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My heart constricted tightly in my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“I can go and get Gibsie?” I offered weakly.
Johnny shook his head. “I only want you.”
I knew I should leave. I should walk out of this room and take my seat on the bus.
It would be the right thing to do. The sensible thing.
But I wouldn’t.
Because I couldn’t leave him.
Clumsily, I moved toward him, not stopping until I was sitting down beside him.
My brain was untrusting and wary, but my heart wasn’t, and my body was more than happy to overcompensate for both. I was physically attracted to him, emotionally connected, and mentally terrified. It made for an awful battlefield of anguish inside of me. Concern for this boy was rampant inside of me.
I didn’t understand it, and in this moment, I didn’t care.
The relief I felt when I stepped through that door and saw him alive and breathing was still overwhelming me. I knew he was terrified over his prospects of playing rugby, but all I could think about was that he was in one piece. It was that overwhelming relief and concern flushing through my veins that provoked my next move.
“It’s okay,” I promised, taking his big hand in mine. “You’re going to be okay.”
Johnny stiffened, but didn’t pull his hand from mine.
I didn’t let go, either. I just pulled his hand onto my lap and held on tightly.
“I’m in pain, Shannon,” he confessed, dropping his head. “I’m so fucking scared.”
“I know you are,” I whispered, shifting closer, fingers twitching with the urge I had inside of me to check the damage he was hiding beneath that towel. “Have they given you anything for the pain?”
Johnny exhaled a ragged breath. “Yeah, the doc gave me a shot of something—a muscle relaxant, I think.”
“Is it helping?”
He shook his head.
“I bet you wish you hadn’t wasted those ibuprofen on me now, huh?” I joked, trying to distract him from the obvious discomfort he was in. “They would’ve come in handy right about now.”
“A tranquilizer would be helpful,” he shot back glumly, his big shoulders sagging.
“Let me see you,” I instructed softly.
Keeping my right hand wrapped around his, I used my left to reach over and turn his chin.
“Those fuckers,” I grumbled, eyeing the purple bruising on the side of his cheek and the cut above his brow that was once again clotting. “Your poor face.”
Johnny chuckled then.
“What’s funny?” I asked, thrilled to hear that sound come out of him.
“It’s weird to hear you say ‘fucker,’” he explained with a weary smile.
“I’m quite partial to cursing, you know,” I told him, desperately trying to distract him from his pain.
“No, you’re not,” he replied gruffly, too clever for his own good. “You’re just saying that to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
