I can't hold back the tears that slide down my cheeks, hot and shameful. I'm Jackson fucking Reed. I don't cry. But here I am, sobbing like a child because it hurts, it hurts so fucking much and I don't know how to make it stop.
My ribs have got to be broken. Can’t deny it anymore. There’s no way this amount of pain is just from them being bruised. But we still have games to play and like fuck am I going to sit on the bench.
Didn't count on Killian coming by either. Definitely didn’t count on how good it would feel to have him inside me, stretching me, claiming me, only to have that euphoria shattered by a blinding burst of agony when his arm tightened around my chest.
Every inch of my body throbs in time with my racing pulse. And beneath that, a new ache is making itself known. A deep, insistent throbbing from where Killian pounded into me.
Jesus Christ, my ass hurts.
Okay, that one’s my fault.
And Killian’s.
The motherfucker railed into me like a beast, and I loved every minute of it until his stupid arm squeezed the ever-loving shit out my ribs.
Ruined my damn orgasm. All the pleasure I felt vanished into blinding pain. Think I may have passed out for a second, which is why the moment he finished, I kicked his ass out.
What eats at me more than this pain . . . the hurt look on his face. Same one I probably had the night he kicked me out.
The hotel door clicks and I try to get up, but I’m too slow. Alexei and Eli come rushing over a second later and help me to the bed, their touches careful, almost reverent. Like I'm something fragile, something breakable. It makes me want to scream, to lash out, to prove that I'm still the same old Jackson, indestructible and untouchable.
Alexei stands to his full height. “I take it your dumbass lied to the trainer.”
It's not a question. He knows me too well, knows my stubborn pride and reckless disregard for my own well-being.
I try to shrug, but even that small movement sends daggers of pain radiating out from my ribs. “Don't want some stupid doctor benching me for the rest of the season.”
Alexei shakes his head. “Buckland was muttering some nonsense. Swear the fuckhead even smirked seeing you go down.”
My jaw clenches. Not sure what’s up our assistant coach’s ass, but he’d made a comment to me about playing like garbage.
Granted, none of us were really giving it our all against Cornell. Didn’t really need to. We were reserving our energy.
And after the hit, when I needed a little extra help getting on the bench, the asshole was rougher than he needed to be, as if he wanted to cause me more pain.
Eli hovers at the foot of the bed, his big eyes filled with worry like some freaked out momma bird.
“Stop staring at me like that. I’ll be fine.” I fold the blankets over my lap. No doubt I look like shit, but I’m also naked.
“How bad is it?”
I scrub a hand over my face, wincing—even that small movement jostles my battered torso. “Pretty sure they're broken. But if I tell Coach, I'm out. So keep your mouth shut, yeah? I can handle it. Just need something to take the edge off.”
Eli searches my face, gnawing on his bottom lip, a sure sign he's got something to say.
“Spit it out. You're thinking so loud I can practically hear the gears turning.”
Alexei growls and grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back. “Keep your mouth shut.”
I look between them and hate that they seem to be speaking to each other without actually talking. “Keep his mouth shut about what?”
Alexei must tighten his grip because Eli whimpers, though I’m not sure if it’s from pain or being turned on. Feisty Mouse—fuck Viktor because now we all call him that—likes when my friend is rough with him.
“Nothing,” Alexei says as he wraps his arms around his boyfriend.
“Bullshit.” I look back at Eli, who’s staring at the floor. “I take back liking you enough to not want to kill you.”
Of course Alexei snarls, glaring murderously at me.
