Such an asshole.” Okay, I’m definitely blaming that on the head injury.

“My dad once said I need to leave it all on the field or not bother walking to the locker room.”

“Okay, I can see that, but you’re ... a little over the top.”

“What do you mean by that?”

How do I phrase this without sounding like a total jerk? “You say whatever’s on your mind, all the time. Even if it’s offensive or hurts someone’s feelings.”

His hand is up again. “I can’t live my life worrying about how everyone else is feeling. That’s their issue, not mine. I tell it like I see it.”

I shake my head before remembering that I shouldn’t. “Your agent must have a field day with you.”

“My agent is a dick, and he hates me.”

There’s that blunt truth. “Don’t sugar coat it for me.”

“I’m not saying anything that’s not 100 percent the truth. My agent is the world’s biggest dick.”

“Are you trying to be a close second?”

He shrugs, his thumbs tapping on the wheel to some imaginary song. “You know what they say, ‘like father, like son.’”

If I were driving, I’d probably swerve the car off the road right now. Good thing I’m in the passenger’s seat. “Your dad is your agent?” Maybe my ears aren’t working properly. They said I could develop tinnitus. While that’s normally a ringing in the ears, maybe it changes the way words sound.

“Yeah, he doesn’t like me much. I mean, if your own father doesn’t care for you, then you don’t have high expectations for the rest of the world.”

“I’m sorry, I cannot relate at all to that. How can a father not love his own son?” I think about my dad carrying Benj around, changing him, feeding him. How he built special equipment just so Benj could do as much as any other kid. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s made me who I am. Nothing bothers me. It’s better that way. I don’t get all bent out of shape about stupid things.”

I want to object. There’s something at the edge of my brain that is scratching to get out. Before I can think of it, the directions have Brandon turning down my street.

As he shifts into park in my driveway, I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. “Well, thanks for the ... wait, how are you getting home?”

“Someone’ll pick me up tomorrow before workout.”

I whip off my sunglasses only to put them back on. Damn, that streetlight is bright. “Excuse me? You’re not staying here.”

He reaches in the back and grabs my clothes. Brandon Nix is touching my underwear again .

“I am, because I know damn well those discharge instructions say to be supervised.”

He’s not wrong.

“Unless you can tell me who’s going to check on you all night, let’s go inside, lest we’re spotted. Again.”

The only thing that’s worse than hating this man because he’s so wrong is hating him because he’s right.