“Eventually.”I tugged the Velcro on his chest protector.“But we’ll both die of old age before that happens.”
He didn’t fight me after that.Pads hit the floor in slow sequence: chest, elbow, helmet, glove.Each drop landed like a punctuation mark to the week he’d spent backing away from me.
Using all the detachment of running integers, I had him in his boxer briefs in under a minute.The bruise—formerly violet—had spread like spilled ink down his triceps.New mottled red and eggplant radiated from the center.
I kept my voice level.“Scale?”
“Four.”He sat, winced.“Okay, seven.”
“Horizontal or vertical?”
“Moves to six if I lift anything heavier than my phone.”
“Phone’s banned for the next hour.”
He huffed—half-laugh, half-exhale—but didn’t argue.
I fetched the labeled pea bags—two this time—and the towel.When I turned, he was untying his shoelaces with his right hand, clumsy and slow.“Stop that,” I grumbled.I placed the towel and peas on his shoulder before kneeling to finish untying the double knots and helping him out of his shoes.Old habit from early childhood placements: help first, talk later.
I guided him to sit cross-legged against the headboard, radiator heat at his side.He followed every nudge like he’d forgotten how to decide for himself.
“Hydration?”I asked.
He nodded.I opened the fridge, grabbed a can of lime soda, popped the top, and pressed it into his good hand.
Only then did I step back.
“What are we going to do with you?”I kept it casual, examining the bruise instead of his eyes.
He hissed a breath as I probed the deltoid.“You could start by not pressing on the hematoma.”
“I’m checking for structural damage,” I said, keeping my voice flat.“Unlike you, I don’t ignore the warning signs.”
The double meaning hung there.I felt his good shoulder tense under my hand.He knew I wasn’t talking about the injury.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he said quietly.
“Could have fooled me.”
“Needed to refocus,” he said.
“On getting destroyed by your own post?”
“On keeping the net.”He flexed fingers on the injured side; they barely moved.“Guess that worked out.”
The sarcasm tried for levity and drowned.
I folded my arms.“Luke, you can’t play if your arm stops lifting.”
He stared past me, somewhere near the dent in our drywall.“I’ll tape it and load ibuprofen.”
“Great plan.Very 1990s.”
He closed his eyes, chin tipping to his chest.Exhaustion blanketed him.I saw it land—the moment adrenaline quit and pain surged.
Instinct shoved irritation aside.I crossed, sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle him.
“Hey,” I said, quiet.“Let me provide the assist.”
