Page 94 of Dirty Hit
She frowns, the line between her brows deepening as she tries to grab onto the last ten minutes.
“I… I was talking to…” Her gaze slides past me, landing on the empty parking lot, on the fact that Brendon is very clearly not here, and her confusion doubles. “Where’s Brendon?”
“Brendon? He wasn’t here when I walked out,” I lie smoothly, because the truth is a luxury we don’t have. “I found you out cold while walking to my car. You have any history of fainting or anything? Low blood sugar?”
She blinks again, trying to reconcile the narrative as I hand it to her through the fuzz in her skull. Concussions are good for one thing: they make people malleable.
“No, I… I don’t think so,” she says, then winces when she shifts. “God, everything’s spinning. I’m sure I was talking to Brendon.”
“Okay, hey, don’t try to stand yet. Let me help.” I slide an arm under her shoulders and another under her knees, lifting her carefully into a seated position first, giving her time to adjust. She sways, grabbing onto my hoodie with one hand, and I keep my expression concerned—brow furrowed just enough to look sincere.
“Parking lot’s a shitty place to be dizzy,” I say lightly. “How about we hit the clinic, yeah? Let them poke at you and make sure you didn’t crack anything important.”
“The clinic?” she echoes, wincing again as she touches the knot forming at her temple. “Do you really think… I mean, I’m probably fine, I just—”
I let a little sternness leak into the worry, the way Keller does when he’s pretending not to panic about an injury.
“You’re not fine, Hannah. You’re pale as hell, and you were unconscious when I got here. If you were my player, I’d bench you and drag you to medical, no discussion. I’d rather they tell you it’s nothing than have you wake up at three in the morning, puking your guts out because nobody checked you.”
She swallows, the logic sliding in easier when wrapped in concern. “Okay,” she whispers. “Yeah. The clinic.”
I help her to her feet, letting her lean against me when her knees wobble. She smells like a light floral shampoo, and the lingering sweetness of whatever perfume she chose. All I can think of is how much I prefer the mix of coffee, paper, and my cologne that clings to Brendon’s clothes now.
I keep my face neutral and guide her to my car, buckling her in like she’s fragile, which she is, in all the ways that matter.
The ride to the clinic is short and campus is quiet at this hour, fewer kids wandering around and more lights on in windows. I park near the entrance and walk her inside, arm around her shoulders, posture telegraphing “protective teammate” instead of “man who just bounced her head off a car.” The nurse at the front desk looks up, and her eyes widen a little when she recognizes me, which helps; recognition greases the wheels.
“Dominic?” she says, alarmed.
“Hey,” I say, projecting that calm, collected charisma I’ve been practicing since sophomore year. “She hit her head in the lot by the admin building. Not sure how long she’s been out for. She’s dizzy and says everything’s spinning.”
The nurse is already on her feet, concern snapping into place. “Let’s get you in a room, sweetheart,” she tells Hannah. “What’s your name?”
“Hannah,” she says, voice small. “Hannah Pierce.”
They hustle her back, and I keep following until the nurse gives me the look that says “family only from here,” then I hold up my hands.
“I’ll wait out here,” I say. “If you need a statement or whatever.”
She nods briskly, already in professional mode, and disappears. I take a seat on a plastic chair by the wall, elbows on my knees, hands laced, and stare at the linoleum. Anger simmers just under my skin, the way it does when some dirty player takes a cheap shot at my receiver.
My leg bounces: not from nerves for her, but the residual adrenaline from defending what’s mine. I rein it in, because this is the part where control matters more than catharsis.
Anyone who glances over just sees the star quarterback, waiting anxiously for news about some girl who took a bad fall. That’s the story that will live in their heads, the one they’ll repeat if anyone asks.
They won’t remember exactly what time I came in or how long I stayed. They’ll remember my hoodie, my worried face, the way I rubbed a hand over my mouth like I was rattled. You can’t buy that kind of cover—you build it.
After a while, the nurse comes back out. “We’re going to monitor her for a bit,” she says. “She has a mild concussion. No skull fracture, thank God, but we’ll keep her overnight for observation. You did the right thing bringing her in.”
“Yeah?” I let a little relief show, shoulders dropping. “She’s going to be okay?”
“She should be,” the nurse says, smiling. “We’ll call her emergency contact. You can head home, honey. Get some rest.”
I nod, stand up, and then let my mask slip into something shy and grateful. “Thanks,” I say. “If she asks, tell her I said to take it easy.”
“I will,” she promises.
As soon as I text him that I’m out of the clinic, and I step outside, the mask slides off like it was never there. The concerndrains, the easy smiles evaporate, and what’s left is a tight coil of fury sitting hot in my gut.
