“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
“Don’t be.” I run my fingers along his hairline and down his neck, and he smiles under my touch. “That was poor timing, kissing with a head injury.” I laugh softly, and his smile widens.
Head injury.The stupidity of my decision to kiss him back plows its way into my brain, destroying any post-kiss elation I was feeling. He’s concussed. Did I just take advantage of him? Does he realize what just happened? Will he even remember this tomorrow?
As my mind begins to spiral, Malcolm reaches up to stroke my cheek. His eyes are heavy-lidded and ready for sleep. One stroke, then he pulls back his finger, pointing at me.Boop.
He lets out a half-giggle with a snore following quickly after.
Yep, this was a mistake.
Chapter twenty-seven
Malcolm
I’m hungover.
At least, that’s how it feels. The pounding in my head feels like someone is shoving my face into a wall while hitting me with a purse full of coins repeatedly. It’s also what I want to do to the gentleman behind the counter.
“Alright,” he says slower than what should be allowed in the human language, “you’re all checked out.” The receptionist hands me my receipt in slow motion. I reach to take it and miss it by a few inches, the room tilting on its axis as I do.
I can’t believe I got a concussion.
“Thank you.” I squeeze my eyes shut, leaving the handful of room keys on the counter. I walk away, the pounding reverberating so hard I lose balance and miss a step. I think I hear him say,“Come again,”but I can’t be sure. I slow my steps, shuffling my boots against the tile to avoid stumbling into the giant palm leaves by the doors.
“Shotgun!” Travis yells over everyone as the valet pulls the shuttle around.
“Coaches get shotgun,” Kate’s soothing voice comes from my left, “especially those with head injuries.” She steps to my side, grabbing my elbow. This time, I can’t tell if it’s my concussion or her touch buckling my knees.
“You good?” She eyes me warily, fingers leaving a trail down the back of my forearm.
I nod, the motion making me nauseated with the pain. Seeing her eases it, but not enough to keep my eyes open. I feel like I haven’t seen her in days. The last thing I remember was seeing her wave from the sidelines, the stadium light shining over her like a spotlight. We’ve been going nonstop, trying to get to the airport this morning to fly back home, and I’ve barely spoken to her. In the midst of the rushed packing this morning, all she’s been able to ask me about yesterday was if I remembered anything. My answer was not what she wanted to hear for some reason.
Bits and pieces of the night come and go.
Steven shining a light in my eyes.
Emma crying like she was at my funeral, which is not that uncommon in her state.
Daniels helping me to the couch.
AndKate. Her fingers in my hair or on my arm. I feel like I dreamt it. Her touches were so intense and focused. It didn’t feel like the soothing touches of a caregiver, which is why I’m confident it was a dream. You can guess my disappointment when I woke up and she wasn’t there—and I had a headache from hell.
If they could weaponize headache-inducing methods, torturing for information would be a lot less messy. And a lot less frowned upon probably.
We file onto the shuttle, and Kate ushers me into the front seat like I’m a crippled grandpa. I grumble in protest but refrain from speaking. Any motion created with my neck or jaw sends a joltup into my eyes. I glance at the clock, 5:45 a.m., before shutting my eyes. Either everyone is wiped, or Kate has threatened them to stay quiet for my benefit. Either way, I’m grateful for the silence as we head toward the airport.
My gaze flutters open with each turn, the streets still dark with streetlamps guiding our path. No one is on the road either, and it looks abandoned compared to the past few days. No vacationers trotting down to the beach or shop-goers crowding the street corners. Most businesses aren’t open, and the gaudy signs used for marketing aren’t blocking the walkways yet.
We get to the airport quickly, filing off the shuttle in a haphazard fashion. The guys are half asleep, whining about having to carry their bags. The girls are rushing to get checked in so they can get to Starbucks before the line gets too long. And Kate stays at my side like my own personal care assistant. I hate it. But also, I love it. Her concern is evoking emotions in me that I don’t know how to process. Is it her just being a friend? Is it just her kindness? Is it a liability thing, and Benny has instructed her to watch me? The questions roil themselves in my head, pain upticking with each thought.
I try to focus on her arm linked in mine, her hand rubbing smoothly up and down my arm. Focusing on that only worsens the pain as I’m reminded of my thwarted plans from last night.
We were supposed to talk.
But nope. I got distracted and got pummeled for it.
“Alright, everyone,” Kate calls to the group, halting the girls in their tracks on the way to their iced lattes. I sit in the closest seat I can find, dropping my bag with a painful thud at my side. Sounds from all around me throb in my temples—suitcases toppling, doors opening, gate change announcements on the overhead. The sounds overtake one another, sounding more and more like gunfire. And explosions. And helicopter crashes…
