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Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a fucking doctor.
"Please tell me that kid is in baseball," he grumbles as I kneel in front of him.
"He doesn't like sports," I say. He cracks an eye open and stares at me.
"With an arm like that, he'd hit the ball outta the fucking park every time." His accent is thicker, and I laugh softly.
"I've been telling him that for years."
Ian rushes back into the room, looking pale and terrified. His eyes are wide and his hands are trembling.
"It's okay, bud," I say gently. "Sit." I jerk my chin at the spot beside Ezra, but Ian just stares at him, shocked.
"Sit," Ezra says more firmly and Ian's feet automatically move. "I'm fine, kid. I blocked most of the hit." He leans into Ian, resting his shoulder against him. "Got a hell of an arm on you."
"Are you okay?" Ian asks, his voice higher than usual. "Oh my God. Are you going to die? Will I go to jail?" Ezra and I blink at him, then he glances at me before clearing his throat.
"No, bud. He’s not going to die," I say.
"I'll just have a headache for a bit, that's all," Ezra says with a small shrug. "I've had worse." We stare at him and I know Ian wants to know the same thing I do.
What?
What's been worse than a baseball bat to the head?
He must see it on our faces because he huffs out a laugh, wincing slightly. Dropping his arm, he rests it on his knee and squeezes his eyes shut. He leans back and grabs the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up.
His abs are on full display a few inches from my face and I suddenly realize I’m on my knees between his legs with my kid beside us. Not great. I scoot to the side and drop my eyes to the First-Aid kit to keep myself busy.
“See this?” I glance up, finding him running his finger along a long scar from the bottom of his sternum to his navel.
Ian nods, his eyes wide. I can’t miss the excitement burning in them, and it makes me fucking anxious. He hasn’t done anything stupid in his life…yet. But he’s a boy, and the day will come that he wants to do something to impress a girl or show off for his friends. I know he’ll end up with a few scars, but I don’t want Ezra encouraging it. Rasputin jumps onto the couch and snuggles into Ezra’s other side. He rests his hand on my dog like he’s done it a million times, like Raspy is his dog.
It shouldn’t make my heart feel as warm as it does.
“Got it when I was twenty-one. Some guy was running his mouth all night. He wasn’t bothering me until he groped the waitress. So I broke my beer bottle and stabbed him.”
Ian’s mouth falls open.
“Ez,” I hiss. “You can’t tell my kid shit like that.” I slide my eyes to Ian, but he's still staring at him in wonder, in excitement. There’s no trace of fear. He’s looking at Ezra like he holds all the secrets to the universe.
“Why?” he asks. “He’s not a kid.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “He’s not. He’s a man.” We glare at each other. Ian shifts beside us, drawing our attention.
“What happened next?” he asks.
“Oh, his buddy stabbed me back,” Ezra says casually. “Taz took me to the hospital, but I was fine.”
“They clearly didn’t do a mental evaluation,” I say dryly, and he laughs. “Maybe you should go tonight.” I inspect his head, cringing at the giant lump forming.
“I’m fine, love,” he says, waving me off. “This one–” He shows Ian another scar, “I got when I was surfing. Fell off my board and some coral scratched the shit out of me.”
Ian looks enthralled, hanging on every one of Ezra’s words.
“You know how to surf?” he asks, then glances at me, his face falling. “She won’t teach me.”
