My Darling Bride(28)

I pull my hoodie down over my sunglasses. Not exactly a disguise, but I don’t want to be recognized in the office, or worse, videoed. There’s already enough talk about my injury.

A receptionist smiles as she opens a door to a posh exam room. “This is our VIP room, Mr. Harlan. Dr. Moreau will be with you in just a moment.”

The room has a couch and two leather chairs. On the coffee table is a to-scale model of the human brain on a stand. Made of silicone, it jiggles.

“Please don’t fondle my brain, Mr. Harlan,” says a voice with a heavy French accent.

I jerk my hand off the model like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar and turn around to see a petite woman with short white hair. Small wire glasses frame intelligent blue eyes. Her back is slightly bent, but it doesn’t stop her from hurrying over to me.

I pull my sunglasses off and tuck them into my pocket. I feel massive next to her. “Sorry, I . . .”

“I’m Dr. Moreau,” she says, cutting me off as she holds out her hand, limp wristed.

Do I shake it or kiss it? I take her fingers in an odd embrace.

She sits in one of the chairs.

I look at the other chair and then back to the couch.

“Should I sit there, or over here, or . . .”

“Just sit. There is a couch, but this is not therapy.”

Yes, ma’am. I take the couch because it’s bigger, and I need more room than she does.

She pops open her laptop. “I have looked over your most recent charts and scans. You’ve seen some of the best neuro-specialists in the city. I also see we managed to fit you in today after a cancellation. Lucky you. Some people wait months. I am, what do they say, a little unorthodox but brilliant. I speak my mind and expect you to do so as well. Now. Why see me?”

I clasp my hands together, the tension in my shoulders making me twitch. “My team cleared me to play football, but I’d like a second opinion.”

The tight end coach, Marlon, gave me the news a week ago, while I was working out with Brody and Cas. I’d nearly wept in thankfulness. Being cleared was the best news I could have hoped for, but that night, doubts crept in, and the dreams.

She nods. “I am happy to do this. What’s their latest opinion—in your words?”

“That I’m healed from the concussion.”

“You want to play very much, yes?”

“Of course,” I say, eyeing her warily.

She taps her chin. “I saw your injury on television. I lost money on you; I bet your team would lose. You did not.”

A prickle of irritation buzzes in the back of my head, but I squash it down.

She looks down at her tablet and types a quick note. “I see my insensitive comment did not bother you much.”

I lean back in my chair. “Not everyone is a fan.”

“Would you say you are easier to anger now?”

Not really. I mean, sure, I wanted to pound on Kian a while back, but I would have anyway. “No.”

“Good. This is very good. I like this. So now continue. Tell me about the physical issues you suffered.”

“Headaches and dizziness mostly. I’m off the pain meds I was on, mostly Tylenol, and working out. I feel great.” I haven’t had one symptom since my headache at the diner in the desert.

“I see you were diagnosed with postconcussive syndrome, very common among athletes.”

“It made me want to punch a hole in the wall,” I say grimly.

“Don’t do it in my office. And your heart?”

“Passed all my tests. There was never an issue with it.”

She types in rapid fire. “I suspect your heart issue on the field was because of the violent collision to your brain.”

I wince. “I wouldn’t say ‘violent.’”

Surprising me, she stands, picks up the brain model on the table, and slams it down on the coffee table. It makes a horrible smacking sound, ripples vibrating through the silicone model for several seconds. “This was your brain at the Super Bowl.”

“Right, but I had a helmet on. Our protective equipment in the NFL is better than in any contact sport.” I tap my temple. “And I have a skull.”

“And I’m just a little old lady throwing a brain model on a table, and you got yanked down by a three-hundred-pound lineman. Are we going to argue over this?”

I exhale. “All right, I get it. I hit my head hard.”

She sits back down and studies me from head to toe. I feel like a specimen under a microscope. “No bullshit with me, Mr. Harlan. I’ve seen people suffer the effects from this type of concussion for more than a year. We cannot know how long it will last. Just because you have no headache today does not mean it is gone.”

My jaw tics. “I am healed.”

She points a wrinkled finger at me, eyes keen. “So your brain looks good on scans. They clear you to play. Big whoop. So far you pay me for things you already know. What else should I help you with? Ask me your questions, and I will be brutally honest.”

Dread coils tighter. “I’m worried about CTE, chronic traumatic encephalopathy.”

She narrows her gaze. “What did your other doctors say about CTE?”

“They told me to get off the internet.”

“True. CTE is a brain disease from repetitive trauma.” She picks up the brain model and slaps it on the coffee table three times, each smack making me cringe. “Your doctors are correct: there is no documented evidence about how many concussions increase the risk of CTE or even if the severity will increase the risk. Why is this?”