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Johnny showed me several more of his battle wounds, chuckling every time I groaned or gagged.
The conversation seemed to be distracting him from his pain and I was glad. His shoulders weren’t nearly so tense anymore, and the more we talked, the more the stiffness in his frame evaporated.
“Oh, and I fractured my cheekbone when I was fourteen.” Johnny leaned his face close to mine. “See there?” He pointed to a frail silvery line across the high point of his left cheek. “You can hardly see it now, but that hurt like a bitch.”
“Oh, yeah,” I mused, inspecting the thin scar. “I never noticed that before now.” I flicked my eyes to his eyebrow. Unable to stop myself, I reached up and trailed my thumb over his brow again. “Why does this always bleed?”
“Hasn’t had a chance to heal up,” he explained, keeping perfectly still while I touched him inappropriately. “It’ll close up properly once the season’s over.”
“Oh,” I whispered, searching his face for more hidden battle wounds.
When my eyes reached his again, I found him watching me, his dark-blue eyes heated and locked on mine.
“The player from Royce hurt you there?” I inclined my head to where the towel was draped over his thigh. “That’s why you passed out?”
Johnny reluctantly nodded.
“Can I see it?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He tensed.
“Please?”
He shook his head slowly. “Shannon, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please?” I repeated, eyeing him nervously. “I already know it’s there and you’ve shown me the others.”
“It’s bad, Shannon,” he replied gruffly. “Believe me, you do not want to see it.”
“You can trust me,” I whispered. “I won’t tell.”
Johnny stared at me for the longest moment, eyes locked on mine, before exhaling heavily. Shoulders slumped, he dropped his hands to his sides, but made no move to show me.
“Can I?” I asked.
He closed his eyes and nodded stiffly.
He was giving me the reins, I realized, to do what I wished.
Shakily, I lifted the towel away and stared down at what looked like a recently sewn scar on his inner right thigh. His thigh was swollen, purple in color, and the angry-looking, weeping scar was partially concealed by the fabric of his boxers.
“Oh god, Johnny,” I strangled out, sliding off the bench and onto the floor to get a better look at it.
“Don’t hurt me,” he warned in an achingly vulnerable tone.
“I won’t,” I promised as I knelt between his legs and waited for him to give me the go-ahead.
Nodding stiffly, Johnny leaned his head back and closed his eyes, jaw clenched tightly.
Gently, I reached for the hem of the leg of his boxer shorts and carefully lifted the fabric away from his flesh, only to gasp at the sight. His thigh was hairy with the exception of a six-inch patch of skin. And that particular six-inch patch of skin was swollen, angry-looking, and a horrendous brownish-yellow in color.
“It’s oozing,” I whispered, smoothing my fingers over the bumpy, uneven trail where they’d stitched him back up. The fragile, barely healed stitches had clearly been ripped apart by the boot of the Royce player who had connected with his groin. The pus leaking from the wound was a reddish-yellow color. “Johnny, this is bad.”
“I know,” he bit out, eyes still clenched shut. “Doc told me.”
Gently, I traced the scar and surrounding bruising with my fingers. “Does it hurt when I touch you like this?”
“It hurts,” he replied, tone hoarse.
