Our Playbooks

Chapter 3

Ellie

I walk upstairs and stop at the top of the stairs when I see Dayton casually leaning against the wall, out of sight.

“Who do you think it is, the boys coming back to finish what they started?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“No, those assholes wouldn’t come back. They’re not that stupid,” he says, shrugging – then hissing sharply, his hand flying to his side.

“Was that your ribs, or is there something else you didn’t tell me about?” I ask, closing the distance between us.

“I caught my right side when I shrugged. Forgot for a second,” he says – and then, as if to prove the point, shrugs again without thinking and winces hard.

“Hold on,” I say, already turning back toward the stairs.

Back upstairs, I pull our biggest towel from the hall closet. He’s got to be close to six feet, maybe over two hundred pounds – junior and football player build – and I’m going to need every inch of it to wrap around him and hold the ice in place.

I find him still leaning against the wall where I left him. “Are you ready to try to sleep?”

“Honestly, not really. You?” he asks.

“Then follow me.”

Heading back upstairs, I go to the hall closet and grab our most oversized towel. At sixteen - he’s a junior, so I’m guessing - he’s probably six feet tall and over two hundred pounds. I’ll need the towel to reach around him so I can tie it into a knot.

I head back over to where he is on the stairs. “Are you ready to go to sleep?”

“Honestly, not really. You?” he asks.

“Then follow me.”

I lead him to my parents’ room and slip into their bathroom to grab the ibuprofen. He waits in the doorway, and when I come back out, he steps aside without a word, letting me close the door behind us. I walk him to my bedroom - the one with ‘Eleanor’ carved into the door, and ‘My Sweet Ellie Bear’ beneath it.

I hear a low laugh escape him. “I want to elbow you that, but I know I can’t.”

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “It was endearing, I promise.” I don’t have to look at him to know there’s a cocky smile pulling at his mouth.

My grandfather carved that into the door himself. He was the only one who really saw me - not Caleb, not my parents’ worry for Caleb, just me. I wasn’t very close to my grandmother, but she was my grandfather’s whole world. We lost three people in the span of ten months. It felt like we couldn’t really grieve because there wasn’t any time to. Some days that ache is still there, quiet and constant, like background noise I’ve learned to live with.

I set everything on the bed – the towel, the peas, the paper towels – then head toward my bathroom. When I glance back, he’s still planted in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame like he’s waiting for permission. “You can come in, you know.”

His reply is a slight nod, and he takes about two steps into my room before stopping.

“Come on, follow me.”

I open my bathroom door and turn on the sink, adjusting the water until it runs warm. I grab my washcloth from the edge of the sink, hold my wrist under the stream to check the temperature, then drench it and wring it out. When I turn around, Dayton’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching me.

“Have a seat on the toilet,” I say as I close the toilet lid.

He holds my gaze for a long beat before sitting down. I take his hands in mine and start working the warm washcloth over the cuts, careful and methodical. He hisses through his teeth every few seconds, muttering something low under his breath, but he doesn’t pull away. Once the blood is gone, I check that nothing’s reopened, then reach for the vaseline and smooth a thin layer over the worst of the cuts. The moment I press against his knuckles, his hands clench into fists around mine – a tight, involuntary grip – before he slowly releases. I move to the other hand and get the same reaction.

“Keep your hands up.” I position them flat in front of us.

I pull the first-aid kit from under the sink and lay out what I need – two non-adhesive bandages, a gauze roll, scissors, and tape. When I press the first bandage into place, his jaw goes tight, muscle flickering near his temple, but he doesn’t make a sound. I tear two strips of tape and stick them to the edge of the counter, then wrap the gauze firmly around his hand, making sure it's not too tight to cut off circulation, but enough to hold. I cut the gauze, securing the end with tape, and move to the other hand.

“Is that better?” I ask as I let go of his hand.

“Yes, I feel like I’ve told you this a lot tonight, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I pack everything back in the kit and tuck it under the sink, then head back into my room. He follows this time without being asked. I point toward the navy-blue backrest pillow propped against the headboard on the right side of the king-size bed, and he settles onto it without a word.

