Chapter 22
Dominic
The second the words “you’re my person” leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked us both.
Because it’s true. Because it feels right. Because I mean it in a way that’s too big to say in a parking lot, with someone unconscious on the asphalt beside us.
Brendon’s knees almost buckle when I say it. His eyes go glassy, not just with fear but with that overloaded look he gets when I hit some nerve no one’s touched before.
His brain’s trying to run three scripts at once. If I leave him standing here like this, he’s going to either shut down, or start talking too much—and both of those options are dangerous.
“Brendon,” I say, but softer now; less steel, more command.
His gaze jerks, finally focusing, and that’s enough.
I squeeze his jaw once, then let go and step back so he has to decide whether to follow.
“Listen to me. You’re going to get in your car, drive to my place, and wait inside the cottage—door locked, lights on, phone on you.
You’re not going to talk to anybody on the way.
You’re not going to look back. Do you understand? ”
He stares at me, then swallows hard and nods, the motion jerky. “Dom,” he starts, voice cracking, “we can’t just leave her, we have to—”
“I’m not leaving her,” I cut in, keeping my tone flat and steady; the same one I use when calling plays in the huddle and the clock’s bleeding out.
“I’ve got her. You being here only makes this messier.
I know for a fact the cameras over this lot are dead.
Campus never fixed them after the last budget cut.
I’m going to handle this, and control the narrative.
You, Little Sin, are going to get the fuck out of here and pretend you heard a noise and thought it was nothing. Go. Now.”
The mention of cameras seems to crack through some of the paralysis, because his eyes dart up to the nearest dead metal eye, bolted to the side of the building, then down to Hannah, then back to me.
“You’re sure she’s—”
“She’s breathing,” I say again, more clipped this time.
“Her pulse is steady. I didn’t hit her hard enough to drop her GPA, I just tuned her out for the evening.
I’ll take her to the clinic, they’ll slap an ice pack on her, tell her to keep an eye out for a concussion, and send her home.
You don’t need to be anywhere near the paper trail for that.
Get in the car, Brendon. That’s me being protective, in case you missed it. ”
His jaw works and I see the brat twitch, the part of him that wants to argue, to stay, to make sure I’m not lying about her being okay, but his survival instincts finally kick back on. He nods, and fumbles his keys out of his pocket with hands that are not as steady as he’d like them to be.
“You’ll text me?”
“I’ll text you when I’m leaving the clinic,” I assure him. “And if you aren’t on my couch by the time I get home, I’m going to be pissed in a way you really don’t want to test tonight. Go.”
That finally moves him. He shoots me one last wild, searching look and I hold his gaze, keeping my expression calm the way I do when the stadium is roaring and we’re down by four with a minute left.
Then, he slides into the car, shuts the door, and a second later the engine turns over.
He pulls out of the lot, taillights shrinking, and I wait until they disappear before I let my shoulders drop a fraction.
The parking lot is quiet again: just me, the glow of a few security lights, and Hannah—sprawled on the asphalt with a blooming welt on her forehead. I breathe out slowly, counting heartbeats, making sure the urge to finish what I started stays leashed.
I didn’t hit her with killing intent. I checked that in the half-second between raising my hand and bringing her head down. It was a warning, a line in the sand, a blunt-force reminder that no means no and my boy doesn’t owe her shit.
I crouch beside her, fingers pressing to the side of her neck; pulse is there, strong enough, just a little thready from shock.
Pupils are pinpoint when I pry an eyelid open, which is fine.
She’s out cold and not going anywhere. I give it another minute, then pat her cheek lightly, adjusting my whole demeanor the way I adjust my shoulders before a press conference.
“Hannah,” I say, voice pitched into that easy, warm register the cameras love. “Hey, come on. Wake up for me.”
She stirs, a small grimace crossing her face, then lets out a faint groan. Her lashes flutter and she blinks up at me, confusion filling the space where anger was ten minutes ago. I keep my posture open, my hands visible, and my expression set to ‘worried golden boy.’
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Hey. You with me?”
“Wha…?” She winces, hand going to her temple. “My head.”
“Yeah, you took a spill,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. “I was walking through the lot and saw you on the ground. You must’ve slipped or something. Scared the shit out of me, honestly.”
She frowns, the line between her brows deepening as she tries to grab onto the last ten minutes.
