25. Chapter 25
twenty-five
Skye
“Actually, I think his name was Dillan. Or maybe Derek.”
I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear while flipping through a stack of intake packets in search of a transportation waiver Valentina asked me for ten minutes ago.
“How do you not know his name?” I laugh, skimming the various forms held together by a pink paperclip.
“Because unfortunately for him, Boston Rawlings exists, and my brain apparently refuses to take up storage space for names of guys who are… not Boston Rawlings.”
I snort.
Somewhere to my left, chaos erupts—or erupts more—followed by a sharp blast of Boston’s whistle. Miraculously, the volume lowers by maybe three percent.
Progress.
“No, seriously,” Lily laments. “The guy was objectively hot. Tall. Tattoos—dumb ones, but still. Smelled really nice, which, you know, bonus. We even had a good convo going on. Everything was going great at dinner…”
“Until?”
“Until Boss walked by with a tray of mozzarella sticks.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’m telling you, the second I saw Boston, it was over for Mr. Smells-Nice. Like immediately over. Well, almost immediately. We did hook up after dinner.”
I laugh harder now, finally locating the missing paper.
“You’re telling me you knew at dinner that your date was a lost cause and you still hooked up with the guy? That’s actually insane.”
“No, what’s insane is that Boston somehow made carrying fried cheese look sexy.”
I believe that. I lean away from the counter and peek through the propped-open door into the belly of the gym, immediately spotting Boston. Not that he’s hard to find in the sea of people who are like half his height, but still. It’s almost alarming how instantly my eyes navigate to him.
“That sounds like a you problem,” I mutter.
“It is a me problem,” Lily groans. “I seriously can’t stop thinking about him. Guess I gotta just bite the bullet, pull on my big-girl panties, and finally ask him out.”
Something in my chest tightens strangely.
Annoyingly.
“Okay, well, did you at least let Darren know that he smells nice but not nice enough?”
Lily giggles. “See? Even you don’t know his name.”
“That’s because you’ve changed it four times.”
“I texted him this morning,” she says. “Told him I had a really good time, but I wanted to keep my options open.”
I nearly choke. “Lily!”
“What? I’m being honest. Plus, when I finally work up the courage to ask Boss out, I need to be emotionally available.”
Emotionally available.
Right.
I take the waiver, place the other stack back in the document tray. It’s shocking how much noise one wall and a half-opened double door can contain because the second I step onto the gym floor, the decibel level goes through the roof.
“Oh, boy,” Lily says. “Sounds like we’ll need to continue our strategy call another time.”
I don’t know about strategy, but sure. “Yeah, I’ll let you go,” I say and wander over to Valentina, paper in hand.
I watch Boston as I walk. He’s standing by one of the soccer nets—the game temporarily paused—listening to a little boy passionately explain what, judging by the kid’s dramatic hand gestures, was clearly an indoor soccer foul of catastrophic proportions.
Lily’s right. It’s insane how good Boston looks doing nothing. Just him and his whistle in that fitted gray athletic tee and black gym shorts that still somehow show off muscular quads.
Except today, he seems off. Not in an obvious way, exactly.
He’s still helping kids tie sneakers, still blowing that whistle around his neck every thirty seconds like he’s coaching an Olympic team, still crouching to talk to the youngest kids at eye level whenever they start crying about owies or stolen balls or whatever the instant crisis happens to be.
But still, I notice the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes today. The way his attention occasionally drifts for half a second too long before he snaps back into the moment.
The exhaustion etched into his face makes him look pale, and even his laugh sounds like it’s missing something.
When I asked Cassie earlier if something had happened, the only info she could give me was that she and Bronx were placed with a new foster family over the weekend, but from what Cassie shared with me, they, too, are nice people.
I’ll have to ask Boston outright if everything’s okay. He might not tell me if something’s wrong, but he should know that I notice.
And that I care.
I finally reach Valentina and hand over the transportation waiver. “Found it.”
“Bless you,” she sighs dramatically, snatching the paper from my hand. “Jessica had this system in here that somehow made perfect sense to her and absolutely no one else.”
Somewhere behind me, Boston’s whistle shrills again, sharp and familiar now after weeks at Riverfront.
“Have you heard how she’s doing?” I ask. “That baby’s due, like, any second now, right?”
Valentina nods while scanning the paperwork. “Any day. She texted me this morning saying she’s already dilated two centimeters, which feels like information I did not need before lunch.”
