KNOX
Not a chance in hell. I’ve got a cold compress, ibuprofen, and a grocery bag full of snacks at the ready. I went to three different stores just to find a tub of caramel cookie crunch.
STATEN
Did you have all this prepared?
KNOX
Figured I’d need an emergency Staten kit in case something like this happened.
STATEN
I don’t know what to say.
KNOX
You don’t have to say anything. I’ll take payment in cuddles.
STATEN
Wow. I didn’t realize the Mustangs’ resident playboy was such a softie.
KNOX
You tell anyone, and I’ll deny it.
STATEN
Too late. Already forwarding this thread to your teammates.
12
A HELPING HAND
KNOX
Staten is…a stubborn woman, to say the least. She doesn’t like to be doted on. I thought most girls liked that sort of stuff. But nooo, I think she’d persevere through the Black Plague by herself or die trying.
Exhibit A: me attempting to get her to leave campus before her last class of the day. Amidst the name-calling and harmless swatting, she refused to evenconsidergoing home, so now I’ve got a sick stowaway who loves using me as her metaphorical punching bag.
I’ve never seen her so…out of it…before. I guess some part of me never realized that she got sick or dealt with measly afflictions like migraines. It’s stupid, I know. She just has this Superwoman thing going on, and she always seems so put together.
I’ve already pre-gamed the nerves making my heart wallop in my chest, and things are bound to get messier when she regains some of her awareness. I opted to take her to Crew and Harlan’s place. It’s the closest of my teammates’ apartments, and they’re not home right now, so it’s completely empty.
My teammates, of course, weren’t surprised that I was losing my mind over my slightly unrequited crush, nor werethey surprised when I chose to skip hockey practice to take care of her.
When I pull up to the apartment complex—breathing a sigh of relief that my driving hasn’t woken her—I now face one of the hardest challenges in my entire life: getting her inside.
Coaxing a confession out of a guilty party would be easier than trying to corral the beast that is Staten Renault.
I turn the car’s ignition off, hop out of the driver’s seat to contemplate my next course of action, then bob and weave a few times in front of the rear door as liquid nitrogen pours through my veins. The best-case scenario is that I can still see after she scratches the shit out of my face.
Ugh, fuck it. I’m doing her a favor. She’ll feel better when I get her on the couch with a cool compress.
With no courtesy of a warning, I scoop her up into my arms and haul her to the door surprisingly fast. I don’t have time to worry about making the ride seamless. I’m fully legging it over to the third row of buildings, then trying to lure the key out from under the mat with only the toe of my shoe.
Unfortunately, she wakes up somewhere between “fuck” and “useless piece of shit.”
