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When I finish the set, I move into some stretches, and Sara walks over.

“What do you think of that kid?” I ask her.

Until now, Brad’s barely been on my radar.

He’s a decent football player, no drama off the field.

Outside of football, I hardly ever see him.

He pops up at the big football parties, but we don’t have much to say to each other.

“Brad?” She gives me a withering look. “Don’t even try. I’m a lesbian.”

“No, I’m not trying to play Cupid here. I just want your opinion. A bird’s-eye view.”

She purses her lips. “He’s nice. Polite. Likes himself a lot.”

I nod, satisfied she finds him as mediocre as I do. “Would you let your sister date him?”

“Let?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, I get it, that could use some feminist rephrasing. Can you just answer in the spirit of the question?”

“Sure, I’d let her. A girl could do worse.”

Ruby’s definitely done worse. So much worse that when I think about him, my blood pressure spikes and I get that hot, itchy feeling in my throat I remember from when she came to me in tears about what Tate did to her—the way he up and left her in the scariest moment of her life.

I don’t think about him that often anymore, but when I do, I think about him for a long time.

As I walk out of the dimly lit halls of the athletic building, I blink against the sunshine blazing down on the grassy quad.

There’s Brad chatting with some girls a few dozen yards away.

I check the time—almost an hour until my doctor’s appointment.

Might as well find out for myself if this kid can handle my best friend.

Dr. Halpert must be having a bad day, because he doesn’t even look at me when he walks into the examining room.

He’s an odd guy, but I’ve seen a lot of him since dislocating my shoulder for the second time, and out of the squad of Shafer Football’s go-to docs, he’s the only one who seems to care about the condition of my body in twenty years—not just whether he can get me on the field for the next game.

I don’t always like what he has to say, but I respect the guy.

“Lorenzo.” He settles heavily onto a rolling stool.

“Hey, Dr. Halpert. How’s your golf game?”

He gives a fleeting smile. “Nonexistent. We’re potty training the twins, and the missus can’t spare me for nine holes until we’re done with diapers.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

He looks at me over his glasses as though he’s trying to assess my state of mind. “You look happy. Glad to be done with your junior year, I take it?”

“More like I’m an optimistic guy hoping for good news from his doctor.”

Dr. Halpert presses his lips together and drops his eyes to the sheaf of papers in his hands.

The stool grinds unpleasantly on the linoleum as he rolls a foot closer to me.

I wait, resisting the urge to crack the tension out of my knuckles.

Is he reading off the papers or is he trying to find the right words to tell me what I really, really don’t want to hear?

“Look, Lorenzo,” he says at last, and my heart plummets.

“Our goal up until now was to avoid surgery so you could spend the summer practicing, not recovering. And you did all the right things, son, but sometimes that’s not enough.

We’re going to have to adjust our goals. ”

“You’re saying I need surgery?”

“I’m afraid so.”

I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath through my nose.

Goddamn it. God damn it . Wait until my cousin hears about this.

Then I open my eyes and face Dr. Halpert’s solemn expression.

“Okay, sure.” I push down the questions I really want to ask— Are you sure?

Can we just give PT another week? Are you absolutely fucking sure?

—and force myself to act like I accept this news. “So we can do this soon, right?”

“Sure,” he says, perking up at my seemingly calm response.

“And then I could recover in time to get on the field this season?”

“You know I never make promises in this room,” he warns. “But I’ve never had a patient your age as committed to his recovery as you are. So barring any unforeseeable setbacks, you have every reason to think you’ll be ready for the field before the season ends.”

And here I was hoping to be gearing up for summer practice season in a couple of weeks. “So how soon can we schedule surgery?”

“Two weeks? Possibly sooner if you can manage it.”

“I can,” I blurt.

“It’s not an overly complicated procedure. I do this surgery all the time and, aside from the first few days being a little rough, it’s a straightforward recovery. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Roommate?”

“He just moved out.”

“You’ll want a parent or a good friend staying with you the first couple days, though knowing what I do about your teammates, I’m not sure I’d trust any of those knuckleheads with my patient.”

“My mom loves playing the mother hen, don’t worry. She’ll be here.”

“Perfect. Mothers are my first pick.” He stands up.

“So I’ll have Andrea get you on the schedule before you leave.

I’m going to send you home with all the information you need, but let’s get you in here in a few days when we have time to talk about the surgery, and you can ask whatever questions you want. Your mother’s welcome too.”

“Got it. Thanks, Dr. H.”

Dr. Halpert moves for the door but stops and turns back when he realizes I’m not getting off the examining table. “What’s on your mind, son?”

“I’m just thinking beyond this season. I’m hoping for an invite to the Combine in February—for more than that, actually.” “Hope” is downplaying it, though. I need an NFL career. My family needs me to have an NFL career.

He nods, understanding. “There’s no reason to think you won’t make a full recovery. This isn’t a career-ender, believe me. Treat your body right, don’t act stupid, and you can keep on hoping the way you always have.” He squeezes my shoulder, and then he’s out the door.

I follow him, allowing myself to feel a little bit hopeful. I know Dr. Halpert probably spends half his day reassuring athletes who’ve just had their dreams crushed, and maybe he gives the same speech to all of us, no matter how doomed we actually are. But he’s good at his job. I believe him.

Mostly.