“You’re still watching, huh?”
I laugh softly, embarrassed. “I saw you throw the first punch.”
There’s a long pause. “You saw that?”
“I saw the one last week too.” I chuckle. “It’s funny to see you sitting in the penalty box.”
“You think that’s funny?”
I nod. “I do. It’s a time-out for being naughty.”
I hear something shift in the bed, and then I feel it. He groans.
“Are you okay?”
“Just my shoulder,” he breathes.
“What’s wrong?”
He takes a long time to reply. “It’s fucked.”
I turn my head on the pillow and realize that he’s facing me.
“Has it been fucked all night?” I ask, trying to make out his face in the dark.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and then pause. “So, you got put on a time-outandyou hurt yourself?”
I feel his breath hit my face. He let out a tiny laugh.
“Is the pain bad?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What do you need for it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell the trainer?”
“No.” He adjusts himself again. “I haven’t told anyone.”
My gut clenches. He’s just told me a thing he hasn’t told anyone, and the way I respond matters more than what I say.
After a beat, he goes on by himself. “It got worse after Friday’s game.”
“You should tell someone before it gets worse.”
Silence falls on the room again, and this time I hear footsteps right outside the door. Eventually, the sound ends after a door shuts. I stare into the darkness, feeling like it’s easier to talk to him through it. I like that he’s not sleeping yet. I smile, remembering what it’s like when he lets his guard down.
“Do you remember the night at your captain’s house?”
I hear him swallow. For one full moment, I think he won’t answer. I think I overstepped.
Then, “Yeah.” It comes out rough. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I remember.”
I close my eyes. “I think about that night sometimes.”
