“I didn’t actually fight anyone,” I pointed out, guiding him to the couch.
“You wanted to. I could see it. Prince Nils was ready to throw down. It was hot.”
“You’re concussed.”
“Still have eyes. Well, one eye.”
I arranged him on the couch with pillows propping him up, ice packs for his face, water within reach. He looked small and vulnerable, nothing like the fierce competitor who’d taken on two players mere hours ago.
“Here…” I adjusted an ice pack against his jaw. “That better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Always,” I said without thinking, then caught myself. “I mean, it’s my job.”
“Liar.” But he said it softly, without heat. “Seven months is a long time, Nils.”
“I know.”
“I miss you. Miss talking to you. Miss being near you without all this careful distance.”
“Adan…”
“I know, I know. Professional distance. But I’m concussed and on pain meds, so I get a pass.” He reached out, fingers brushing my hand where it rested on the couch. “Stay close tonight? Don’t leave me alone?”
“I won’t leave.”
He fell asleep quickly after that, medications pulling him under. I sat in the chair across from him, watching him breathe, counting the bruises that were darkening on his face. The rage I felt toward those HIT players was primitive, violent in a way that shocked me. If I’d been a player instead of a coach, I would have fought them myself. Royal training be damned.
My phone buzzed. First Brennan wanted updates, then Tank asked about Adan, and the team group chat celebrated the win despite the ugly ending. We’d won 5-2, but it felt hollow with Adan injured. I answered what I had to, then silenced my phone. Nothing mattered except the man sleeping on my couch.
The concussion protocol required waking him every two hours, checking his pupils, asking basic questions. Each time, he was a little more coherent, a little less confused.
“Still here?” he asked during the 2a.m. check.
“Still here.”
“Good. Best nurse ever. Very handsome nurse.”
“Go back to sleep, Adan.”
“Okay. But only ’cause you asked nicely.”
By morning, the swelling had peaked. His face was a mess of purple and black, his left eye completely shut, his nose clearly broken. But he was alert, pupils responding normally, able to answer all the orientation questions.
“How do I look?” he asked, trying to see himself in his phone camera.
“Like you fought two guys at once.”
“Did I win?”
“No.”
“Damn. Street cred ruined.”
I made him toast and tea, light foods that wouldn’t upset his stomach. He ate slowly, jaw still painful, but managed to keep it down.
“I should go,” he said eventually. “Sun’s up. Don’t want anyone to see me leaving.”
