“What kind of bruise?” I ask him. “From what? Did you get kicked again?”
Nate came back to school one year with his arm stitched up after he was kicked by a horse, and it somehow managed to cut him. He’d laughed and made a joke about how it would be a cool scar, but the sight of that jagged wound had scared me. A foot higher, and he could have been kicked in thehead.
“Nah,” he responds, but doesn’t go further as he steps to the side and waits patiently for me to unlock my door. I lock it behind us once we’re in, and watch as he sits carefully on the edge of my bed, mouth pinched as though he’s aware of my attention and is trying not to flinch again. He sees me watching and pastes a smile back on, waggling his fingers in my direction. “Present time.”
“It’s not wrapped,” I tell him, turning my back so he can’t watch as I remove the books and the Detroit NHL shirt, putting them on my desk.
“I don’t care. A present is still a present.”
Sighing, I double-check that there isn’t a price tag still on the shirt and wrap it more firmly in the bag. When I turn and hold it out to him, my face is on fire with embarrassment. This was such a stupid idea. Nate smiles and snatches the bag from me, holding it open and peering inside.
“It’s nothing crazy,” I say again, as he pulls the green shirt out and drops the plastic bag on the floor. “Don’t get excit?—”
I’m cut off by the cackle he lets out as he holds the shirt up in front of his face, beaming at it. He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles wide enough for me to count his teeth.
“This is my favorite shirt,” he declares, standing up and reaching for the neckline of the one he’s wearing. “Let’s try it on.”
“Oh, it’s not washed, Nate…” I trail off as he gets half-undressed, eyes widening as I take in the bruise curling around his ribs and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It’s old enough that the edges are a sickly yellow-green color, but the majority is a deep blackish purple.
“Oh mygod, Nate,” I say on a breath, taking a step forward and holding out a hand. To do what, I’m not even sure. All I know is that is way worse than I’d been expecting. “Holy shit, what happened?”
He ignores the question, tugging the green donkey shirt over his head and laughing again when it doesn’t even reach his navel. There is a lot of tan belly on display, or at least there would be if his skin wasn’t mottled with discoloration. He smooths his hands down the front and rests them on his hips, grinning at me.
“How do I look?” he asks.
“You look like somebody beat you up!”
“I told you, just a bruise. It’s pretty much healed already. I love this shirt. I’m going to wear this every fucking day. Thanks, Mick, I love it.”
“You’re welcome.” Carefully, I touch his arm and nudge him to the side, trying to get a look at the back of him. “Seriously, what happened? This looks really bad.”
He huffs impatiently, pulling his arm from my grasp.
“I just fell off a horse. Well, the horse sort of fell on me, to be honest.” He shrugs, pulling the hem of the shirt up even higher. It says something about how pretty he is that even with the bruise, he still looks incredible. It’s probably illegal for someone as handsome as Nate to wear clothes likethis in South Carolina. Indecent flaunting of beauty, or something.
“Well, holy shit. I think?—”
“Marcos is going to love this,” he says, looking down at the donkey motif.
“I did think the green would look nice with your eyes,” I admit, which makes Nate grin cheekily and me blush. “Are you going to talk to Coach today? After the meeting?”
“What? No.” He turns his back to me, pulling the crop top off and carefully tugging his regular shirt back on over his head. He’s moving so deliberately, even with his face turned away I can tell the motion is hurting him.
“You can’t play hockey like that,” I tell him.
“Yes, I can. We don’t even have our first game for a couple weeks. Plenty of time to fully heal.”
“You can’t be serious.” I pause, waiting for him to come to his senses. Apparently, heisserious. “Nate! You can’t practice like that. What if somebody hits you? Remember how Vas got hurt by accident at practice? He had to have surgery it was so bad. You’realreadyhurt!”
“Micky Mouse, chill. I’m fine. Really. Please don’t say anything to Coach.”
Anxiety fizzles through me at the thought of bringing anything to Coach Mackenzie. It’s hard enough even greeting the man when I show up to practice, let alone ragging on my best friend to him. I’d rather throw myself into oncoming traffic.
“I’m not going to talk to Coach,” I say quietly. “Butyoushould.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats sternly. “I don’t want to miss out on my last year. And especially not for something as stupid as bruised ribs.”
And hip and back, I add silently, watching as he folds his birthday present and carefully places it back in the plastic bag. I’m not an arguer or a fighter, but I have the urge to do both right now. The certainty that he could get seriously injured at practice churns in my stomach like vomit. As his best friend, isn’t it my job to make sure he’s safe?
