That night, I went to see Dylan in the hospital. His leg was in a cage of velcro and steel. He was angry. Not at the linebacker who hit him. At Marcus. “He’s just a game manager,” Dylan spat. “He’s nobody.”
Something shifted in my chest. It wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was slower. Like the rise of a quarterback sneak—unspectacular, but unstoppable. Dylan found out via Instagram. A photo of me and Marcus at a diner after the semifinal win. No caption. No kiss. Just two people sharing a milkshake. Sidelined- The QB and Me
It was the first time in six months anyone had asked me that. The next few weeks were a slow-motion train wreck. Dylan threw himself into rehab with a toxic fury. He wanted to be back for the state championship. He wanted to reclaim his throne. But he also became cruel. He called Marcus “the janitor” because “he just cleans up other people’s messes.” He started snapping at me for small things—being two minutes late, wearing the wrong color nail polish, breathing too loud. That night, I went to see Dylan in the hospital
I texted Marcus. I didn’t know why. Just: “You up?” Not at the linebacker who hit him