Chapter 37
Josephine
“I’m fine,” he insists again, head still hanging in the toilet.
“You’re very clearly not,” I whisper.
He winces at the sound anyway.
“I’m sorry,” I say, softer still. “But I really think—”
“Shh,” he hushes me, whether because his head is pounding or because he doesn’t want to hear it, I’m not sure.
“Decker. Please. You need help.”
“No.”
“Decker…” I don’t know why I’m pleading with him, or why I even care. Maybe I feel a strange sort of responsibility, considering I’m the only person who knows what’s going on.
But I won’t be the only one for long if he keeps this up. I’m not above texting Locke or even Kendrick to come help me, and I know they’ll insist we take him to a hospital.
I’ve been huddled near the toilet in Decker’s palatial black and gold bathroom for almost an hour. My legs are tingly from the loss of circulation, but I’m not concerned about anything but the man beside me right now. I have no idea how long he was in here before I showed up.
From what I’ve gotten out of him so far, he felt off after the hit (his word choice) but recovered quickly and was fine after the time-out.
The nausea hit on the boat ride home. Sensitivity to light and sound followed.
I know firsthand the unnerving agitation that accompanies a concussion, even a minor one.
The battle of wills between us would be daunting without the crankiness brought on by the injury.
But with it? I feel like I’m wading through a master class in patience as I try to convince an agitated, restless, uncoordinated Decker Crusade to seek medical attention.
“Fuck.” And with that, another wave of vomit hits the toilet bowl. He groans again, likely because of the way the action makes his head pound.
I’m desperate for a way to comfort him and to force him to face the reality of the situation. Because regardless of his stubbornness, he needs medical attention.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, cuffing the back of his neck with my hand.
He startles on contact but relaxes when I rub back and forth.
Back and forth. Over and over. As if my desire to ease his pain could have any real effect on his symptoms. Desperation is setting in now, and I’m toeing the line between respecting his wishes and doing what’s best for him, regardless of the resentment he’ll hit me with for undermining his authority and autonomy.
I have to get through to him. I will him to hear the sincerity in my words; to be soothed by my touch.
“You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.”
Changing tactics, I continue massaging his head and ask, “What would have to happen for you to go to the hospital and get checked out?”
When he doesn’t immediately lash out at the question, I push further.
“You’ve puked three times so far. You’re dizzy and you feel weak, right?”
“I’m always exhausted after a game,” he interjects, then grimaces as if just stringing words into a coherent sentence caused him physical pain.
“Do you think this might be a little more than exhaustion?”
He’s quiet. So quiet for so long that I wonder if he dozed off.
“No one can know. Fuck. No one can know, Josephine.”
Thank god.
“I understand,” I assure him.
“You don’t,” he argues, his voice distant and tinny because his head’s still half inside the toilet bowl. “We can’t go to any of the hospitals in North Carolina. Or South Carolina, for that matter. We’ll have to go out of state. Knoxville would be safe. Or Bristol.”
“We can do that,” I agree, even if I’m unsure of who he wants included in the we or why we need to travel out of state. I’m so relieved he’s willing to get help, I’d probably agree to anything he says right now.
I sit up straighter, then pull out my phone to text the guys. “I think Locke’s been drinking, but I can text Kendrick? Or I can go up to the Nest and get Kylian.”
His hand shoots out and latches around my wrist.
“What part of no one can know don’t you understand, Josephine?”
Wide-eyed, I jerk my arm out of his hold.
“I—I didn’t think you meant the guys,” I stammer. “Don’t you trust them?”
He huffs in frustration, closing his eyes and wincing. “Of course I trust them. But we’ve got a house full of people, all with cameras in their pockets. There’s no way to get to them without risking someone overhearing or getting a peek at a text message.”
Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he rises to his knees but keeps his head bowed.
I’m so out of my depth here. He needs help, yet he doesn’t want me to get anyone to help him. He’s willing to get checked out, but only at an out-of-state hospital. I’m at a loss about how to proceed, so I go back to rubbing his neck.
After a few minutes, I push my luck, hopeful he’ll let me find Kendrick.
“Any chance you’re being a little paranoid, Cap? Or could this be the potential concussion talking?”
Decker turns his head to look me in the eye. His pupils are so dilated it’s comical.
“You don’t understand. You have no fucking idea.” He groans, then locks his jaw and inhales deeply through his nose, either fighting back another wave of nausea or catching his breath.
Before I can press him to explain, he continues.
“They’re everywhere. All the time. They’re always watching me.
Waiting. They don’t give a shit about privacy.
Only looking to make a quick buck. I’ve lived this life for too long to luxuriate in the hope that I could go to a local hospital or send a text to my coaches without having to read stories about myself online tomorrow. ”
Well, shit. I’d love to brush off his concern and attribute his paranoia to his ego, but the defeat in his voice and the exhaustion in his eyes affirm the truth. Plus, I’ve seen the evidence firsthand in my own Internet searches.
“Did it hurt your brain just now to use ‘luxuriate’ in a sentence?” I jibe.
He attempts a smile, shifting closer to me as I continue to rub his neck.
“That feels good,” he admits with a sigh.
Decidedly, I suggest a new plan. “What if we sneak out your patio door and stay close to the house until we get to the dock? I could text the ferry guys from your phone and tell them to clear the beach for half an hour. Then we’ll have one of them take us over to the marina.”
He nods, ever so slowly, as the muscles in his neck strain against my palm.
“That could work. You’ll have to drive my G,” he hedges.
Shrugging, I hop to my feet and hold out a hand. “Meh. It’s probably not as smooth as my Civic, but I’ll manage.”
Decker snorts. I would be pleased with myself for making him laugh if his reaction wasn’t immediately followed by a sharp wince. He accepts my hand and rises slowly to his feet.
“I want to grab a hat. Sunglasses, too. I need a few minutes to get cash out of my safe.”
He peers down at me wearing a slight frown. It would be warranted for him to question why I’m so eager to help him. Honestly, I’m wondering the same damn thing.
“What do you need to do before we go?”
It feels like time is of the essence, and we’re already wasting hours by driving out of state. If I venture all the way up to my room and back, there’s no telling who’ll see me or hold me up.
“If I can borrow a hoodie and use your bathroom, I can be ready in five minutes.”
A flash of relief passes over Decker’s expression. But then his Adam’s apple bobs, and an awkwardness settles around us as the reality of the situation sinks in.
I’m offering to help Decker.
He’s accepting that help.
Although he hasn’t come out and said it, the trust he’s putting in me in this moment is uncharacteristic and alarming.
Maybe it’s the concussion.
Or maybe it’s something more.
He squeezes my hand once, and I quickly pull away in surprise. I hadn’t even realized we were still holding hands.
“Five minutes,” he reminds me as he slinks out of the bathroom and pulls the door closed behind him.