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“Ezra?”
He’s sitting in just boxers, with his head leaned back against the chair’s top and his knees spread wide. His face is red, his hair sweat-pasted to his forehead, and his body is all blotchy looking. Almost like sunburn. I can tell he’s sick from half a second looking at his face—the way his eyes look tired and he winces as he squints up at me.
"Ez?"
I realize he’s sort of panting.
“What’s wrong?”
His face tightens and he lifts a hand up like he’s going to brush his hair back. I notice his fingers shaking.
“Fuck.” I crouch down in front of him on legs that feel weak. “What’s the matter?”
“Too hot.” It’s a raspy, low groan.
I reach up to touch his forehead, and it’s…so hot.
“Fuck, my dude. What happened?”
He shuts his eyes, looking like he’s in pain. “Practice.”
“You got too hot. Did Nix make you leave?”
He breathes deeper, faster—and he doesn’t answer.
Shit. What’re the rules for heat exhaustion?
“Have you cooled down? You look like you haven’t showered.”
“I don’t feel good. Miller.” He holds his face—groaning. I notice his whole body is both flushed and damp.
“Is there anything else wrong?”
He shakes his head.
“Let’s go to the shower. C’mon, angel.” I put my hand on his shoulder, finding that his skin is just as hot as his forehead was. I’m expecting him to take my hand and let me help him up, but he doesn’t move.
“Ez?” I stroke his forearm, still raised as he holds his face. “Can you get up? I’m gonna walk you to the shower, turn it on cold.”
He groans again. Shit, he must have gotten really hot at practice. Fuck Coach Nix for letting him, too.
“C’mon, Ez. I’m going to hold both arms out for you, and we’re gonna get up. You’ve gotta make yourself, so you can get cooled down. I think you have to, or I might need to call your dad.”
He looks up at me with glazed, panicked-looking eyes, and holds his hands out. I grab his arms, and he stands slowly.
He casts me a pained look. Then he’s groaning as I lead him toward the bathroom. When we get in there, he breaks away from me and lunges toward the sink. In the split second that he’s in motion, I figure he’s going for water, but he leans over it and starts to get sick.
Shit—it’s Powerade, and then dry-heaving. He’s bent over the sink, shaking all over, his skin still bright, sunburned red. I touch his back, the muscles quivering. It’s fever-hot and sweaty.
I turn on the sink and help him splash some water on his face.
“I’m s-sorry.”
“C’mon. I don’t care. Stand here. I’ll start the shower real quick?”
He nods, holding onto the sink. He’s still panting pretty loud. Maybe I should call Carl.
The shower’s on, the water turned to cold. What if that throws him off, though—getting cold too fast? Is that a thing?
When I get over to him, he lifts his head, giving me a strained, sad-looking face.
“Do you think a cold shower will help?” I ask.
He holds onto my shoulder, not answering.
He’s sick. You make the decisions.
He can barely get his leg over the tub’s side. He seems almost dizzy. In the shower, he sits down, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms behind him, propping him up, and he tips his head back. Shit, he’s drinking the water.
I notice that his arms are shaking, so I get behind him, urge him to lie back against me. Then, to make it cooler, I pull the shower curtain open. He’s still in his boxers. His skin—even the soft skin of his upper thighs—is flushed pink.
“If you think I should, I’ll call your dad or 9-1-1.”
His eyes open. “No. No,” he groans again.
He’s heavy against me, breathing in quick pants. His eyes roll a little, trying to look back at me. “Can’t…do that…Mills.” His hand grasps my thigh. “Feeling better.”
“Ezra. You’re a liar.” I brush his hair back off his head. “Just relax. Take deep breaths. Let’s see if this helps you.”
He turns on his side and wraps his arms around my leg. His cheek is on my hip, my dick right under his head. I keep brushing his hair out of his face as the shower water presses it down. I look at him—really look. His skin’s still pink. He still feels warm against my cold skin; even with cool shower water rolling over him, his skin feels too hot.
“I feel better,” he rasps, turning his head to look at me. His face looks pale except splotches of pink up on his cheekbones.
“I’m worried you’re heat stroked or something. I don’t know how it works.”
“I’m not.”
“You still look sick.” I rub my hand over his forehead, and he gives me a crooked, tired smile.
“Nah.”
“Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll run down and get a Propel? That way you can hydrate while you’re cooling down.”
