I tugged at my sleeves, resisting the urge to pluck at the loose hair curling around my temples.
“He’s going to be fine,” Weston assured quickly as the elevator door dinged open. The floor was cold, empty, and eerily quiet. He led the way toward David’s front door. “He’s just… and that stuff in high school and then, freshman year?—”
Weston stopped so quickly in the middle of the hall that I nearly bumped into him. “What?”
“If he hasn’t told you yet, I don’t think it’s my place to talk about it. But it was hard for a lot of us new guys in our freshman year. Toxicity runs deep in this sport.”
I scoffed, almost upset at how casual his tone was. How accepting he’d become of the fact of the matter. “That’s an understatement.”
“He needs… time,” Weston said. “Right now, he’s in what we call the loop. And he knows how to get out of it on his own, but I don’t like leaving him to do that alone. He deserves to have someone. I want to stay, but Hart’s with Nat and… he’s in worse physical shape than all of us. I need to check on him.”
I nodded, admiring his dedication to them. “I… I don’t know if I’ll be of any help to David, but I will do everything I can.”
Weston’s gaze softened. “It’s not always like this. David’s… not going to always be like this. He just needs more time to heal.”
“Go find Nat and Hart,” I ordered. “I got this.”
“Are you sure?” Weston lingered at the cracked door, unconvinced as he studied me.
“Of course, I’m sure.” I pushed open the door, stepping inside. “Where is he?”
“Bathroom.” He studied me for a second longer and decided something about my determined gaze was trustworthy. “He just went in when I went to get you. Don’t let him stay there for too long. Call me as soon as you feel in over your head. I’ll be back as soon as you need.”
“Okay.” My back straightened as I readied myself for heaven knew what.
“Promise?” he asked.
I nodded, adamant. “Swear it.”
“Thank you,” Weston whispered before disappearing back down the hall.
I shut and locked the door behind him, turning around to an empty, dimly lit room and the sound of running water in the bathroom. Someone had stripped the bed bare. There wereno dishes in the sink. The air smelled of Clorox. It looked as if it were move-out day, the space void of any sense of life. The thought made my throat tighten.
“David?” I called as I hurried over to the closed bathroom door.
“Damn it, I told him not—one sec,” he said, voice muffled by the noise of running water.
I waited. One minute turned into two, and five, and ten. The water kept running. My jaw tightened as a sinking feeling weighed down my stomach. “David?”
No response this time. I banged with my fist and pressed my ear against the door. A million and one scenarios were running through my mind. None good, or healthy, or happy. When he didn’t respond to the banging, I tried the doorknob. It turned, allowing me in with little effort.
The bathroom was bright with harsh white overhead lighting that hurt compared to the low lighting in the room. I blinked a few times, trying to reorient myself.
The air was heavy and hot with steam. David stood bent over the sink, washing his hands. A pair of black sweats hung low on his waist. He was shirtless, dots of purple bruises formed underneath his ribcage. David leaned over the sink as if he needed to get closer. As if something had fallen down the drain and he’d risk it all to retrieve it.
“David?” I asked again.
“One second.” He didn’t look up. I moved closer, standing near his elbow. My gaze fell on his hands, and the hot water ran over them. His skin screamed red, raw from the heat and scrubbing. David scraped a bar of soap across his palm, between his fingers. He didn’t waver for a second, as if on a mission to rid his skin of something that wasn’t showing up to the naked eye.
“David,” I repeated softer. I wanted to reach for him, but the tightness in his shoulder made me hesitate. Despite hisheight and muscle, David looked as though he’d shatter if disturbed.
“I just need a minute,” he said, still scrubbing with intense focus.
“I’ve given you a lot of those,” I joked in a low voice, threading carefully.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” David looked up at me through the mirror. His brow glistened with sweat, eyes rimmed red from exhaustion. There was a sense of hard desperation in him that pierced through my chest. His armor shed, and from the looks of it, not of his own volition.
“You should go,” he said, trying (with no success) to make his voice harder.
