“I want to know the score,” he says as the crowd erupts.
“Ask a teammate to text it.”
“But I want to be here.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Okay,look. I’m not letting you stay here and do whatever that you do after a match. You need to get horizontal on your bed andrest! Didn’t you hear what your doctor said?”
He smiles. “I did. Nothing’s broken.”
“Yeah, except for your common sense.”
He laughs. “Come on.”
“No.” I swat his hand until he lets go of the door. I close it, go around and take a seat behind the wheel. “I’m taking you home.”
“What about my car?”
“Later.” I peel out of the parking lot before he decides to hop out.
“Doc’s just covering his ass so he doesn’t get sued. I’m telling you, I feel great.”
“It’s the muscle relaxants talking.”
“Nobody gets loopy on two pills.”
“And nobody feels great when they’ve had a horse roll over them.”
“You worry too much.”
“You worry too little.”
He sighs, then falls silent. He’s probably feeling the pain—or the pills Dr. Wilson gave him—but trying to be manly. It’s the stupidest thing in the world. Even Grandpa does that, and it’s asinine. Drives Grandma insane.
I don’t turn on any music, so Grant can reflect on the unreasonably casual way he’s treating himself. And this is the guy who freaked out over some barely expired Advil!
When we’re close to the campus, I say, “Where do you live?”
“Burton Quad,” he says.
It’s one of the newest and nicest on-campus housing options, each unit designed to accommodate three students, but I’m surprised he opted for on-campus housing. He seems like the type to have his own place, based on what he said during dinner about being independent. Maybe he craves companionship more than he lets on.
I park my car in one of the three visitor slots. As he undoes his seatbelt, I say, “Stay there.”
“Okay…”
I get out and go around the car. I open the door for him, then hold out a hand. “Come on. Let me help you out.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll believe that when the memory of you under that horse stops making me panic.”
He looks at my hand for a second, then wraps his bigger, warmer hand around it. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Are your roommates around?”Please let the question hide the hot tremor him holding my hand has caused.
“No. They’re out of town for the weekend. Hanging out with some girls at a couple of vineyards, drinking wine.”
“Aren’t they underage?” No matter how cool Grant is, I can’t imagine seniors rooming with a sophomore.
