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BRYANT
This is my fault. All my fault.
I pushed him too hard.
I knew I should have benched him, taken him out of the game. I probably shouldn't have let him play at all, considering I knew he was under the weather. But I also know how tough he is and how much everyone was looking forward to the homecoming game.
He played his heart out, never faltering for a moment despite being sick and clearly exhausted.
If he's lucky, he won't have a concussion from that hit he took. A late hit—one that earned Texas A&M a fifteen-yard penalty and resulted in us putting another touchdown on the board before the game was over. The player that hit Jack was suspended from their next game, and by the look on his coach's face, that's the least of his worries. As much as I wanted to take him out and rough him up myself, the player is being punished for his actions.
And when Jack wakes up, he's going to be punished for his bullheadedness. My resolve was weak, but he also needs to know his own limits.
Jack groans, blinking his eyes open. He only lost consciousness for a minute on the field, but he's been resting since we got to the emergency room. They wheeled him back to get a CT scan earlier, leaving him to rest once they gave him a few pills to swallow and hooked him up to an IV.
"How are you feeling, son?"
"Don't call me son. It's creepy. Especially when you?—"
I cut him off with a curt shush just as the doctor walks in. She ignores the way Jack is laughing and gets right to business, which I appreciate.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Perry?"
"Actually, a lot better than I did earlier," he admits, which gets a stern look from me. In the bright fluorescent lighting, his skin is sallow and the bags under his eyes are pronounced. He looks like utter shit, and he's saying he feels better?
"The fluids and vitamins are helping then. You were significantly dehydrated, so we set you up with what we call a banana bag. It's saline mixed with electrolytes and multivitamins."
"Good stuff," Jack says, nodding appreciatively at the already half-emptied bag of bright yellow fluids.
"Your CT scan looks good, no obvious signs of concussion, but you did test positive for influenza A. You'll need plenty of rest and fluids, but you'll be back to your normal self in about a week or so."
"The flu?" I ask.
She nods and flips his chart closed. "If there's nothing else, you're free to leave as soon as those fluids are through. Rest, hydrate, and come back or check in with your healthcare provider if you have any complications. Headache and body aches can be treated with over-the-counter painkillers every four to six hours. Your next dose can be taken in about three hours." She looks at me, probably because I'm the only one here to advocate for the kid. "CT didn't show a concussion, but I'd recommend he not be alone for twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Sleep is good, excessive dizziness or confusion is not."
I nod. "I'll make sure he's taken care of."
"Thanks doc," Jack says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. At least now that we're here, he's finally resting.
"Uh, hey Coach."
I look up and see Jack shuffle into my kitchen. He's no longer wearing the shirt I gave him, and the sweatpants are hanging dangerously low on his waist, showing off the perfect v cut of his muscles. Dark hair peeks above the waistband.
Swallowing the saliva that fills my mouth, I greet him and turn my attention back to my Sunday paper, pretending like I wasn't just drooling over his body. "There's coffee. And I got you some sugar-free Gatorade. It's in the fridge."
"Thanks," he says, and grabs a bottle of the so-called sports drink before standing across from me at the small kitchen table. He gulps it down quickly, and I try not to stare at his neck when he swallows. Otherwise, we’ll both need to stay hydrated.
"Feel up to eating something?" I ask, looking over my reading glasses. "I'm making soup for lunch. Chicken and rice. But not that canned crap." I detest pre-packaged foods. They're full of all kinds of nasty chemicals and way too much sodium.
His lips quirk. "That sounds good, thanks. What time is it?"
"Just after eleven. Doc said you needed your rest," I answer, explaining why I let him sleep so late. I was actually just about to check in on him again. He's been asleep for nearly twelve hours. As soon as we left the hospital, I brought him back to my house. After helping him into the shower—trying my best to keep my eyes above the belt—and shoving a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt at him, I led him to my guest room. He was asleep before I returned with water and a bottle of ibuprofen.
"How's the head?"
"Not bad," he says. My eyes narrow and he laughs.
"What exactly is so funny?"
