Page 327 of Faking the Goal

Not properly.

Not about what happened.

Not about Charlie.

Not about us.

But I don't need him to say a single word to know what's been happening inside his head these past three days.

I can see it.

In the dark circles beneath his eyes.

In the exhaustion carved into every line of his face.

In the way his hand keeps finding mine as though he's reassuring himself I'm still here.

Knowing my grumpy goalie, he's probably blamed himself a thousand different ways already. He's probably replayed every possible version of that night, convincing himself that if he'd only left five minutes earlier... if he'd skipped stopping by his apartment... if he'd somehow ignored his mom's call... none of this would've happened.

The thought hurts more than the fractures spreading across my ribs.

I'd take Charlie's bat a hundred more times before I'd willingly watch Kentaro carry guilt that never belonged to him.

Eventually, the last nurse wishes me goodnight, dims the lights, and quietly closes the door behind her.

The room falls silent.

Not an awkward silence.

Just... a heavy one.

The kind that settles over everything after you've both survived something neither of you quite knows how to talk about yet.

Kentaro clears his throat first.

"So..." His voice comes out softer than usual. "How are you feeling?"

I lift one brow.

"You want the honest answer or the doctor-approved answer?"

That earns me the tiniest huff of laughter.

"The honest one."

"I feel like I got hit by a truck."

His mouth twitches.

"I'm pretty sure a truck would've been less thorough."

A quiet laugh escapes both of us before it fades just as quickly as it came.

He reaches over, carefully pulling the blanket a little higher around my shoulders as though I'm made of glass.

"You've been through a lot today," he murmurs. "All those tests... you must be exhausted."

"I think I've officially run out of body parts for people to poke."