Despite it being a short walk, we get a car back to our place. He lays his head on my shoulder and is nearly out in the three-minute drive. He gets out of the car and trips.
Shit.
I catch him, looking into his eyes. “Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“No. They said dizziness is a normal side effect.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Look it up when we get inside.” He tries to get out of my hold, but I pick him up.
“What the fuck? I can walk!”
“I’m not risking you biting it on the ice and hitting your head on the fucking concrete.” I shift his weight as I walk up the front stairs so I can type in our code. Once inside, I take him right to my room; I don’t need to have him trying to navigate the stairs in a few minutes. “Are you hungry? Can I make you something?”
He shakes his head and winces. “No, I’m too dizzy to eat now.”
“What can I do?”
“Get me some water and Advil.”
I feel fucking helpless, but at least this is something. I return to find him curled up, laying on his side. He sits up and takes the pills with some help and then lays back down.
“Want me to leave so I’m not moving you around?”
He reaches out a hand for me. “Stay with me, please.”
“Of course.” I take his hand, letting him pull me into bed.
“Your knuckles are so bruised.” He brings my hand closer to his face, examining it in the low light. “Did you get hit with a puck?”
“No.” I grin, because I earned those bruises, and I’m going to enjoy them.
He narrows his eyes at me. “How did you hit Mark hard enough to do this?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” I laugh, and he does, too.
“How are you going to fucking play?” He pulls my arm around him.
“It was fucking worth it. Too bad he won’t be bruised for the wedding.”
He laughs harder, then grabs his head. “Fuck, it hurts to laugh.”
“You need to sleep.”
He’s quiet for a while, then curls against me and mutters, “I’m not going to forget about what you said.”
“What did I say?” I’m pretty sure I know, but I have to check.
“About your mouth.”
“When you feel better,” I say, and just as he’s drifting off, my phone rings.
What could my fucking father want?
THIRTY-FIVE
ARCHANGEL
