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Resigning myself to feeling helpless, I awkwardly climb up the metal bleachers to perch on the end of a bench. “One, it’s none of your business. And two, I’m not so much of an asshole as to want to see a guy’s career ruined just because we argued on Twitter a few times.”
“That makes you better than most of the internet.”
I can’t even crack a smile. “Not the time, Alek. Sorry about your foot.” Hanging up, I stuff my phone in my pocket and lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to spot Darius among the guys around the pool.
I don’t know his body well enough yet, so I can’t identify him until he’s lined up next to Ross and the others for the relay. Even though I know he’s a great swimmer, he looks lost and inexperienced standing next to the vets. Now that fragility makes me ragingly protective in addition to turning me on. It’s just 100m. Plenty of athletes have done worse things to an injury and gotten away with it.
Ross is our fastest starter, so he takes off when the beep sounds and finishes his leg in the front of the pack. I used to swim second, reliably holding our position even if I couldn’t gain ground. This time I don’t pay attention to the second or third legs because I’m watching Darius grimace in pain when he stretches, then climb onto the starting block. The race has stayed tight, and all the responsibility for a win rests on his lean, worn-out back.
There’s something in his dive that cracks my chest open, the slightest hint in the angle of his elbows that he listened to me after all, that he tried to do better. When he breaks the water, I can tell it’s already over. He swims with everything he has, but his shoulder must have given up as soon as it tasted the intensity of a competition. He pretty much crawls to the far end of the pool, passed by every other team, then makes most of the return journey alone after everyone else hits the wall. I can hear some people mumbling in confusion, but I’m already on my feet, awkwardly wedging my way between spectators and struggling not to trip.
Darius grabs the wall and tries to climb out, but his shoulder collapses and he drops back into the water like a stone, pressing his forehead against the wall. Ross and a lifeguard kneel next to the pool and grab his armpits, lifting him onto the deck. He pulls away from them and bends over to gasp for breath. When the medic overseeing the event comes over to ask him questions and puts a hand on his back, he shakes her off and walks toward the locker rooms.
Our coach makes it to Darius around the same time as me. The intense brunette blinks at me in confusion. “Where did you come from, Tate?”
I offer an awkward half shrug, half wave. “The bleachers.” As if that answers her question.
Frowning at me, she leads Darius toward a bench in the back hallway, away from scrutiny. “Talk to me, boss. What’s hurting?”
“Uh…” He’s shivering, dripping wet, as he flinches. “I’m not sure.”
“He should probably go get a scan at the ER,” the medic volunteers. “Can someone take him?”
Coach hesitates. “I need to stay… Dare, do you have any family or friends here today?”
There’s something so helpless in the look he gives her, before he quickly tries to cover it with a shrug that makes him suck in a shaky breath and close his eyes against the pain.
“I’ve got him,” I speak up. He didn’t even realize I was here, and his eyes widen when he sees me, torn between guilt and hope.
“Thanks, Tate.” Coach squeezes my elbow. “Call me with an update, Darius. We’ll be sending you good thoughts.” Her upbeat voice hides what she’s not saying–his body might never be the same, turning him into one of those swimmers trapped in a permanent cycle of injuries that never quite heal.
She hurries away, leaving us in silence. Darius doesn’t look up from the green tile floor, his muscles rigid and his head hanging. “Let’s go.” I hold out a hand to help him up, but he ducks past it and pushes through the changing rooms. As I catch up, he’s trying to pull on a navy blue UC Berkeley hoodie. When it hurts too much, he just stands there staring at it crumpled in his hands.
“Let me.” He startles when I pull it away, like he forgot I was there. “Arm up.” His body’s still dripping water, but I pull it over his head anyway, guiding his right arm through the sleeve. The other one stays underneath, hugged to his body. I rest my forehead in his damp hair for a moment, gripping the soft hoodie in both hands, consumed with the urge to wrap him up in my arms. He keeps his eyes down, refusing to move or look at me.
When I let go, he turns quickly and grabs his bag without a word. As I follow him down a back hall and into the humid, quiet parking lot, I search on my phone for the nearest emergency room.
I’ve considered and rejected about fifty conversation starters by the time we climb into the car, but I needn’t have bothered. Darius cranks a modern hits radio station well past a comfortable volume, then props his head back and closes his eyes. Every once in a while, water drips from his hair down onto his nose or along his cheekbone, but he doesn’t wipe it away. In that moment, as I put the car into gear, I want absolutely everything. To help and hurt, to own and hold, or maybe to never see him again because he’s doing dangerous things to me. But I don’t think it matters what I want.
The hospital is only a few minutes away. When he feels me turn into the lot, Darius opens his eyes, blinking a little in the bright sun. His voice sounds flat and defeated. “Just drop me off at the door and I’ll check myself in. They’ll probably do a scan, then I can find a ride home.”
“I’m not going to just take off and abandon you,” I growl more irritably than I intended as I pull into the drop-off space. “Jesus, Darius.”
He presses his lips together and widens his eyes at me impatiently. “Don’t throw a fit, dude. I’m a big boy; I can handle it.”
“I’ll go pick up the bags at the hotel, then come back.”
Grunting with effort, he slides to the ground and slams the door behind him. I watch him wander inside alone, a sour taste flooding my mouth.
It takes me an hour to sort everything out at the hotel, pack the rest of our things, call Alek to help me calm down, and return to the hospital. I don’t see Darius anywhere when I enter the hushed waiting room, weaving between miserable-looking people to reach the front desk. “Did Darius Matthews check in?” I ask the young male receptionist, suddenly scared that the answer might be no. The man taps on his computer, then eyes me. “Are you a close relative?”
I could have said a lot of things, ranging from the truth to a safe lie like cousin or coach, but instead I blurt “his boyfriend,” then try not to look too much like I’m kicking myself. To my surprise, it works. As I follow his directions through a set of double doors to the holding area, I can’t seem to purge that word from my brain. I trail awkwardly down a row of curtained-off rooms, trying to ignore the alarming noises coming from behind them, until I find the number the receptionist gave me.
I’m flustered enough that I raise a hand to knock on the curtain, because that’s how cool I am. Then I freeze up, staring at the wrinkled baby blue cloth. It’s happening again. I’m getting attached to someone who doesn’t need me. And if he says he doesn’t want me here–not just giving me attitude but really meaning it–it will hurt in a way that I’m not sure I have enough strength to process. I should just wait in the lobby.
The curtain twitches aside, and Darius looks me up and down, taking in my raised fist with the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I could see your shoes in the gap at the bottom,” he explains, deadpan voice gravelly and exhausted. But his eyes are still bright and stunning, edged with distress.
“Oh.”
