Nobody said anything at first. Then Huck Tamblyn, sitting in the second row with his arms crossed, said, in his huddle voice, "Took you long enough," and the room laughed, a little shakily, and then Bodhi Mbeki stood up in the back, fifteen years old and white as a sheet, and said, "I'll try not to mess it up," and the room laughed again, louder, and something that had been clenched for three weeks in Gerrit's chest let go, just a little, just enough.
The doctor in Tiffin was a soft-spoken woman named Dr. Quarrier who asked him a hundred questions and shone a light in his eyes and had him walk heel-to-toe down a line of tape on her office floor, which he could not quite do, which frightened him more than anything else that day. She ordered an MRI for Thursday. She said the words post-concussion syndrome, and prolonged recovery, and she said that given the duration and his age the outlook was still very good, if, and she looked at him over her glasses when she said if, he did exactly what he was told for as long as he was told. Brain rest. No screens beyond what school required. No contact. No driving for a week. Sleep. Then a slow, careful climb back.
"How long?" Gerrit asked.
"I don't know," Dr. Quarrier said. "I really don't. Weeks, probably. Could be a month. Could be longer. I'd rather tell you that honestly than give you a number you'll hold me to." She paused. "I know what's riding on this for you. Your mother told me. I'm sorry. It's not fair. But I'd be doing you a disservice if I pretended the calendar mattered to your brain. It doesn't. Your brain doesn't know it's playoff season."
In the car on the way home, with his mother driving and the low autumn sun coming through the windshield in long gold bars that made his eyes ache, Gerrit called the Big Ten quarterbacks coach. He had decided that, too. He was not going to let the man find out from a message board, or from Coach Strickmann, or from the box score on Friday night that said a sophomore had started at quarterback for Castine. He got voicemail. He left a message. He said who he was, and what had happened, and that he had hidden it for three weeks and was sorry about that, and that he was going to follow the protocol all the way through, however long it took, and that he would understand if this changed things. His voice only cracked once, on the last part.
The coach called back at nine-forty that night. Gerrit was lying on his bed in the dark with his phone face-down on his chest, because screens were supposed to be limited, and he had not been able to sleep, and when it buzzed he almost dropped it.
The conversation took four minutes. The coach was kind. He was also careful, in a way that Gerrit, even with his head pounding, could hear. He said he appreciated the call. He said it took maturity, and that maturity was something they valued. He said the most important thing was Gerrit's health, and that he meant that, and Gerrit believed he did. He said they would stay in touch. He said they would want to see medical records when the time came, and to talk again after Gerrit was cleared. He did not say the offer still stood. He did not say it didn't. He said, "Take care of yourself, son," and hung up.