“You’ll need to sleep a little more upright for the next two, maybe three nights. You’ll know when it’s easier to sleep lying semi-flat, okay?”

“Yeah, I remember from when I got tackled hard by a senior in a game last year. It was a pain in the ass,” he says as he gets comfortable against my backrest pillow. “This seems easier to fall asleep on, though.”

I laugh as he gets comfortable against the pillow. “I’m glad. You can have it if you’d like. I don’t really use it. Is there anything you’d like to watch?” I grab my remote and turn on my television.

“Oh, I’m definitely taking this pillow,” he says. “And I don’t care what you put on. Anything’s fine.”

I smile to myself – he probably won’t love NCIS, but he won’t say anything either. I open a streaming app and put it on, then grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge that doubles as my nightstand, uncap it, and hand it over along with two ibuprofen. While he takes them, I wrap a single layer of paper towels around each bag of peas so the cold doens’t come into direct contact with his skin.

Once he’s taken the medication and set the water bottle down, I say, “Sit up for me, please.”

I round the bed with the pea bags and the towel. I lift his shirt, and he tucks it under his chin without being asked. I press one bag against his lower left side. “Hold this.” I pick up the second one and pause before placing it. “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt a lot.”

“Relax, it’s okay,” he says, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smirk. “I can handle it.”

I nod and set the bag down as gently as I can. He flinches back anyway, a sharp exhale escaping through his nose, but he breathes through it – slow and deliberate – until his shoulders drop.

“You think you can hold this one still?”

He nods, so I grab the towel. “Lean forward a little bit.”

I ease the towel around his back, draping more of it over his right shoulder, and make sure both bags are held in place before I ask him to remove his hands. I pull it snug against his chest – not brutal, but firm. A groan tears out of him, low and involuntary. I stop, give him a second, then finish the knot. I pull his shirt down over the towel. “Need help getting comfortable?”

“No, I’m good, thank you though.”

Once he settles in, the tension in his face eases. He doesn’t complain about the ice packs or the show – he just watches, quieter than I expected. We got through a few episodes before I notice his breathing has slowed and his head has tipped slightly to the side. He’s out.

With the lights low and the TV casting a soft flicker across the room, I let myself actually look at him. His honey-chestnut hair falls in loose waves across his forehead – not quite curly, and like he’s run his fingers through it too many times to count and just left it where it lay. His skin is sun-kissed, the kind of tan that comes from weeks of outdoor training, and even in sleep, his jaw is set, sharp, and defined. The veins along his forearms stand out against the muscle beneath. I remember earlier when he had my hands pressed against his abdomen, he felt warm and solid under my palm. He’s handsome in a way that should have made my hands shake, but it didn’t. They never shake when someone’s hurt, though. My brother used to call it my superpower – the ability to stay steady when everything around me isn’t.

I pull myself up and cross to the window seat, grabbing the extra blanket folded there. I drape it over him carefully, making sure it covers all of him, then climb back under my own. I turn on something low and unforgettable, turning the volume almost all the way down, and close my eyes. Sleep comes fast than I expect.

I wake to warmth pressing against my back — the sun cutting through the curtains and landing square between my shoulder blades. My phone is already ringing on the charger. I reach for it without sitting up and see Meg’s name lighting up the screen.

I glance over — Dayton is still out, one arm slack at his side, breathing slow. I ease out of bed, slip through the door, and pull it shut behind me before accepting the call.

“Hey, good morning, Meg,” I say.

“Good morning, Ellie. Finally answering us, are you?” she says, sounding fake annoyed.

I laugh at her before saying, “You know I hate texting. If you wanted me to answer, you know you’ve got to call.”

“Yeah, yeah, old timer. You doing okay?” she says, sounding a little worried.

“Yes, Megan. I’m good. I’ll be over soon for breakfast. Bye now.”

“Okay, fine, see you soon,” she says, and then I hit the red end button.

