Someone was in trouble. Maybe mortal trouble.
He skidded to a stop, throwing himself to his knees near the end so that he slid the rest of the way to the shuddering form.
A young man, a boy, a few years younger than Adonis, was huddled in a pool of tacky blood on the ice. He was curled in a fetal position, clutching at his shoulder. Red blood pooled around his hands, spilling out as it added to the puddle beneath him.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Adonis gasped, kneeling beside the boy.
The boy shivered, turning his head slightly to look up at Adonis. He was very pale, and his blonde hair was matted with blood.
Adonis recognized him.
He remembered Minneapolis, finding this boy drunk on the road. He remembered taking this boy back to the hotel with Bash, taking care of him, helping him sober up.
Bash had ranted about this boy many times, endlessly complaining about how frustrating Cort Styleton was, how he never wanted to be coached, how he hated following instructions.
“Cort,” Adonis said. “It’s Adonis. I’m here. What happened?”
“Help,” was all Cort said, reaching with one bloody hand towards Adonis.
Adonis, without thinking, grabbed the boy’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m going to get you help.” His muddled brain remembered what he had learned in first aid classes years ago, what he had seen on medical shows. “Keep pressure on the wound,” he said.
“Shot,” Cort gasped. “He shot me.”
“Who? Who shot you?”
“Pizza.”
“Jesus Christ,” Adonis said. His free hand shook as he dialed 911. He held the phone up to his ear.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” came a woman’s calm voice from the other end.
The same adrenaline that had forced Adonis onto the ice now forced him to be calm. “My name is Adonis Costa,” he said. “I am at the Rink on Bellford University’s campus. A student has been shot in the shoulder. We need an ambulance immediately.”
The 911 operator was saying something. Adonis could only hear every other word through the pounding of his pulse.
“He’s breathing,” he said. “He’s responsive. Please hurry.”
He put the phone on the ice and pressed the Speaker button.
“Cort, look at me,” he said.
Cort’s eyes were wide as he looked up at Adonis.
“Help is on the way,” Adonis said.
“An ambulance will be there in three minutes,” the 911 operator said.
“Did you hear that?” Adonis said. “Three minutes. They’re almost here.”
“You’re Adonis,” Cort whispered. His lips were bloody.
“I am,” Adonis said. He still held one of Cort’s hands in his. Cort’s other hand fell from his wound. Blood flowed faster. “You have to keep pressure on that, Cort.”
Cort didn’t seem to understand Adonis.
Adonis cursed, pulled his hand free of Cort’s, and pressed both palms to the wound. Blood warmed his hands, and he swallowed the wave of nausea that hit him.
“You’re Bash’s boyfriend,” Cort whispered, blood bubbling as he spoke.
