He didn't flick his wrist. He didn't bark orders at me. Progress.
I followed, excitement replacing the sadness that took over, however brief it was. He picked up a first aid box from the corner of his office and answered the question brewing on the tip of my tongue. “I have about ten of these all over the stadium. You never know when you'll need one. I'll show you where the rest are hidden later.”
We then jogged, him significantly faster than me, to the field. One of the coaches was kneeling next to a player, the radio on the ground next to him. I couldn’t see his face, but the red jersey meant he was a quarterback, which wasn’t good at all. When I got closer, the pain and anguish on his face was evident. It was Q, thestartingquarterback. I gulped. Blood didn't bother me, but I didn't like it. I wasn't a damn vampire.
“Brock, Q got cleated bad. Dumbass didn't follow the play, and Louie stepped on him, all three hundred pounds,” the coach with a headset barked. Everyone barked at each other as the severity of the situation was assessed.
“All right. Q, let's see it.” Anderson bent down, the fanny pack he wore hanging low on his hips. Anyone else besides him would've looked stupid. But no, he wore that fanny pack like it was his job.
I bit back a laugh because itwashis job.Not the time, Grace. Not the time.I stood off to the side, watching.
Anderson lifted his head, meeting my eyes, and nodded in the direction of the player. “Q, this is Grace. She's working here this season.”
He lifted Q’s lower leg. Yuck. Blood poured down as he removed the soaked sock. I put on gloves from my own fanny pack, handing second pair to Anderson. He thanked me, put them on and continued to check out the injury. “Grace is going to start cleaning this up. I'm going to run back and get the cart.”
Q grunted, slamming his eyes closed. “Thanks, Anderson.”
Brock then took off running. I stood there, the cleaning kit on the ground with Q looking at me. Coaches looked on, nervous and concerned.
“So, Q, is that your entire name? Just the letter?” I asked, spraying the wound with disinfectant. It stung, so, the best way to distract him was with questions.
“Quentin. Everybody calls me Q, though.” He hissed as the spray hit the wounds. I unwrapped gauze, wiping the injury up and discarding the mess in a red plastic bag.
“Q sounds pretty good. My friends call me G sometimes, G-thang, OG, but Q is way cooler.” I rambled, not caring if the coaches heard.
Q laughed through clenched teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit. G-Thang. That's funny.”
“Sorry, Q, but I have to clean the rest of the blood up. It will hurt. Can you tell me something about you when I do this? Focus on that.”
“What should I say?” He grunted when I placed the gauze on the wound.
“What is your favorite TV show? I likeThe Office. I could quote it every day. Have you seen it?”
“Funny shit.”
“Hell yeah, it is.” I finished cleaning the wound as I continued to ramble on about the show. I quoted it at least ten times, making Q laugh. Once I was done, I noted he hadn't cursed or yelled out. “Nice job, champ. You're cleaned. Anderson will cart you back and look at the damage. I think it's a surface wound, honestly. The cuts are deep, but not enough for stitches or scarring.”
He opened his eyes, looking at his calf and at me. His tanned leg was covered in a handful of shallow gashes, despite the amount of blood that had covered it minutes earlier. “This don't look that bad.”
“Sometimes the blood makes it seem way worse. You handled it like a pro, though.” I took off the gloves and threw them in the red bag, too.
Anderson walked up with the coach.
I raised my brows at him before turning back to Q. “I'm glad this wasn't your arm. Take care.” I squeezed Q’s shoulder and stood.
Anderson had smiled at me. He freaking smiled.
“Nice job on the clean.” His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. It couldn't be with pride. That would be stupid. Then he laughed. A belly laugh that reached my heart. I decided right then that as much as I wanted to hear his laugh again, it would be a terrible idea. “Follow us back to the rehab room, G-thang.”
Chapter Five
“Thanks, ass wipe.”I hit the back of Fritz’ head.
He’d done an impression of me falling on my ass after I mentioned what happened with Anderson, and I flipped him off right when Tony, the restaurant manager, marched up to me with a stupid smile on his face.
“Why are you grinning like that, Tony? You seem suspicious,” I said, eyeing my manager.
“Head home, Grace. Brandy and Fritz can handle your shift. It's dead. You have bags under your eyes. Go rest.” He then, out of total Tony character, patted my shoulder. Twice. “You have a lot going on, kid. Take a night off.”
