Page 97 of Ned

“Just pretend you like me.”

“Why?”

“Really? Not even a little bit of ‘Hey, yeah, Hudson, of course I like you’?”

“I’d like you more if you stayed in the hospital where you and your leaky head belong.”

“I guess that means we’re breaking up?”

“If you get in that elevator, we are.”

“See, no one wants to get in the middle of a squabbling couple.” He smiled, and the elevator dinged, and then he grabbed her hand and pulled her in.

He sighed, however, and let her go as soon as the doors closed. Stepped back and leaned against the wall of the elevator, his eyes closed.

“You’re scaring me. I’m not going to have to drag you into the ER again, am I?”

“I thought you said you were athletic.” He didn’t open his eyes.

“I am. But there’s a difference between dodging wide receivers and dragging two hundred pounds of—”

“Pure muscle.”

“—pure stupidity across the hospital.”

The elevator dinged and he stood up, walked toward the door.

Grabbed her hand again.

“Just keep your head down.”

“You’re not that famous.”

“But we are walking out of here without an official discharge, so…”

“If I drop to the floor and scream that really loud, what will you do?”

He looked at her then, and instead of smiling or joking, a muscle pulled in his jaw. “Please don’t do that.”

Oh. Uh. “I was kidding.”

He made that sound again, deep in his chest, and she just held onto his hand until they got outside.

Then he dropped it again—and maybe she was just a little sad about that—and breathed in the fresh air. Deep breaths, long exhales.

“What are you doing?”

“Living one more day.” He then looked at her. And smiled.

It was such a slow, mysterious, authentic smile, she had nothing for it. “What is going on?”

“Just…” He turned to her, then, “I had a TBI from a targeting hit a few years ago, and…I’m fine. But—”

“You shouldn’t be playing football.”

“I’m not on the line—”

“You’re a wide receiver. You get hit, hard.”