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“The surgery went well,” the doctor says, and I feel a rush of breath go out of me, relief crashing over me so hard and fast that I feel dizzy. “He’s resting now, but if you want to go in and wait until he wakes up, you can.Justyou,” he adds to Dean, as Jaxon and I immediately stand up.
“They’ll be coming with me,” Dean says smoothly.
“I can’t allow—”
“Would you like me to tell Philip St. Vincent about this when he gets here?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “This is Cayde’s other best friend, and his girlfriend. Or maybe I’ll give my father a call, and talk to him about his yearly donation—”
“No, that’s fine,” the doctor says hurriedly. “You can go back. Just don’t stay too long. Your friend needs rest.”
He’s okay. I know that it’s probably not as simple as that, but it’s all I can think as we make our way to Cayde’s room.He’s alive, and he’s going to be okay.
Like the doctor had said, Cayde is asleep when we walk into the room. We find seats quietly, waiting for him to wake up. I watch him as we sit there, irrationally afraid that the perfectly normal vital signs on the machines will suddenly change.
It’s the most innocent and peaceful I’ve ever seen Cayde. He looks almost boyish laying there, his blonde hair brushed back, his light lashes lying on his cheeks. It reminds me of the few times I’ve slept next to him, and I feel an ache in my chest at the thought. I hate seeing him here, in a hospital bed, instead of his bed back at the manor house.
It’s at least an hour before Cayde starts to wake. We’re careful not to all pounce on him at first, giving him time to adjust and realize we’re there before we start to talk.
“Hey,” he manages to croak finally, pushing himself up a little in the bed. It’s clear he’s on some pretty heavy pain medication, and as he moves and the blanket shifts I catch a glimpse of the bandages around his knee.
“Hey yourself,” I manage. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve felt better, for sure.” Cayde frowns. “Have you talked to the doctor?”
Dean nods. “Have they talked to you, yet?”
Cayde licks his dry lips. “Can someone get me some water?”
I nod, pushing myself out of the chair and going to get one of the small paper cups. Dean is still hovering, waiting for Cayde to answer his question.
“Yeah,” Cayde says finally, once he’s had a chance to drink a little of the water. “They talked to me when I came out of the recovery room, before they gave me more pain meds and knocked me out again.” His mouth twists, and I can see his eyes darken, that familiar anger returning to his face. “They told me I’m fucked for the rest of the season. Extensive meniscal tear, I believe was the diagnosis. When I suggested that maybe I’d heal faster than they thought, the doctor warned me that there’s a serious chance I might not ever play again.”
The room goes very quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” Dean says finally. “That’s what they told me, too.”
“It’s fucking ridiculous,” Cayde growls. “I might be completely fucked, and for what? Not even a player from the other team pulling some shit.”
“It was one of your teammates,” Dean says quietly. “Do you think it was on purpose?”
Cayde laughs, a dark, bitter sound. “Yeah, it was fucking on purpose. I don’t have a single doubt.”
“Did you see who it was?” I interject. “Or have some idea?”
Cayde looks at me then, and the anger in his face is hard to look back at, like staring directly into the sun. “Yeah,” he says finally, and then looks back at Dean. “It was Grayson Romero. Winter’s younger brother.”
20
DEAN
I’m not the angry one in the household. My self-control might be a mechanism to keep from letting loose the chaos that I sometimes want to unleash, but it’s carefully honed. I’m calm, cool, collected—almost all of the time.
Lately, though, it’s been harder to keep a grip on that. Harder to keep from letting it slip.
And when Cayde says the name of the player who’s benched him for the rest of the season—maybe made it so he’ll never play again—I see red.
I’m starting to get a taste of what Cayde feels like all the time.
Grayson Romero.
Winter’s little brother.
