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Shit, this was awful.
“What’s wrong, Miss Haven?” Cason, who’d returned to the preschool today—the very next day after he’d been pulled out—tugged on my arm to ask in concern.
Flushing bright, I swallowed before thinking fast, “I… Oh no. I think Mr. Crocodile just got me.” Then I grabbed my throat and feigned the death choke.
The kids laughed, and I had to join in, realizing there was nothing I could do about Izzy seeing just how horny her brother made me but hope she kept it discreet.
When the preschool let out, I helped put the classroom back in order before I trudged home. I hadn’t seen or heard anything from Topher or any of his friends today. And I hadn’t learned of any nasty new rumors about myself they had started.
I wasn’t sure if that was good or just suspicious, like the calm before the storm. If it weren’t for the worry of what he might do next, I could almost pretend that part of last night had never happened, except for the fact that my jaw was a little stiff and sore from where he’d slapped me.
I’d been able to hide the bruise under concealer this morning, even though before that, Wick had been able to see it clearly, and he’d hissed, looking tormented and regretful, as he drifted his fingers over the darkened flesh.
“I bet it hurts less than the gash under your eye,” I’d told him.
He shook his head. “I don’t know how I’m going to face him or any of those assholes at practice today. He crossed the line with this. I just want to hurt him, again, and again, and again.”
I winced. “Only three more games left this season, max, right?” I asked. When he nodded, I kissed his lips. “You can do it. I know you can. Just keep being Martin Luther King, Jr. and focus on the love, and light, and hope.”
Except now, while I knew he was actually at practice with all the guys he’d fought last night, I gnawed on my lip and paced the front room, waiting for him to get home. I could only imagine what Topher had said to him or called him or convinced his fellow players to think of him. I hated that he had to face all that without me.
“He’s got friends,” I told myself logically. “Good friends. He’s not alone. People have his back.”
When the front door flew open, I whirled that way, almost expecting to see him bloodier and more bashed up than he’d been last night.
Except Wick wasn’t even the person who appeared in the doorway.
The backup safety, José Rivera, stepped inside, lugging Wick’s duffle bag over his shoulder.
“Hey, mamacita,” he murmured on a soft, respectful nod, looking regretful as he stepped aside to let J.J. and Bear enter next, dragging a limp Wick in between them, his arms looped over their shoulders and head hanging down until his chin bumped his chest as if he were unconscious.
“Oh my God!” I shot forward, hurrying to him. “What happened?” When he started to sway forward, I planted my hands on his chest to catch and steady him. “Wick?”
He managed to loosely roll his face up and then grin goofily at me before slurring, “Hey, hey, it’s my HayHay.”
I blinked and then gaped at J.J. “Is he drunk?”
But even as I leaned in to smell Wick’s breath, I could tell he didn’t emit even the hint of alcohol. He hummed out a pleased sound, however, and nuzzled his face into mine as if he were plastered.
“No,” J.J. growled, hedging past me to lead Wick to the couch, where he and Bear let him fall onto the cushions gently. “He has a fucking concussion.”
My mouth fell open. “A concussion?”
“Yeah.” Jaw going hard, J.J. iced me with a killer glare. “Thanks to you and your dumb cum-filled condom plan, Nicholl had all his Os out for Webster’s blood at practice today. Some bastard hit him so hard it slammed his helmet right off his fucking head and knocked him out cold. He’s been confused and loopy, stumbling around like this since he woke up.”
“Oh my God.” Bringing my hands to my mouth, I asked, “Didn’t the team doctor look at him?”
“Nah. Coach said he was fine and sent him on his way.” When my eyes widened with more shock, J.J. sniffed and rolled his eyes. “Yes! Everyone looked him over. Said he had a concussion—like I just told you—and he needed to take it easy. So that’s why we’re here, helping him home, so he can take it fucking easy.”
Next to us, Wick leaned over the side of the couch and began to vomit.
“Holy shit.” We all pulled back to avoid splatter, then surged forward to catch him before he tipped to the floor. Bear reached him first and hefted him into his mighty arms before glancing at me and saying, “Bathroom?”
“This way.” I rushed to lead them to my bathroom since it was closest. But by the time they set Wick upright in front of the toilet, he already seemed to be done puking.
I rounded on J.J., incredulously. “Take it easy?” I shrieked. “That’s all they said? About this? This seems a bit extreme for a mere concussion.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have dragged him into that shit you did last night and he wouldn’t be going through it at all.”
