Page 16

Chapter Sixteen

T asha has called me a nerd a dozen times. It’s her way of coping with all of this. Or maybe I am a nerd, what with this massive binder I’ve made with dated tabs and correlated research articles, and therapies mapping out every single step to get me not only on my feet again, but also on my hands and in the air.

Dr. K calls it a long shot. But he hasn’t seen what a Johnson girl can do. Watch and learn, buddy .

“My sister is not a nerd,” my younger sister Ellie says, lightly punching Tasha’s side.

She knows my friend is kidding, but since my injury, she’s started sticking up for me against everyone, literally everywhere. My mom said she had to wrangle Ellie out of the grocery store the other day because the local paper had a headline about me she didn’t like. QB STAR’S DAUGHTER HAS CLOSE CALL WITH DEATH. My sister started to tear them all in half, but my mom managed to herd her out of the store before she got them all.

“They are free to the public,” I said at the time. My mom wasn’t amused and quickly pointed out that most people take one copy, not thirty-four.

“Ellie, come here,” Tasha says, pulling my sister up on her lap. She wraps her arms around her and points toward my head, more precisely, the yellow highlighter I’ve stashed behind my ear.

“You see that marker?”

“Yeah,” my sister says, still putting on her tough-girl voice.

“You know who uses markers like that?” Tasha is a snot.

Ellie shakes her head.

Without warning, Tasha tickles my sister’s sides and hollers, “Nerd” over and over again until, somehow, my guess is through tickle-coercion, she drags my sweet sibling to her dark side.

“You know, positive reinforcement is supposed to be good for my recovery,” I say, flipping to the page I recently highlighted that proves my point. I hold my finger on it, and both Tasha and my sister sing the word “nerd” at me.

I roll my eyes, but when my sister slips from my friend’s lap and runs back to the visitor’s room where my way-more-fun Uncle Jason is, I mouth a, “Thank you,” to Tasha for making life feel normal.

Just when I think my room is about to sink into some quiet hours, a loud knock on my open door introduces my past, my present, and . . . well, Whiskey.

“I hear there’s a party in here. Who’s drinking?” Whiskey announces their entrance, Bryce and Wyatt trailing behind, his flair for dumbassery earns him a sharp look from Tasha. That look alone is worth the embarrassment he’s drawn to my little corner room.

“Sorry, babe. Was I too much ?” He puckers his lips and squints at her as if this whole thing is some inside joke. Shit, they have inside jokes ? And . . . did he call her babe?

“Quite the opposite, dick hole. You’re not even close to enough,” Tasha says with a look of disgust.

Yeah, okay. He called her babe. She hated it.

Tasha gets up from her chair and leans over to give me a one-armed hug. I’m still stuck with only using the left arm for now. But hopefully, tomorrow’s surgery will change things.

“I’ll wait for your mom to text me. Don’t let her forget,” she says.

“Ha, as if Nolan Johnson forgets a single damn thing. Where do you think I got my type-A behavior?”

I pat the binder as a reminder, and once again, my friend mutters, “Nerd,” before taking off for the day.

“See you at home, honey,” Whiskey calls after her.

We can’t see it to confirm, but I guarantee Tasha gave him the middle finger just now.

“What?” Whiskey says when he meets my chiding look. “I’m wearing her down. You just wait. That girl, she’s in love with me.”

My gaze shifts to Bryce, then to Wyatt, and they could not be forcing a more similar wide-eyed smile onto their faces.

Wyatt takes over the chair that my mom has basically been living in since I got here. Grandma Rose has had her hands full while my mom’s been away, getting Ellie to and from school, keeping my grandpa from burning the house down, and forcing my dad to stop to eat once and a while. He just kicked off his seventh season as head coach in Coolidge, but between his daily trips to visit me and his evening practices, he hasn’t had much time for himself. It shows in his graying beard and baggy eyes.

“So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh?” Bryce asks.

I pull my lips in tight for the confident smile I’ve been rehearsing for days.

“Yep. Seven hours of soldering my spine. Can’t wait.” I add a jolly punch to the air for emphasis, but none of them are buying my hard sell.

“It’s going to go great. You’re in the best hands. This place put my older brother back together when he crashed his bike when we were in grade school, remember? And look at him now—he’s a motorcycle cop,” Whiskey says. I’d forgotten about his older brother’s accident. I remember how upset he was back then, a chubby fifth grader who thought his brother Will walked on water.

