Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
My eye is purple.
“My eye is purple,” I repeat, this time aloud, as I emerge from the downstairs bathroom. My eye is purple, swollen, and absolutely alarming to look at.
“It’s okay,” Wes assures, noting my distress. He rests his hands on my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “It’s just the body breaking down the hemoglobin in your blood. It’s going to look worse before it gets better, unfortunately. How does it feel?”
“Bad,” I mutter.
He frowns, a crease forming between his brows. “Did you take Advil yet?”
I shake my head, feeling the familiar swell of panic beneath my ribs. My fingers start to tingle because all I can think about is the stupid speech on Tuesday. Is getting up in front of the class and looking like a freaking horror show. I only have three days left for it to heal.
Wes’s hands move over my shoulders, down my upper arms, and back up again. It feels nice. Really nice. But it’s not enough to distract me. “You should ice it again.”
“Alright,” I murmur, my mind still spinning.
“Hey,” Wes says. I look up at him. “This doesn’t change anything about the speech.
We’re still going to practice our asses off, and you’re still going to fucking crush it.
” Having just emerged from the shower, he smells amazing, and my body sways forward a little, gravitating toward his scent.
He looks amazing, too, in a navy long-sleeve shirt and dark-wash jeans.
Whereas I look homeless, still dressed in his oversized clothes.
I sigh and step out of his hold. “I should go back to my apartment. I don’t even have my books. Or anything to wear. Or my keys. I’ll have to text Quinn.”
“We can run over and get them.”
I blink in surprise. “We?”
He quirks a dark brow. “Yes, we. What kind of doctor would I be if I let my only patient walk a mile home in twenty-degree weather with a swollen eye? And don’t get me started on your outfit,” he teases, glancing down at my mismatched socks and baggy sweat shorts.
“No one can see you in public like that. It’s a malpractice suit waiting to happen. ”
I almost crack a smile. Almost.
“We’ll drive over, and you can shower and grab your stuff. Then we’ll come back here and practice our speeches, like we originally planned.”
“You know, they say there’s going to be a storm tonight.”
He shrugs. “If it gets bad you can stay over again, or I can take you home early. It’s not supposed to hit until late.”
I study his face, waiting for him to change his mind. Waiting for him to realize that he’s tired of taking care of me and would rather spend the day with Kaden or Ben or, hell, one of those girls in his phone.
“Why-” I start, but snap my lips shut, deciding that maybe it’s not a good idea to put those thoughts in his head after all.
“Why what?” he presses, but I still say nothing. “Come on, you can ask me anything.”
“Why aren’t you sick of me yet?” I blurt, then snap my mouth shut.
His brows shoot up, an amused smile playing at his lips. “Are you sick of me?”
I would roll my eyes at the ridiculous notion if it didn’t hurt so much. “I mean, no. Of course not. But you’re you.”
“And you’re you.” I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. When I close it again, he gives me a knowing look. “Let me grab more coffee, you take your drugs, and we’ll get this show on the road.”
“Are you sure you need the coffee?” I mumble. He just laughs.
When we pull into the parking lot of my dorm, I shoot off a text to Quinn. She already has the door open when we reach the apartment, and she sucks in a sharp breath as she takes in my face.
“Holy shit!” Her eyes flick over my shoulder, and I glance back to find Wes shaking his head.
He shoots me an innocent smile when he realizes I’ve caught him, and I look back at Quinn, who quickly backtracks.
“I mean, it’s not that bad, Ivy. I could hardly tell when you were, you know, thirty feet away. ”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
“But I am going to strangle that bitch’s neck next time I see her. Big Guy, we should team up. You hold her down, and I’ll fuck up her face. I took a kickboxing class once in high school.”
“Works for me,” Wes says with a shrug.
I release an exasperated sigh. “No one’s fucking up anyone’s face. Let’s just…forget it happened. Please.”
Quinn blinks and says, “Sure, sure,” but I don’t miss the loaded look she exchanges with Wes.
“Just so you know, the place isn’t, uh, usually like this.
” Stepping aside, she allows us room to enter the apartment.
“You didn’t tell me the superstar was coming,” she mutters to me. “I could have cleaned up a bit.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Are Ava and Kinsley…”
“Sleeping. I doubt they’ll come out.”
I nod, moving into the living area. Sure enough, it is a disaster. Red cups and empty shot glasses litter every surface, liquor bottles are strewn about, and I wrinkle my nose at a mysterious stain on the carpet that definitely wasn’t there before.