I choke on a laugh, half-aware of the chaos of the soccer game behind me. Someone yells, “Pass it!”
Then there’s Boston’s voice, somehow able to cut through it all. But it’s sharp. Urgent.
“Skye—watch out!”
I barely have time to turn before something slams into the side of my head, pain explodes across my temple, and I go down.
Hard.
My sight disappears first. The sound goes next. Everything feels far away and weirdly weightless for a second, like I’m floating in space. It’s unnerving. But then sensation rushes back all at once. The hard floor underneath me, the ache slicing through my head.
And warmth. Cupping my jaw.
“Stormy?”
My eyelids flutter open.
At first, all I can really make out is fluorescent light overhead and blurry movement around me. Then Boston’s face sharpens into focus above mine, close enough that I can see the dark circles under his eyes. But what strikes me is the panic in his expression.
His hand is braced against my jaw, thumb spread along my cheekbone, stroking so softly my eyes threaten to close again. He’s on his knees—must be, with how close he is—his broad frame blocking out half the gym behind him.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice raw. “Stay down for me a second, okay?”
A cluster of kids hovers around us. Bronx’s head pops up behind Boston’s shoulder. “Is she dead?” he whispers.
“I’m not dead,” I croak.
Boston lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, his head dipping briefly like he’s trying to get himself together.
I try to lift my head, assess the damage, but the movement makes my skull throb. “Ow.”
“Easy,” Boston says, his fingers flexing lightly against my face. “Don’t sit up yet.”
He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the faint sheen of sweat along the strong column of his throat.
His gray shirt stretches across his chest as he bends over me, the fabric damp in places from running around with the kids all afternoon.
But even with all that physical exertion and the heat inside this place, he smells only of summer rain.
His eyes search mine carefully.
“Look at me, Stormy,” he says quietly. “You with me?”
The way he says my nickname should be illegal.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I’m with Archer.” I feel my bottom lip jut out and immediately chalk that up to my obvious head trauma.
He raises one dark eyebrow, and despite the pounding in my skull, warmth curls low in my stomach.
This is so not the time for that.
“Okay, smart-ass,” he says, his lips twitching like he’s not yet ready to allow himself to smile. “How many fingers?”
He holds up two.
“Four.”
Behind him, Valentina groans. “Concussion. Definitely a concussion.”
Boston snorts softly. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me, so let’s try this again,” he says and holds up his hand once more. “How many?”
I’m tempted to give him another wrong answer, but the worry peeking out from behind his eyes makes me reconsider. “Three.”
He nods, obviously relieved.
“Good job,” he says, his voice so soft. So warm.
“Learned that in pre-school.” I smile weakly.
Big mistake.
Pain pulses through my head again and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Boston’s hand returns to my face. “We should call an ambulance.”
“No.” I sit up slowly, forcing my face to stay neutral even though I have a headache from hell. “I’m totally good.”
“You don’t look good,” Bronx opines.
I give him a dismayed look. “That’s not very nice to say to a girl, you know?”
“He’s right,” Valentina chimes in. “I think an ambulance is the—”
“No ambulance,” I repeat. “Really, I’m okay. Just had my bell rung. I’m not even bleeding or anything.”
“You blacked out,” Boston snaps, but looks like he immediately regrets his tone. He studies me, his eyes flitting between mine like he’s assessing the size of my pupils. “You nauseated?” he asks, softer again.
“No,” I say, purposely refraining from shaking my head. I have a feeling that wouldn’t be a good idea.
“Where are you right now?”
“The Riverfront Sports Complex. Stillwater, Minnesota. Are you going to ask me about the color of my underwear next?”
Boston opens his mouth, then closes it again. This time, his lips do turn up.
“I really am alright. Just need to sit for a moment.”
He nods, motions for the kids to make some room, then helps me up slowly.
“For your information, they’re lilac,” I say for I don’t know what reason as Boston maneuvers me over to the foldout chair Valentina procured. Yeah, maybe a concussion.
Something dark flickers behind his eyes before disappearing just as quickly. “That’s good to know,” he says, voice fraying. He clears his throat. “But I still don’t think you should drive yourself home. I’d feel a lot better if you got a ride.”
The concern in his voice feels almost embarrassingly comforting. “My parents are tied up,” I say feebly.
He nods, his eyes drifting to the floor. “How about… Archer?”
I blink. “Oh.”