The coaches jogged out to him, and I tried to join them, but one of the boosters—Mr. Kilpack, the local pharmacist—intercepted me.

“Let them do their work,” he said, wearing a Mount Hope Gladiators polo shirt.

“Luke did that on purpose,” I seethed.

“Looked like a broken play from here,” Mr. Kilpack said. “Football is dangerous. But your fella will bounce right back.”

My fella?

“Concussions can mess up someone for life,” I muttered to Mr. Drugstore, not that he heard me as he walked away. Given all his other injuries, should Jordan even be playing football?

Jordan’s buddy Tico, who hadn’t been part of the play, emerged from the crowd in the middle of the field and trotted my way.

“He’s got little birds chirping around his head, but he’s okay,” Tico said, holding his helmet at his side.

“Thanks, Tico,” I said. “That Luke is a piece of garbage.”

“Well, I’m sure the recruiters were impressed by his decision-making skills,” Tico said, nodding toward the bleachers on the opposite sideline. Two men in suits just stood there, arms at their sides. We’d had our share of players picked up by big schools over the years, so scouts weren’t an uncommon sight, but no one would wear a suit in September in South Carolina. I was in shorts and a sleeveless top and could feel the sweat trickling down my back.

Through a gap in the crowd, I spotted Jordan slowly rising onto his elbows, his helmet off, his head swaying from side to side. One of the assistant coaches supposedly had a degree in sports medicine, but this town could have used a real doctor at this point. Who could examine him if anything really was wrong?

Mom always had wanted to be a doctor—a people doctor—but she fell in love with my dad and quit school. It wasn’t until I was born and Dad left us that she went back to school to become a vet. Her recent medical experience was greater with horses than humans.

I looked back to the bleachers, and the recruiters were gone. Practice was nearing its end, and Coach Garner ordered the players to run a few laps around the field before he helped Jordan to his feet. Jordan took a few steps and wasn’t favoring either leg. He also wasn’t holding his arms gingerly or wincing at all. The coach held Jordan’s helmet, and the two walked off the field. Finally, he slapped Jordan on the butt—I’ve never understood that particular ritual—and handed him his helmet.

“You looked great out there, kid,” Coach Garner said.

“Aside from imitating a crash-test dummy, sure,” Jordan replied with a forced laugh.

The coach took off, and Jordan made his way toward me with a wide, bright smile.

“You okay?” I asked, wanting to sound less concerned than I was.

“You should’ve seen the other guy,” he said, rubbing his hand over the back of his head.

“I did. He seemed fine.”

“Well,” Jordan said, “looks can be deceiving.”