“I think you should see a doctor. You might have a concussion.” I stand. “I’m calling the front desk.”
“No way.” He stumbles to his feet and positions himself between me and the phone on the desk. “I’m fine. Really. No harm, no foul.”
“Coop—”
“The hotel is packed with Wildcat fans. The last thing I need is for word of this to get out.” He points to the icepack with his free hand. “Coach will freak. The news will make a big deal out of nothing. There will be all kinds of speculation and press and shit I don’t need.” He pauses and when he speaks again, there’s a defeated edge to his voice. One I’ve never heard before. “My father is up for reelection in a few weeks. If I make the wrong kind of headlines, he’ll blow a gasket.”
I chew my bottom lip, torn. I get what he’s saying. My parents weren’t exactly thrilled when I got caught hooking up on the golf course. Or when I had to do community service for destruction of property, but his injury could be serious.
“I’m fine, Quinn.”
Water from the icepack drips down his face and from what I can tell, he’s anything but fine.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” he shoots back, sinking down on the edge of the bed.
“Did you just go dark side on me?” I throw up my hands. “That’s it. Put your shirt on. We’re going to the ER.”
Ignoring his protests, I slip into the bathroom and grab another towel, which I use to make a fresh compress. We switch icepacks and I throw the old one—now soaked with blood—in the trashcan.
“I really don’t think this is necess—”
“I swear to God, Cooper. If you don’t come with me right now,” I say, jabbing a finger toward him, “I’ll stuff you in a laundry cart and wheel you out right through the lobby for all the world to see.”
Twenty minutes later, we roll into the Emergency Room with its too bright lights and antiseptic stench. One look at the crowded waiting area, where a dozen people sit in uncomfortable looking chairs watching HGTV reruns, and Coop groans.
Dammit. Frustration wells up from the pit of my stomach. He’s only just stopped insisting he’s fine, and I have no interest in rebuffing a fresh round of protests.
I hook my arm through his and drag him straight to the check-in desk.
We wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Coop pulls out his phone as I watch the minutes tick by on the overhead clock.
I make it a whole five minutes before cracking.
“Excuse me.” I tap gently on the plexiglass that separates the triage nurse from the waiting area. In the time we’ve been waiting, the woman hasn’t looked up once. Not that Coop seems to care. He’s watching highlights from today’s game, phone in one hand, icepack in the other. “My friend hit his head and needs immediate medical attention.”
The nurse, a harried looking black woman with tired eyes and a sour expression, finally looks up. It’s clear she’s had a long shift. And judging by the monster sized coffee on the desk, she’s planning for a long night.
I’m not unsympathetic—dealing with the public sucks and I’m sure she’s seen some shit—but Cooper’s head is gushing like Old Faithful.
The nurse pushes a clipboard across the counter, sliding it through the tiny window at the bottom of the plexiglass divider. “I’ll need you to fill out these forms as completely as possible.”
I grab a pen from the cup on the counter and snatch up the clipboard, skimming the paperwork.
I fill in what information I can while the nurse asks Coop a series of questions about his injury and pain level. He turns on the charm, flashing her a winning smile, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. I swear, the guy could be rocking a full-on concussion and he’d still be the world’s biggest flirt.
When the nurse finally runs out of questions, she tells us to take a seat in the waiting area.
Un-freaking-believable.
“He’s bleeding.” I point to his head. “And you want us to take a number?”
