“I’ll be okay. Just bruised a rib or something. It’s nothing.” I stretch my head and lean to my right, trying to loosen the slow tightening on my ribs. I know I just tossed two Tramadol in my mouth, but I’m already thinking about taking another pill just so I can go to sleep. My shirt rises up when I stretch, and I drop my arms as quickly as I can.

“Holy hell, Julian!” Elijah takes two long steps into the room and reaches for the hem of my shirt.

“Hey,” I say, trying to pull the shirt from his hands. I twist too quickly and flinch.

“That is not nothing. Come on, let me take a look at it,” Elijah says.

I lift my shirt just enough to give him a peek at the forming bruise. I don’t tell him that the red mark extends from my armpit all the way to my hip bone.

“Was this all from today? From that one hit?”

“I took a late hit a couple days ago. Then the hit this afternoon.”

“Two in a row? Man, that’s some luck.” The tips of his fingers gently brush my skin.

“I told you, I’m fine.” I yank my shirt down and he pulls his hand back.

“You probably shouldn’t be playing with an injury like this. It might just be a bruise, but what if your ribs are broken? Are you going to have the trainer check it out tomorrow?”

“We both know I can’t stop playing right now. Our first game is in three days. What would it look like if QB1 was out for the first game? For something as ridiculous as a bruise?”

He reaches for the hem of my shirt again, and I meet his eyes. He stares at me, lips pressed together, and I don’t pull my shirt from him this time. He lifts it enough to get a good look at the full length of the slowly darkening bruise. His eyes meet mine for just a second before he turns his attention back to my ribs. My skin is warm where his fingers touch. “Does it hurt much?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly as his fingers travel along the length of my side.

He drops his hand and looks at me. “You should at least tell Coach Marcus. What if you get hit again in the same spot?”

“Elijah, I can’t. Scouts are going to start coming to the games soon,” I say. “One game could be the difference between a scholarship to college and living under Birdie’s roof for the rest of my life.” I eye Elijah suspiciously. “You’re not going to tell Coach, are you? God, Elijah. You can’t!”

He looks at me, then his eyes dart to the bottle on my nightstand for a split second and then back at me. “What is that? What did you take?”