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More like, Ineededto make sure he was okay. Watching him fall during that game. The utter silence as the players were pulled back, and Prescott’s limp body was sprawled on the grass. Those few heartbeats where I was waiting for him to get back to his feet and brush it off. The look of pain when they turned him around before he was swept away.
“What about my warm welcome, Smalls?”
I turn to my brother. “I’m still angry you didn’t call me right away.”
“I don’t exactly wear my phone in my junk cup during the game. I called you as soon as I got to the phone.”
I know he’s right, but it didn’t help with my anxiety. Watching Prescott be tackled to the ground, waiting for him to get up, while I’m miles away and unable to do anything, wrecked me. And not hearing any news for hours didn’t help either.
I turn to Prescott and take him in, my gaze falling on the brace holding his leg in place. “Your leg, is it…?”
My words trail off, not even sure how to form the question. What if he’s not okay? What if his leg is damaged beyond repair? What if he won’t be able to keep his promise to Gabriel and win that title? And most damning of all, what if all of this is my fault?
“It’s fine. The doc put my knee back in place after the game.”
“Then why are you wearing a brace?”
“Just a precaution.” Prescott cups my face, rubbing over my cheekbones before pulling my hood on. “You’re all cold. We need to get you inside.”
“Fine.”
Nixon grabs their duffle bags, and together we make our way to Nixon’s car. Technically I still wasn’t cleared to drive, but there wasn’t anybody else who could come and pick them up.
A loud whistle ripples through the air. “Yo, assholes.”
We turn around to see one of their teammates standing with his hands on his narrow hips. Sammi? No, it was something else, Scott, maybe? “Party at my place. Don’t make me drag your asses.”
Nixon lets out a loud groan.
“I mean it, Cole. You come, or I’m coming for you.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Prescott stumble. I grab his hand, trying to steady him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He pulls his hand out of my reach, anger flashing on his face. I suck in a breath, not used to seeing it directed at me, but he lets out a shaky breath and schools his features, extending his hand toward me. “Sorry, I just tripped over something.”
I slide my hand in his, moving closer to his side. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“The same goes for you, Wentworth!” the Scott-guy says, making our heads snap in his direction.
“Yeah, yeah.” Prescott rolls his eyes.
I look skeptically at the brace on his leg. “Are you sure you’re up for a party?”
“Yeah, I’ll manage.” I open the passenger side door, and Prescott slides into the car, looking up at me. “The better question is, how areyoufeeling? Are you ready for tomorrow?”
I shrug. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
After my failed first attempt at chemo, my stomach was all in knots about tomorrow. A part of me was anxious to get this over with, but the other part? It was terrified of all the things that it entailed.
Prescott grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I’ll be there.”
My heart does a little flip at the gentle touch.
He’s fine.
Prescott is back home, and he’s fine.
