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“You were really hurt.” A muscle in his cheek fluttered.
My first reaction was to shrug. I instantly regretted it as my body protested. Atlas’s eyes flared.
“How long before I can fight again?”
Atlas bristled, his chest expanding with a pent-up breath. He placed his hands on my bed, leaning in close. “You don’t get it. You suffered a lot of head trauma. That guy beat you unconscious and you had swelling in your brain. Your knee is torn up too.”
Shock hit me at Atlas’s desperate, concerned look. I wasn’t a stranger to that look, but this was different. This had been bad.
“You almost died, Ty.” His stare widened and glassed over.
A weight settled on my chest, making it hard to breathe, but I couldn’t let him see my fear. I tried to find my old, boyish smirk. The one I’d worn daily when I’d been nothing but his punk-ass little brother.
“But I didn’t,” I said, trying to find some semblance of the guy I used to be. The guy who didn’t care about anything except partying and having a good time. “Dying is for the weak anyway, Atty.” My lips tipped up in a weak attempt at a grin.
Atlas’s hands fisted into the thin blanket covering me. “I’m serious, Tyson.” I jerked back at my full name coming from his mouth. He never used it. “This has been enough. It’s time for you to come home.”
I looked away. I couldn’t do that. Not after all this time. Not after everything I had done.
“I’m not coming home.” My voice was a whisper, a ghost of who I’d been.
I don’t know if he sensed my panic, but when I met Atlas’s eyes again, they were softer. Sympathetic. I hated it.
“The doctor talked to me about your injuries…” He shifted on his feet. Something sharp twisted in my gut. “I’m sorry, but…you might never be able to fight again.”
