TWENTY-SIX
I shifton the metal bench, fumbling with my noise-reducing loops, desperate to drown out some of the sensations overwhelming me.
Elise's eyes remain trained on the pitch a few rows down from where we’re seated at the Wyvern’s final game of the season. It's a fact I'm acutely aware of, given how much anxiety Elijah has about it. I've given myself over to daily hugs and small shows of affection in an effort to free him from the uncertainty that litters his mind.
He swears they help, and I'm beginning to believe him.
They help me too.
“Have you eaten today?” Elise asks.
“Who are you? Chelsea?” I scoff, not bothering to glance her way. My eyes are glued to Elijah’s massive frame, his bouncyarse jutted out as he leans his palms on his bent knees. He’s panting, dragging in ragged breaths.
He’s a beast of a man. All hard lines, rigid muscles, and glistening, lightly sun-tanned skin. His outward appearance is such a contrast to the marshmallow of a man inside. He’s more like a cinnamon roll than a warrior capable of crushing me under the sole of his shoe.
His movements are slower than usual, but it’s nothing his teammates haven’t been able to compensate for. It reminds me of my last game before graduation, the one that pushed me to get checked out. A pang of sadness washes over me, my heart seizing momentarily as the weight of my reality crashes through the barriers I’ve created for myself.I might never play again.
I suck in a painful breath, blinking back the tears that showed up out of nowhere, and force myself to focus on the person who knows my reality almost every bit as well as I do.
The only time he takes his eyes off the ball is to glance up at me. The gesture is somehow intimate in this crowded, public space.
“Just answer the question,” Elise grunts out.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I ate. Elijah made breakfast for me before he headed here.” I leave out the fact that he left the food with my pills, a glass of water, and a note thanking me for coming today. He even folded it into a little paper aeroplane, which is, coincidentally, the only form of origami he knows. All of which has butterfly wings flapping in my gut like something out of a freaking movie.
Her piercing gaze burrows into my cheek, but I don’t meet her eyes, knowing what I’ll find there—too much interest in something I don’t have an answer for.
“Okay.” Silence stretches between us while the cheers and shouts of the crowd continue, bystanders unaware of the silent battle of wills taking place between us as they crunch on theirfood, stomp their feet, and clap so incessantly it causes a cold sweat to erupt along the nape of my neck.
“I’m glad you have Elijah. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I think he’s good for you.”
I jerk back, narrowing my eyes at her. She’s dressed in athleisure, looking every bit as elegant as if she were wearing a designer gown. Her thick, dark hair is piled on top of her head, tendrils framing her lightly tanned cheeks as glacier-blue eyes inspect my face.
“If you have something to say, justsay it,” I urge.
“I can tell there’s something I’m missing, and you aren’t cluing me in. I don’t really believe that you or Elijah are the kind of people who could use one another for mindless sex, but I’m here whenever you’re ready to talk about it.”
I pin my arms to my stomach, as if physically holding myself together through the wave of guilt rolling over me. I want to tell Elise what’s going on. I know that if anyone would understand why I’ve kept this from them, it would be her.
She turns her attention back to the pitch where Rafael is playing alongside Elijah. I can tell she’s giving me time to gather my thoughts and find the right words, but how do I know what those are? How do you casually tell one of your best friends that your entire world has been crashing down around you for months, right under their nose, and every day only seems to bring more challenges?
The crowd is filled with audible gasps and wide-eyed stares. My gaze snaps back to the pitch, where Elijah is clutching his stomach. He drops down on one knee, a hand shooting out to catch him, and my heart is in my throat.
“What happened?” I whisper.
“Just a bad hit,” she says, her face scrunching.
My breath catches in my lungs, and my legs bounce. The stadium goes silent, waiting for him to get up. He takes his timebut eventually rises, walking away with a negligible limp. He tosses a thumb up in my direction, and the crowd roars with cheers and catcalls.
I suck in a ragged breath and work to calm the nerves unfurling within me.
Rugby is a dangerous contact sport. They don’t wear any gear and take hard hits, fall on top of one another, and get rowdy. I’m used to the players getting pretty beat up, but something about it beingElijahwho might’ve gotten hurt has the breakfast he made me lurching for release.
I watch as he speaks to Coach Auclair, Elise’s father, my jaw clenched shut. Relief swarms me when he nods and sprints back onto the field.
It doesn’t take long before the ball is in his hands again. His solid, unwavering frame is a force of nature in a storm of jerseys, but not for long. He shifts half a step too slow, hesitating for a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough to cost him.
My heart sinks as he’s pummelled, but he carries on, slipping away and charging towards the defence.
