“I can’t believe you’re here, you made it.”
I pull back, and her fingers tangle with mine through the net. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of seeing you on the field.” Her eyes flick to the pitching mound behind me, and I watch her take it all in, the orange glow from the sunset turning her brown eyes to a vibrant hazel.
My name is being shouted, and Mags looks over my shoulder. “What happened with your shoulder? Bothering you again?” she whispers, confirming that she caught my move.
“I’m not sure,” I whisper back equally as soft. “It’s been sore lately. Probably nothing, though.”
“You should have someone look at it before we leave tonight.”
“Naw,” I drawl, looking at her up and down through the fence. I’ve just noticed she’s wearing my jersey with a pair of cut-off denim shorts barely peeking out from the bottom. “Who cares about a shoulder, when I’m the lucky asshole that gets you wearing nothing but that jersey later?”
She bites her lip to hide her smirk. “You need to go. You have a crowd waiting, Mr. Hart. And then please meet with the athletic trainer.”
“Fuck the crowd,” I murmur, leaning in for another kiss. “We’re getting out of here as soon as I shower.”
“Hart!” Coach bellows so loud my shoulders flinch.
Mags rises on her toes to kiss me again, the damn net getting in our way. “Go shower, do your thing, the team needs you.”
I know she’s right, but she’s so close, she’s inches from being able to be wrapped up in me, and as much as I want to go have my moment, I’d rather be somewhere alone with her.
I look back at my coach, and I can see he’s pissed. Turning back toward Mags, I slowly untangle our fingers. “Wait for me?”
She tilts her head to the side, winking as she spins to walk away. “Always.”
CHAPTER 6
Lukas
TWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room shine above me, one of them flickering erratically, bouncing from burnt out to blinking, as if it’s on the verge of snapping.
I know the feeling, buddy.
Pushing up with my left hand, I try to adjust myself on the stiff, scratchy gurney, but a searing pain shoots through my right shoulder, and I push out a heavy, “Fuck,” slumping back on the mat.
The plastic probe they put on my finger starts to fall off, and an obsessive beep sounds from the monitor at the side of the bed. I go to reach for the probe to put it back on my finger, and I cry out in pain, forgetting that my shoulder is fucked.
With a heavy grunt and a twist, I pull the probe off my finger and throw it on the machine. And just for good measure, I raise my leg and kick the machine away from me.
Every cord that connected me to the machine rips away as it rolls to the wall, slamming against the concrete with a crash. Just when I think I bought a few minutes of reprieve, the machine starts to scream louder, and I lie my head back on the gurney, breathing out a slew of colorful curses.
There’s a knock on the door, and I assume it’s the nurse coming to silence the monitor. “Sorry about that. They were pissing me off, so I had to get rid of them.”
The door to the trauma bay slides open, and Coach Carter enters, followed by the ER doctor, another doctor in a fancy set of scrubs that I haven’t met before, and two athletic trainers from the team. They gather around the bed, and each one of them offers a forced smile that doesn’t quite reach their eyes.
Fuck. This won’t be good.
Coach Carter starts first, securing his stance and crossing his arms over his chest. “How are you feeling, Lukas?”
He never calls me Lukas.
I force a smile, more like gritting my teeth in his general direction. “Fine, Coach. Sore.”
He runs a palm over his graying scruff, nodding. “The MRI results are back.” He takes a heavy breath, looking first at the ER doctor, and then to the doctor I don’t recognize. Before he can open his mouth again and feed me some bullshit line, I interrupt.
“You know I don’t like to fuck around, Coach. Just someone tell me how bad it is.”
