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“Daddy has to do some work things because he’s very important,” he explains. “But when you wake up, he’ll be there. How does that sound?”
“Okay, Uncle Mav.” She squeezes his cheeks, and she giggles. “Home.”
Maverick cuts his attention back to me. “Text me with updates?”
“I will. Thank you for taking her.”
“Dallas’s girls are my girls, too,” he says. “I take care of what’s mine.”
“You’re a good guy, Maverick Miller. One day, you’re going to make someone very happy, and ten million hearts will all break because you’re officially off the market,” I say, and I turn toward the garage. “I’ll let you know when I hear more.”
He and June wave goodbye, and when I slide into Dallas’s Mercedes, I know I’m no longer being strong just for myself.
THIRTY-NINE
DALLAS
My entire body aches.
I crack open an eye and bright light floods my vision.
I hear a beeping noise, but it’s way too fucking quiet for a football game.
There’s a throbbing pain in my head, and it hurts to take a deep breath.
“The fuck?” I mumble, and I look around.
White walls.
Medical equipment.
A shitty television hanging in the corner playing a shitty soap opera and a whiteboard on the wall.
Tile floor and the smell of cleaning solution.
Hospital.
I’m in a goddamn hospital.
Panic creeps up my throat. I hold my arms out in front of me and wiggle my fingers. I lift my legs and wiggle my toes.
All accounted for, and I sigh in relief.
I lift my jersey and check my torso for any bleeding. All I find is a red spot the size of a fist. I climb off the bed, and it feels like I’ve been hit by a truck. I’m halfway to the door before it opens and five different people walk in.
Doctors with white coats. Nurses in scrubs. Shawn brings up the rear, still in his Titans gear, and my heart sinks to the ground.
“Sit,” he barks out, and he points to the bed.
I know listening to him is how I’ll get out of here faster, so I plop down and fold my arms across my chest.
“I’m Doctor Anderson,” one of the men says. He’s young, like he might be close to my age, and I see a hint of a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his scrub top. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Well, doc. I have all my limbs. I’m breathing on my own, and I don’t see any stitches on my body. I’m going to guess I have a goddamn concussion, but I feel fine. Iamfine. Can we cut this bullshit out?”
“I’m going to do a SAC test and ask you some questions to determine the severity of your injury,” Dr. Anderson says. “Would that be alright with you, Dallas?”
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
