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“It’s water,” I reassure him. He reaches for the bottle and takes two long gulps before placing it on the table.
“Your eyebrow is bleeding.” My voice is barely a whisper. Slowly, I reach out to stop the trickle of red liquid slowly making its way down the side of his face. He quickly grabs my arm, stopping me from making contact.
“Don’t . . .” he starts to say, before pausing so he can gulp down a steadying breath. “Sorry, I mean, it’s a little sore.”
“It looks it.” I pause a beat before continuing. “Stay there, I think Jude has a first aid kit somewhere.” I move toward the cupboards under the sink and look for the green box I’m certain I’ve seen before. One thing about living with hockey players, there’s always a small stash of medical supplies to clean up the odd cut or fat lip which has been picked up on the ice. I find the box and pick it up, together with a bowl of water and some paper towels and move back to the table.
“You don’t have to patch me up, Thea. I can take care of it myself,” Kyler quietly tells me. His voice is laced with distress and a forced swallow works down his throat from the obvious pain he’s in.
“I’m sure you can, Ky, but please, let me do this? If only so I can put the first-aid training I learned in high school to good use,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. There’s a hint of a small smile on Kyler’s lips and I take it as a victory. After a moment’s hesitation he nods once.
“Okay, Nurse Thea, do your thing.”
I stand in front of him and take a cotton ball from the kit. After dipping it in the bowl of water I gently dab it on his eyebrow and clean up the blood now starting to coagulate. Kyler closes his eyes, to allow me better access and the hard set of his jaw indicates he’s biting back the sting of the water washing the wound. I repeat this a few times until I’m certain it is completely clean. There is a defined cut which I’m sure will leave a beautiful scar across his brow once healed, adding to the bad boy persona he seems to like so much.
“Looks like there might be a scar,” I murmur as I dab a small amount of Neosporin on the cut to keep it moist and prevent any infection.
“I hear girls like those,” he replies in a whisper.
I ignore his comment and move to the cut on his lip, cleaning it up in the same way I did his eyebrow. Kyler places one hand on my hip, his fingers digging into me. He pulls me closer, so I’m standing between his legs. I pause my ministrations and move my focus upward. His eyes—a light meadow-green with golden brown flecks—are following my every move, slowly drifting up from the cotton ball in my hand, up my arm, across my neck to my face. They trace every inch of me, and it’s like little pinpricks on my skin. His intense stare blazes over me with an unexpected ferociousness—it’s as if my body has suddenly come alive with each searing glance he graces me with. It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before—insanely intimate, yet strangely exposing—and I find myself on high alert and begging for more attention. The moment is charged with static energy, and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, ready to shock the next person to make contact with me. Kyler reaches up and gently tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear before slowly moving his hand away, lightly tracing my neck as he does. My skin ignites at his touch, leaving a frenzy of sensations in its wake. I quickly think back to my mom’s analogy—he is the Sahara and I’m the Arctic and one of us will outlive the other.
“Thea,” Kyler whispers reverently, closing his eyes once more, as if he’s committing the moment to memory. He inhales deeply and when he opens his eyes again, I can see they’ve dimmed slightly as the pain of his injuries takes over. He hisses out a breath as he clutches his side and I step back a little.
“Can you lift up your shirt?” I ask him and he does so without question. There are red marks on his ribs, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that whatever happened, it’s caused some kind of injury. At best it’s some bruising; at worst a cracked rib. I gingerly press the skin and he hisses again, this time more sharply.
“That fucking hurts,” he says, biting his lip to prevent himself crying out in pain.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Your ribs look badly bruised. I can clean them up and put some ointment on to help with the bruising, but you should really have them checked out.”
Kyler is shaking his head before I finish my sentence. “No, no hospitals. I’ll be fine.”
“Ky, you may have cracked a rib?—”
“No, Thea,” he interrupts vehemently. “Besides, what happened to you being a trained first aider? I’m sure you can fix me up just fine.”
I sigh and nod, before reaching into the first aid kit for some camphor. My mom always used this on any bruises myself and Jude used to get through various scrapes and falls when we were younger and swears it helps reduce the bruising better than anything else. I apply a little to Kyler’s injured ribs, rubbing each one gently until they are covered with the ointment. He watches my every move, sucking in a labored breath when I hit a particularly sore spot. This time, the goosebumps appear on Kyler as my fingers graze his skin and when he can’t take the pain any longer, he slowly takes a hold of my hand and lifts it up, causing me to look up at him. This time his eyes are no longer the meadow-green of earlier, they are wide, molten pools of black lava.
“What happened tonight, Ky?” I ask once more, hoping after trusting me enough to tend to his injuries, he’ll trust me enough with an explanation.
“Thea, please, it’s nothing for you to worry about. I don’t want to lie to you, so please don’t ask any questions.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” I ask, almost pleading with him to give me some kind of breakthrough.
“I do. More than I should,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean ‘more than I should’?”
He doesn’t answer, instead shaking his head once before slowly standing up, leaning on the table for support. I move to help him, but he steps back so he’s out of my reach, and I instantly know whatever connection we tentatively had is now lost.
“What do you want from me, Thea?” he asks, pain lacing his voice.
“I want us to be friends,” I quickly tell him.
“I can’t be friends with you,” he replies and once again, I’m left with confusion I can’t comprehend. Why not? Why does he insist on keeping his distance?
The sound of movement on the stairs causes me to step back, putting more distance between me and the tortured man standing in front of me, sadness mixing with the pain in his eyes. Whatever just happened between us, whatever connection we just shared, is dissipating before my eyes and I know Kyler will do everything he can to ensure it never returns, building those walls up again. Jude walks into the kitchen and stops suddenly when he realizes he’s not the only one awake. He looks from me to Kyler and upon seeing the state of Ky, moves quickly toward him.
“Shit, man, what the hell happened?” he asks him.