“I… I was talking to…” Her gaze slides past me, landing on the empty parking lot, on the fact that Brendon is very clearly not here, and her confusion doubles. “Where’s Brendon?”
“Brendon? He wasn’t here when I walked out,” I lie smoothly, because the truth is a luxury we don’t have. “I found you out cold while walking to my car. You have any history of fainting or anything? Low blood sugar?”
She blinks again, trying to reconcile the narrative as I hand it to her through the fuzz in her skull. Concussions are good for one thing: they make people malleable.
“No, I… I don’t think so,” she says, then winces when she shifts. “God, everything’s spinning. I’m sure I was talking to Brendon.”
“Okay, hey, don’t try to stand yet. Let me help.
” I slide an arm under her shoulders and another under her knees, lifting her carefully into a seated position first, giving her time to adjust. She sways, grabbing onto my hoodie with one hand, and I keep my expression concerned—brow furrowed just enough to look sincere.
“Parking lot’s a shitty place to be dizzy,” I say lightly. “How about we hit the clinic, yeah? Let them poke at you and make sure you didn’t crack anything important.”
“The clinic?” she echoes, wincing again as she touches the knot forming at her temple. “Do you really think… I mean, I’m probably fine, I just—”
I let a little sternness leak into the worry, the way Keller does when he’s pretending not to panic about an injury.
“You’re not fine, Hannah. You’re pale as hell, and you were unconscious when I got here.
If you were my player, I’d bench you and drag you to medical, no discussion.
I’d rather they tell you it’s nothing than have you wake up at three in the morning, puking your guts out because nobody checked you. ”
She swallows, the logic sliding in easier when wrapped in concern. “Okay,” she whispers. “Yeah. The clinic.”
I help her to her feet, letting her lean against me when her knees wobble. She smells like a light floral shampoo, and the lingering sweetness of whatever perfume she chose. All I can think of is how much I prefer the mix of coffee, paper, and my cologne that clings to Brendon’s clothes now.
I keep my face neutral and guide her to my car, buckling her in like she’s fragile, which she is, in all the ways that matter.
The ride to the clinic is short and campus is quiet at this hour, fewer kids wandering around and more lights on in windows.
I park near the entrance and walk her inside, arm around her shoulders, posture telegraphing “protective teammate” instead of “man who just bounced her head off a car.” The nurse at the front desk looks up, and her eyes widen a little when she recognizes me, which helps; recognition greases the wheels.
“Dominic?” she says, alarmed.
“Hey,” I say, projecting that calm, collected charisma I’ve been practicing since sophomore year. “She hit her head in the lot by the admin building. Not sure how long she’s been out for. She’s dizzy and says everything’s spinning.”
The nurse is already on her feet, concern snapping into place. “Let’s get you in a room, sweetheart,” she tells Hannah. “What’s your name?”
“Hannah,” she says, voice small. “Hannah Pierce.”
They hustle her back, and I keep following until the nurse gives me the look that says “family only from here,” then I hold up my hands.
“I’ll wait out here,” I say. “If you need a statement or whatever.”
She nods briskly, already in professional mode, and disappears. I take a seat on a plastic chair by the wall, elbows on my knees, hands laced, and stare at the linoleum. Anger simmers just under my skin, the way it does when some dirty player takes a cheap shot at my receiver.
My leg bounces: not from nerves for her, but the residual adrenaline from defending what’s mine. I rein it in, because this is the part where control matters more than catharsis.
Anyone who glances over just sees the star quarterback, waiting anxiously for news about some girl who took a bad fall. That’s the story that will live in their heads, the one they’ll repeat if anyone asks.
They won’t remember exactly what time I came in or how long I stayed. They’ll remember my hoodie, my worried face, the way I rubbed a hand over my mouth like I was rattled. You can’t buy that kind of cover—you build it.
After a while, the nurse comes back out. “We’re going to monitor her for a bit,” she says. “She has a mild concussion. No skull fracture, thank God, but we’ll keep her overnight for observation. You did the right thing bringing her in.”
“Yeah?” I let a little relief show, shoulders dropping. “She’s going to be okay?”
“She should be,” the nurse says, smiling. “We’ll call her emergency contact. You can head home, honey. Get some rest.”
I nod, stand up, and then let my mask slip into something shy and grateful. “Thanks,” I say. “If she asks, tell her I said to take it easy.”
“I will,” she promises.