“Well, if this place can handle an Olsen boy, then they’re probably ready for me,” I say, reaching my left hand out for Whiskey to hold. He squeezes it, but his eyes shift to my limp right arm.

“Still nothing, huh?” he asks. I wish he didn’t.

“Nope,” I say, clipped.

The short bout of silence that follows puts that topic to bed, I hope. It was a big enough compromise to get rid of the traction devices and only have to live with this collar brace. Dr. K made the case that sleep was more vital to my healing than keeping my right leg and shoulder suspended in the air.

“So, when do you all leave for Western?” I ask, changing the subject back to the world I left behind. If I remember right, I think they’ll be packing up later today. I think their flight leaves early tomorrow morning.

“Yeah, uh . . . about that,” Wyatt starts.

I shake my head and whisper, “No.”

“Don’t worry. I’m going. I’m just taking my own flight. Admin cleared it. I want to be here, though, for tomorrow. I’ll take the red eye. It was cheaper. It’s fine.”

My brow is heavy. I feel it. My face is the one thing that seems to function on both halves. Too bad it’s been scowling so much lately.

“Coach knows what you’re going through. He’s supportive,” Bryce adds, and I’m not sure whether his words are directed to Wyatt or me.

My gaze shifts back to my boyfriend, my stomach knotting up now that I know his decision. I wish he had talked it over with me. I would have told him to go with the team. My mom can call him first. Or my dad can. He would have known as early as he will being here, sitting in that damn waiting room.

“I know you’re upset with me, and I’m sorry. But give me this one win, okay? I need to be here. I feel it.” He brings his fist to his chest with a light pound.

Well, fuck. Fine.

“Hey, we’re gonna give you two time alone. We’ll wait for you in the lobby, Wy. You know, after we visit a few of the candy stripers around this place,” Whiskey jokes.

“You know they don’t call them that anymore, right? And the volunteers are all high schoolers, so maybe don’t do any of that?” Wyatt warns.

Bryce puts an arm over Whiskey’s shoulders as he guides him out of the room.

“I’ll supervise this one,” he says, chuckling on his way out.

Wyatt watches them leave while I study his beautiful face and wait for his gaze to come back to me. He tilts his head, questioning, when it does.

“You and Bryce seem to have found a rhythm.” It’s cautious optimism. I still don’t fully trust Bryce when it comes to Wyatt, but I’m glad to see the stress he was feeling over Bryce being here is morphing into something healthier—dare I say gratitude and a form of friendship?

His lip ticks up.

“Yeah, we have. Not that I’ve been thinking about football all that much.” The weight of my situation hits his voice mid-sentence. I hate that heaviness.

“You should go with the team, Wy. I won’t be able to see you when I’m out of surgery, and even when I can get visitors, I’m probably going to want to sleep.”

His palm lands on top of my binder.

“You finished it, huh?” Wyatt looks up through his lashes, silently asking my permission to review my work.

“I maybe went overboard,” I admit as he pulls the binder into his own hands.

“Walking with help by one month, huh?” He doesn’t look up at me for a response, so I simply say, “Yep.”

He flips a few pages, looking at the long lists of daily rehab exercises I put together with the specialist at Tucson Strong. My mom works with them periodically, bringing one or two of the horses down to visit with some of the kids who get sent there after illnesses or accidents that impact their motor skills. I’ve always felt a connection to that place. I trust it.

“Running a 5K by the one-year mark, huh? That one?—”

“Yes, I know it’s ambitious. But if I’m not going to set bold goals, then what’s the point?”

He lifts his head to test my gaze, but I think when he reads in my eyes how serious I am, he accepts the reality I’ve written.

As he flips through the pages, I feel the urge to shift my position in the bed the closer he gets to the back. I can’t move my body, though. I don’t have the strength. So, instead, I wait in my physical and mental discomfort as he grows closer to the notes I made in the very back. It’s the top question that has me on the highest alert, and it’s the one question that I can’t seem to push out of my mind.

I watch his lips move slightly with the words, and I read along with him in my mind— Can I have kids?

Wyatt’s thumb traces that scribbled question, and he chews at the inside of his mouth for a beat before his head pops up and his eyes meet mine.

“You know that doesn’t matter to me, right?” He blinks twice, then locks his eyes open, awaiting my response.

“It matters to me,” I say, the fear obvious in the vibrato of my voice.

