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"I'm here, Hotshot. You're gonna be alright," I say roughly, emotion clogging my throat.
He tries to shift but winces, falling back. "Fuck, my side... what happened?"
I stroke his sweaty hair, soothing him. "Got slammed taking a hit meant for me. But you're gonna be okay."
London squeezes his eyes shut when the ambulance goes over a bump. "Hurts like a bitch." His exhale shudders. "But I'm glad you're here."
My heart clenches. After everything between us, he still wants me close.
I cradle his hand between mine. "I'm not going anywhere." I kiss his scraped knuckles, blinking back the stinging in my eyes.
A weak smile flickers across London's face. "Knew you caught feelings, Golden Boy."
Even banged up and loopy on meds, the smug bastard can't resist trying to get a rise out of me. Good to know some things never change.
I let out a watery laugh. "Like you're one to talk. We both know you've gone soft over me."
London tries to look indignant. “I feel like I should say something about my dick here,” he says and then groans as we come to a stop.
I grasp his hand tighter, hoping he understands how much he means to me. How much I want to fix things between us.
London's eyes flutter closed again as the pain meds drag him back under. Our hands stay locked together, and I can feel the rough callouses on his palms reminding me he’s still here.
I cling to him, pathetically grateful he's letting me stay close despite the rift I caused between us. We've got a long road ahead to clear the wreckage my secrets left behind. But here and now, at this moment, we're a team again. And maybe that's enough.
I press a fierce kiss to his battered knuckles, a silent promise I fully intend on keeping. "Stay with me, you stubborn bastard."
He doesn't respond, already out in a fitful sleep. But I feel the familiar pressure of his calloused palm against mine. And for now, that whisper of connection keeps me from freaking the fuck out or going back and killing that Pinehurst prick.
And if fate decides to cut me one last break, maybe we'll weather what comes next as a united front this time. Him and me with nothing between us.
18
LONDON
Wakingup feels like I went a round with a freight train and lost. My head is throbbing like it's got an axe buried in it. I crack open my eyes before immediately regretting that shitty decision. Even the faint light is enough to make my brain feel like it's leaking out my ears.
"Take it easy." Riot's gravelly voice cuts through the jackhammers going off in my skull. I feel his hand gently push me back against the pillows. The softness is a relief after whatever the hell happened that landed me here.
Flashes punch through the fog smothering my brain—the game, the hit, getting hauled off on a stretcher. And Riot staying by my side the whole damn time.
I pry my eyes open to slits again, bracing for the ache. Riot's face swims into focus, etched with tension beneath the scruff. "How bad's the damage?" I rasp out.
"Grade 2 concussion. Couple bruised ribs. But you'll live." Riot's smile looks strained. "How you feeling, Hotshot?"
Fuck, my whole side feels like it goes through a trash compactor when I try shifting. "Like I got slammed into next week and dragged back over glass."
Riot's hand finds mine, grounding me. His fingers weave between mine. The warmth of it is soothing. "The doctors said you need rest. No strenuous activity or screens." His voice has that worried edge to it again that tugs at this newly softened place in me that belongs to him.
"So, no practices or games for at least a week. Maybe longer depending on symptoms." Riot sighs heavily and scrubs a hand down his handsome but tired face. "I'm sorry this happened, London."
I crack one eye open again, confusion swimming through the throbbing ache. "The hell you apologizing for? You didn't clobber me, dumbass."
Riot looks torn up with guilt. "That hit was meant for me. You took the bullet." He avoids my eyes. "I should've protected you out there."
Oh. I get it now. Riot's blaming himself.
"It wasn't on you, Ri. I chose to block that douchelord." I squeeze his hand, suddenly needing that point of connection between us again. "You'd do the same for me out there. We have each other's backs."
