Page 72 of A Million To Fall

Right.

I take the waiver, place the other stack back in the document tray. It’s shocking how much noise one wall and a half-opened double door can contain because the second I step onto the gym floor, the decibel level goes through the roof.

“Oh, boy,” Lily says. “Sounds like we’ll need to continue our strategy call another time.”

I don’t know about strategy, but sure. “Yeah, I’ll let you go,” I say and wander over to Valentina, paper in hand.

I watch Boston as I walk. He’s standing by one of the soccer nets—the game temporarily paused—listening to a little boy passionately explain what, judging by the kid’s dramatic hand gestures, was clearly an indoor soccer foul of catastrophic proportions.

Lily’s right. It’s insane how good Boston looks doing nothing. Just him and his whistle in that fitted gray athletic tee and black gym shorts that still somehow show off muscular quads.

Except today, he seems off. Not in an obvious way, exactly. He’s still helping kids tie sneakers, still blowing that whistle around his neck every thirty seconds like he’s coaching an Olympic team, still crouching to talk to the youngest kids at eye level whenever they start crying about owies or stolen balls or whatever the instant crisis happens to be.

But still, I notice the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes today. The way his attention occasionally drifts for half a second too long before he snaps back into the moment.

The exhaustion etched into his face makes him look pale, and even his laugh sounds like it’s missing something. When I asked Cassie earlier if something had happened, the only info she could give me was that she and Bronx were placed with a new foster family over the weekend, but from what Cassie shared with me, they, too, are nice people.

I’ll have to ask Boston outright if everything’s okay. He might not tell me if something’s wrong, but he should know that I notice.

And that I care.

I finally reach Valentina and hand over the transportation waiver. “Found it.”

“Bless you,” she sighs dramatically, snatching the paper from my hand. “Jessica had this system in here that somehow made perfect sense to her and absolutely no one else.”

Somewhere behind me, Boston’s whistle shrills again, sharp and familiar now after weeks at Riverfront.

“Have you heard how she’s doing?” I ask. “That baby’s due, like, any second now, right?”

Valentina nods while scanning the paperwork. “Any day. She texted me this morning saying she’s already dilated two centimeters, which feels like information I did not need before lunch.”

I choke on a laugh, half-aware of the chaos of the soccer game behind me. Someone yells, “Pass it!”

Then there’s Boston’s voice, somehow able to cut through it all. But it’s sharp. Urgent.

“Skye—watch out!”

I barely have time to turn before something slams into the side of my head, pain explodes across my temple, and I go down.

Hard.

My sight disappears first. The sound goes next. Everything feels far away and weirdly weightless for a second, like I’m floating in space. It’s unnerving. But then sensation rushes back all at once. The hard floor underneath me, the ache slicing through my head.

And warmth. Cupping my jaw.

“Stormy?”

My eyelids flutter open.

At first, all I can really make out is fluorescent light overhead and blurry movement around me. Then Boston’s face sharpens into focus above mine, close enough that I can see the dark circles under his eyes. But what strikes me is the panic in his expression.

His hand is braced against my jaw, thumb spread along my cheekbone, stroking so softly my eyes threaten to close again. He’s on his knees—must be, with how close he is—his broad frame blocking out half the gym behind him.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice raw. “Stay down for me a second, okay?”

A cluster of kids hovers around us. Bronx’s head pops up behind Boston’s shoulder. “Is she dead?” he whispers.

“I’m not dead,” I croak.