He looked more afraid now I was holding out my hand for his keys than he had when Killian had mentioned the hospital. “I probably can’t drive.”
“No you can’t. Car keys.”
“Fuck,” he said.
“And no, we’re not waiting until the game’s over and someone else can drive your car because that’s swelling by the minute.”
He smirked. “If Maxwell wasn’t here…”
“But I am, so save the rest of that thought,” Maxwell said. “I have no issue with you being whatever it is with my sister, but I don’t want to hear any details.”
“That’s double freaking standards!” I said to Max, still holding out my hand for the keys. “I’ve just had to listen to Victoria tell us how…” I shook my head. “Really, really not cool, Maxwell.”
I felt the keys in my hand and saw Eli wince as he shifted his weight. “Don’t need to hear anymore. You can drive.”
I drove his car in silence, trying to not be put off with the way he was clutching the door. And wincing when I changed gears. I drove an automatic and Eli’s car was manual, so I was maybe a little too slow in moving up the gears on occasion.
“How does your ankle feel?” I said, hating how redundant I felt. I could tell he was in pain, and it wasn’t just from my driving.
“Sore.”
The one word answer told me a lot more.
“How long do those things take to heal?”
“I’ll know more when I know what’s actually happened.”
“Do you think it is a break?”
“I know it fucking hurts.”
His tone was sharp and pointed, the first time I had heard any sign of real impatience from him. I was worried and frustrated and I kept thinking about what it was like to see him immobile on the ground, even though it was only for a minute, if that.
“You think maybe you could take up bowling or golf?” I said after we’d been silent for what felt like a century.
“I’ve always played rugby, Aves,” he said. “I want to be playing it even when I’ve retired.”
“I know,” I said. “It wasn’t nice seeing you not moving.”
“I know,” he repeated.
I realised what he meant and this time my silence was a stunned one.
“Let’s see what the doctors say.”
“We will.” His hand went to my knee and squeezed. “Then you get to wait on me while I rest my ankle. I get my own personal slave. Maybe a naked one.”
He was so getting a naked one.
It was seven hours later and we were still at the hospital, on a ward, one that was busy and crowded, with nurses who looked tired and exhausted, but were still smiling. Eli was lying on a bed, his right ankle elevated. Callum and Max were both there, going through the rest of the rugby game play by play. They’d won, just, and the overall verdict was that if Eli hadn’t gotten injured, they’d have won by a wider margin.
“Do exactly what they say and you’ll be back playing earlier than what they tell you,” Callum said. “Doctors are like vets – worst case scenario then no one can complain.”
“Understood,” Eli said. “Looks like it’s a Lisfranc injury. I’ve done it before so surgery may have to happen this time.”
“Bummer,” Max said. “That’ll stop you from playing for a few months.”
I felt my temper start to boil. Surgery would mean anaesthetic. Anaesthetic came with risks. Surgery came with risks. Screw playing, what about having to go through that? And the rehabilitation would be longer, which meant exercise would be reduced, which would result in Eli being unhappy and frustrated, which would impact on his mental health. I had seen Max with an injury once. He’d been more impatient and less tolerant than ever, which was saying something.