“Seems like quite the rager,” Wes comments, a hard note in his voice. He’s probably thinking about how all this led to me getting used as a punching bag and a scratching post.
“More like a fucking shit show,” mutters Quinn. “One I had zero part in, by the way.”
“Thanks for letting us in,” I tell her.
“No problem. I’m meeting Remy, though, so good luck with,” she gestures toward Kinsley and Ava’s rooms, “all that.”
“Thank you, Quinn,” says Wes.
“Sure thing, Big Guy.”
Once Quinn heads out, I leave Wes in the living area and hurry off to take the world’s fastest shower.
Afterward, I drag a brush through my tangled hair and throw on the first outfit my hands touch—light jeans and a simple blue shirt.
Then, I hastily stuff my backpack with schoolwork and snatch my jacket off the desk chair, stepping out of my room.
I immediately stop in my tracks, taking in the transformation before me with wide eyes.
The surfaces are spotless, the furniture’s back in place, the liquor bottles are organized, and Wes is standing at the sink, drying a stack of clean plates before setting them off to the side.
“Wes,” I say, shocked. “You shouldn’t have done all that.”
He shrugs, tossing an easy smile over his shoulder as he rinses another glass. “It’s all good. Figured it would make your life easier.”
My heart does that weird flippy thing again, and I rub at my chest subconsciously.
But before I can respond, the door to Kinsley’s room swings open.
She steps into the living room with messy hair, bare feet, and a look aimed to kill.
“Who the fuck is doing the dishes? It’s barely ten in the morning, and I’ve got the worst fucking headache.
I swear…” Her voice trails off when she sees exactly who is standing at her kitchen sink, and her mouth drops.
Literally. She simply stands there, gaping at him like a fish.
“Sorry about the noise,” Wes says with an apologetic smile, but I can pick up on the nearly imperceptible flat note in his tone.
“Oh! No! That’s totally fine,” she gushes, brushing through her wild hair with her fingers like she’s trying to tame it. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize we had, uh, company! You don’t have to do that.”
“Already done.”
“I’m Kinsley, by the way. So, why…” Kinsley trails off, her eyes drifting to me, finally registering my presence.
I know she sees the black eye and the bandages on my chin, they’re impossible to miss, but she makes no mention of them.
Offers no sympathy or apology, though I don’t expect it.
“No way. You’re not…you’re not actually fu—I mean, seeing someone on the football team. ”
I almost laugh at her choice of words. I know it’s not for my benefit.
“W-we’re just friends,” I manage, but not before the phrase gets tangled in my tongue. My face warms at the stutter, which appears infrequently around Wes. It’s just…so much easier with him. So easy that I’d nearly forgotten my lack of social skills, and I feel myself regressing in real time.
I chance a glance at Wes, only to see an odd expression on his face. He appears almost…disappointed. In what, it’s unclear, but I can’t deny I’m embarrassed he’s witnessing Kinsley speak to me like this.
“Friends,” Kinsley repeats, slowly like she doesn’t believe it. “Really.”
“Best friends,” says Wes, the strange look replaced by one of his patented charming smiles.
Without warning, his arm snakes around my back, tugging me gently into his side.
Blood rushes to the area where his hand meets my waist, every nerve on edge as I zone in on the inch where his fingers touch the sliver of exposed skin between my shirt and pants.
I force myself to relax, command my stomach to stop doing somersaults, and lean into his body.
He’s a furnace, and the heat radiating off his skin lessens the chill from my damp hair.
“Practically joined at the hip, right Ives?”
“Ives?” Kinsley repeats slowly, like she can’t believe her ears.
As if on cue, Ava’s door slams open, and she storms out, the guy, Patrick, from last night trailing behind her. “What the hell is going on out here?”
They both freeze and stare at Wes, Patrick’s mouth gaping. “Woah. Babe. Wes Tucker’s in your living room. Hey, man. Awesome season. That touchdown was legendary.” His eyes shift to me, and he flinches at the sight of my face. “Woah! Your eye is gnarly!”
“Hey, man,” says Wes, his hand tightening on my waist in an almost protective gesture. “That’s not cool. You should apologize to her.”
Patrick’s face pales, and his eyes land on me. “Oh, sure. Sorry about that. That was—I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Am I still drunk?” mutters Ava. “Is this happening?”
“We should go,” says Wes, giving my waist a light squeeze before he releases me. Cold air rushes in where his body heat used to be, and I shiver as I shrug on my jacket. We leave Kinsley and Ava standing in the kitchen, still staring at us in disbelief, not offering so much as a goodbye.