Jett got in one more satisfying knock of Mike’s head against the floor before a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him onto his feet. He was panting and still in fight mode, but the hand clutching the back of his neck applied more pressure, and Jett felt himself go reluctantly limp in its hold.
“Get him cleaned up,” said Killinger from directly behind him. “I got this one.”
Jett was suddenly too aware of whose hand was scruffing him like an unruly dog. The heat of Killinger’s fingers seeped into his clammy skin, practically burning as Jett’s face turned red.
Two guys helped Mike onto a bench, and then he was hidden from view when Gates approached, holding Jett’s bag out for Killinger to take.
Killinger said nothing as he applied more pressure, forcing Jett to take a couple of steps toward the exit of the locker room. And then a few more.
Jett gave in and allowed himself to be steered in whatever direction Killinger pushed him. He was too tired and dazed to fight him. Not that he would win even without having bounced his skull off the floor. Killinger felt twice the size of him when they were standing this close, which Jett knew was ridiculous because he wasn’tthattall, but holy shit.
Killinger stopped when he reached his destination. He gave Jett a small push down and said, “Sit.”
Jett went to the floor and placed his back against the wall, stretching his legs out as he gave Killinger his best smile.
Killinger looked confused, and Jett panicked. Had he done something wrong? He was pretty sure he followed directions.
“Ah, I mean,” Killinger gestured toward the chair, which was close enough to Jett that he was leaning against it. “You could have at least used the chair.”
Was he having a stroke? Jett wondered if there was a bleed in his brain somewhere. God, he was so awkward and embarrassing.
“Right,” said Jett, his mind scrambling for a smooth recovery. “Floor is nice. Cold. Good for sore muscles.”
“Fraser, how hard was that punch?”
“Punch?” Jett had forgotten there was a punch. “Punch was nothing. Mike has bird bones. My real opponent was the cement floor. It kicked my ass.”
Killinger braced his face against his hand and let out the longest, most exhausted sigh ever. “I guess we’re taking a trip to Halifax tonight to get your head checked at the hospital. No way I’m letting anyone at the Windsor Hospital touch you.”
The possessiveness in that sentence made Jett want to do something childish, like kick his feet, even if that’s not what Killinger meant.
Then he realized that if he didn’t get his shit together, there was a big chance Killinger was about to drive him to the city and abandon him there when he was perfectly fine, and he didn’t want that. If Killinger drove away from him for a second time, he was going to kick his ass.
“You make me dumb,” said Jett, cringing at how weird that sounded.
Killinger’s response was a bark of laughter, so at least he wasn’t annoyed.
“I’m serious,” said Jett. “I get all tongue-tied and panicked around you. I don’t have a concussion; I just have stupidity.”
“Fucking Christ.” Killinger leaned his head back against the wall and muttered something.
If he was praying, Jett was offended.
Killinger turned his attention back to Jett, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked him up and down and—great, now Jett could feel his skin tingling.
“You’re really okay?”
“Do I not look okay?”
Killinger’s expression gave nothing away. “I mean, I’ve seen raccoons with blacker circles around their eyes.”
“Then I’m fine.”
The door Jett didn’t realize was next to him opened, and Townsend walked out. When he saw Jett sitting on the floor, he jumped and his eyes widened. “Uh…”
“Hey,” said Jett.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