I slip back into my room. Dayton hasn’t moved – same position, same slow breathing. I climb back in beside him and settle under the blanket, thinking he’s still asleep, until his hand moves. His fingers brush my hair away from my cheek, gently and unhurried. I look up, and his gray eyes are already on mine.

“Where’d you go?”

“I was answering a phone call,” I say, slowly drowning in his light gray eyes.

The morning light is doing something to his eyes – softening the usual storm-gray into something almost silver, bright where the sun catches them. I get so absorbed in them that his voice fades out, and I only catch the tail end of his question, “...okay?”

“Huh, what’d you ask?”

He chuckles at me before saying, “Who called you? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, my best friend Meg, I go over there for breakfast to check in with her mother, Jacquelyn,” I say, trying not to stare directly into his eyes, or I’ll blank out again.

“Meg is the girl who looks like Ariel, right?” Dayton asks.

“She has the hair and the complexion, sure, but her eyes are emerald, not deep blue like Ariel’s.” I catch myself mid-sentence, realizing I’ve been staring directly into his eyes the whole time. I drop my gaze. My hands are already moving without my permission, fingers twisting together in my lap. “I should get ready to go.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” I take a deep breath and force my hands to still.

“Are you sure?” he asks. I steel my expression as I look up to see him observing me.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on his.

“You don’t have to put on your mask with me,” he says quietly. “Just talk to me.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I get out of bed and cross to my closet, pulling out the first things my hands land on — black leggings and an oversized navy shirt. I take my time in the bathroom. Deodorant, a small spray of perfume, and brushing my teeth. The routine is grounding. I toss my dirty clothes in the hamper and come back out.

When I come back out, Dayton is sitting rigidly upright, every muscle in his face pulled tight. He looks like he’s been holding himself still on purpose, like moving even an inch would cause him pain. I cross the room quickly.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He presses his lips together and gives a small, tight shake of his head — the first time he’s admitted, even wordlessly, that he’s in real pain. I lift his shirt and work the towel knot loose slowly, keeping one hand pressed flat against the peas on his right side so they don’t shift and catch his ribs. When the towel finally falls away, I ease both bags off and set them aside.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” he says, readjusting to get comfortable.

I grab the bottle of ibuprofen and give him two more pills and his water bottle.

“Again, thank you, Eleanor.”

“You’re welcome, Dayton,” I say with a small smile. “But you don’t have to keep saying thank you.”

“You can stay here as long as you need, but I need to head over to my friend’s house for breakfast. There are eggs, bacon, and pancake mix downstairs, or several types of cereal and tons of milk. Help yourself. I should be back in an hour or so.” I walk to his side of the bed to get a sweatshirt out of my closet.

His hand closes around my wrist before I reach the closet — not tight, just enough to stop me. His eyes find mine and hold them. “I know we don’t know each other that well,” he says, his voice quiet and even, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. So I’ll ask again — are you okay?” There’s something underneath the softness, a low thread of frustration, like my answer from before wasn’t just wrong — it was a door he’s not willing to let me close.

“I honestly don’t know.” The words come out before I can shape them into something safer. My fingers find each other, pulling and twisting. “I tell everyone I’m okay, all the time. And I’ve said it so many times that it doens’t mean anything anymore – it’s just something I say so people stop worrying.” My hands tighten around each other. “It’s easier than trying to explain something I can’t even fully explain to myself. Not everyone gets it. Most people don’t.”

He glances down at my hands, then back up at my face. Without a word, he interlaces his fingers with mine and squeezes — offering silent comfort.

He nods. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, squeezing my hand again. “I don’t know if I’ll stay, but if I don’t, I’ll see you Tuesday at school, okay?”

I nod. His grip loosens slowly, finger by finger, until my hand is just mine again. “If you leave, use the back door. You can leave it unlocked.” I pause at the doorway. “Bye, Dayton.”

“Okay, I’ll make sure to go out the back. Bye, Eleanor.”

I lock my door behind me and head down the street. Meg’s house sits directly behind ours — one block, barely two minutes — but the morning air is cool and sharp, and I take my time anyway, letting it clear my head before I have to put on a different kind of smile.