She nods as one single tear streams down her cheek. She wipes it away and says, “I’m sorry, Halsey.”
“I’m sorry, too.” I offer a comforting side smile, unsure of what else to do.
She wipes at her eye, and as the light turns green, she starts driving again.
Fuck . . .
If only.
If only I could tell her that I don’t care about what happened, just that I care about her comfort, spending time with her, and making sure she’s okay. I hate that she’s upset. I hate that she’s holding this guilt. That’s the last fucking thing I want.
I want to see that shining smile of hers, those brilliant eyes full of joy. I don’t want to be the source of her pain and discomfort.
Feeling sick about it, I text the group.
Halsey:She feels so guilty. She’s crying. I can’t fucking take this. I don’t want her upset and holding on to this guilt. What the fuck do I do? Because anything I say doesn’t seem to penetrate her mind.
I glance out the window and see the arena up ahead just as my phone buzzes.
Penny:She will hold on to this guilt until she feels better. Let her feel her pain. Let her do what she can to make things right in her head. Accept her help.
Pacey:I don’t know Blakely well, but I know if this was Winnie, she’d want to do everything she can so that, in her mind, she’s rectifying the situation that she helped create. I agree with Penny. Let her work through this herself.
Silas:Same with Ollie.
Posey:And when she works through it, that’s when you take advantage of the time with her.
Penny:Correct, boys. I’m proud of you.
OC:I’m still thinking about how you used the word penetrate. I keep thinking about your penis. I think there is something wrong with me.
Halsey:You’ve lost a lot of my respect.
OC:I accept this.
Chapter Ten
BLAKELY
Hands full of two sandwiches, drinks, and potato salad, I push through the door leading to the ice baths in the training room where Halsey is icing his foot.
To say I want to crawl into a hole and never be seen again is an understatement. I can’t believe I injured our star player. Not only injured him but took him out of the game. I saw how swollen his ankle was the moment he took his sock off. Yeah, it’s not good. The trainer immediately started doing range of motion exercises with him, and with the pain searing through his face, I knew I had to get out of there, so I ran out to the deli next to the stadium for some food. It’s the least I can do since dinner burned, and we won’t be having sloppy joes anytime soon. It’s a shame because he was trying hard to brown those onions.
Well . . . they browned.
“Hungry?” I ask as he looks up at me.
“Starving,” he says.
I pull up a chair next to him and hand him a turkey and provolone sandwich. “I hope you like turkey. I wasn’t sure and it seemed like a safe option.”
“Love turkey. Thank you.”
“There’s a pickle wrapped up in there as well.”
“I can smell it,” he says as he finds the pickle and takes a huge bite.
I scan for his foot in the ice bath that’s swirling around, but I can’t see anything. “How’s the ankle?”