He nods slowly, his eyelashes flickering as his gaze drops to the binder. He closes it and sets it on the side table, then slides to the edge of his chair. Folding my left hand into both of his, his thumb gently draws circles on the back of my hand. I cherish how it feels— that I feel.

“It should have been me this happened to, you know?”

I smirk and breathe out a soft laugh, turning it into a joke.

“Statistically? Yeah, football is way more dangerous.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I mash my lips together and hold his stare, the heavy pit in my stomach growing wider. I give a tiny nod.

“I know what you mean. But I wouldn’t want it to be you.” I stop short of adding how I wish it wasn’t me, either. How scared I am. How angry I am sometimes when I’m with my thoughts alone at night. When I should be sleeping.

The nurse pushes into the room and interrupts by thoughts.

“Good morning, Peyton. I’m Nat, and I’m here to take some vitals and get you prepped for surgery. Mind if I have your visitor wait outside for just a few minutes?” Nat’s my age, I think. Probably not, but she wears her hair in braids on either side of her face, and her wrist is tatted with pink butterflies. She has a bubbly personality, which is probably a nice addition to this place most of the time, but right now, I find her upbeat, ready-to-rave-out personality a bit overwhelming.

“I’ll go find the guys, then I’ll be right back. I want to see you before they take you back,” Wyatt says, his hand clinging to mine even as he stands and backs away.

“I’ll be sure to tell the doctor to wait for you,” I say, trying my best to keep my wry humor intact. It’s what’s been getting me through all of this.

“Good, glad to hear it,” Wyatt jokes back as he slips out of the room.

“You’re a lucky girl,” Nat says in a sassy, flirty voice, waggling her brows at me as she puts her stethoscope ends in her ears.

“You have no idea,” I respond. My voice comes out a bit dreamy, but also, her words sink into my mind, and I ruminate on them as she finishes running through my vitals.

I am lucky to have a love like this, but can it survive what I am starting to come to terms with as my future? I’m resolved to the fight ahead. I know I’m going to get back to a body that might be a little different than I imagined, but just as full of verve and drive. Maybe even more. And sure, it would be easy to lean on Wyatt through it all. But at what cost for him?

“All right, your family can come back in. They’ll be up to take you to prep soon.” Nat scribbles a few notes on my chart, then updates some numbers in her computer before dipping out of my room just as my father steps in.

He blows out his cheeks, puffing them like one of those fish that kisses the glass of the bowl.

“Gee, you don’t look stressed at all,” I tease him. He takes over the chair Wyatt left a few minutes ago, flopping back and exhaling.

“Sorry, I’ve never been good at poker.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes, almost as though he’s resetting his face. His new smile seems less forced, but it’s just as worn-out.

“I’m sorry.” My words make him laugh, short and hard, and he takes my hand and kisses it.

“You need to stop saying that.”

My face eases into a tight-lipped smile.

“I know. I just hate that everyone’s world was thrown into chaos because of me. I hate it so much,” I choke out. I wipe the tear away fast. I don’t need to get emotional before they wheel me back and knock me out. I don’t need to carry any of this into my anesthesia dreams.

“Peyton, you are already the center of our world. And nothing about this is chaotic. It’s life, and we’re here for it. For you.” I know people think he was just a dumb jock, but damn, my dad—he says the right things sometimes.

“Hey, I need a favor,” I say, pulling my mouth to one side. My dad seems to be reading my face, and he sits back in his chair again, folding his arms over his chest.

“You know I can’t make that boy do something he doesn’t want to,” he says, sensing where I’m going.

I nod.

“I know, but can you just talk to him? He can’t shut down because of this. He’s already traveling behind the team tomorrow. And Coach probably said he understands, but you know how that world is—you know that coach. Every little thing is one checkmark against him and in Bryce’s favor. And Dad, he can’t lose his way because I veered off course. With what I’m facing, I can’t carry his regret on top of holding up my own resilience. I just can’t.”

I swim in my father’s understanding gaze for a few quiet seconds before he blinks to break our stare, looking down at his legs as he flattens his palms on his thighs. He nods, his jaw flexing, probably because he’s in a mental war between what I am asking and what he knows he would do in Wyatt’s shoes.

“I’ll have a talk with him. And I’ll do my best to hold him up, no matter what he decides. I’ll make sure he knows how important his success is to you; how much you want it for him. But baby girl, if that man wants to be here, trust me—ain’t no defensive line keeping him away from you.”

He’s right. And it’s because of what Nat said. I’m a lucky girl. I just wish I felt like one right now.