Chapter Nineteen Max
Chapter Nineteen
Max
Nolan rounded the corner, hands shoved into his jogger pockets and a shit-eating grin on his face.
“We’re not gonna talk about it,” Max muttered into the cavern of his locker. Fucking peppermint.
Still half-hard, his pulse rocketed violently through his body, memories replaying at warp speed every time he blinked.
Keely tucked into his locker, anticipation shining in her eyes.
Keely’s hair scraping his knuckles.
Keely gasping against his neck.
He’d had her right here, pinned beneath him, his mouth raking across the velvet skin of her ear, the tiny hollow behind it.
He would have had all of her right here, if not for—
Nolan’s smile widened. “Talk about what?”
Max’s jaw clicked. “Thanks.”
Nolan waved a hand to dismiss him and leaned against the wall.
Max dug for his backpack at the top of the locker and slipped the laptop into the pocket.
Keely was obviously aiming to get her ink-painted fingers on his essay, probably to erase all traces of it and make him start completely over.
He pushed aside images of that ink-painted little finger dragging over something else.
Shoved it deep into the back of his brain, for examination at a later hour. Or never.
Max freed his briefs from his backpack and put them on. Modesty didn’t exist in the locker room, and Nolan had seen it all before anyway.
“Did you need something?” Underwear in place, Max pulled the towel away and rubbed it over his hair.
“Oh, yeah. I wanted to see if you had spring break plans. We’re going to Myrtle Beach. There’s an extra spot in my car with your name on it.”
What was Keely doing for spring break? Figuring out more ways to wreck his life, probably. She’d nearly done that earlier, when she’d moaned in his ear.
“I’m good.” Chest tight, Max dropped the towel on the floor. “And you don’t have to keep checking in on me every week. I’m a big boy.”
Nolan pushed off from the locker, his shoulders bowing the slightest bit.
It was a sight Max was too familiar with.
For some stupid, unknowable reason, Keely’s voice popped into his head, quiet and slightly husky from the alcohol at the party. There’s no sense in being mean for the sake of it, Max. The world has enough of that on its own.
He cleared his throat and tried to be the opposite of mean as he pulled out a black T-shirt.
“Thanks, though. My. . .” He stared down at the fabric crumpled in his fist, then let it fall limply at his side and looked Nolan straight in the eye. “My dad. Is sick.”
It came out choppy, raw, which might be because he’d never spoken the words out loud to anyone besides Coach. They tasted wrong. Bitter and sharp all at once.
Nolan’s mouth tipped upside down, and his throat shifted with a swallow. “That blows. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I don’t really talk about it.” With anyone.
Raw emotion lit Nolan’s eyes before it was gone again, smoothed over to a blank mask. “I hear you. Whatever you need, man. I’ll follow your lead.”
“I’m. . .” Max searched for the right words. “I’d be okay if you asked about it. Sometimes.” Nolan had reached out a hand to Max over and over and over. Max couldn’t not take it anymore. It took more energy to fight him off.
The guy was persistent.
“You let me know if that changes.” Nolan’s nod was firmer this time, to match his words. “Even just a thumbs-down text or something.”
“Thanks. For the invite, and for. . .” The words were right there, straining against the cage of his teeth. Instead, he focused on the rest of his clothing spilling out from his backpack. “I just need to be home this week.”
The drive between Ash Mountain and his hometown was four hours and thirty-eight minutes. Every time Max made it, he watched the clock and worried it would be the last time he’d see his father ambulatory. Awake.
Alive.
He should have been on the road already. Should have never left in the first place. Shouldn’t have to come back a loser, with no secured funding and no chance at living up to his father’s desires for him.
Dad had given up everything to raise Max, including his dreams. He’d ripped them out of his heart and planted them safely in Max’s.
So Max would keep them safe. He had to.
It was his father’s dying wish.
Which meant he needed to shove the encounter with Keely, the flushing on the bridge of her nose and just below her glowing eyes, somewhere deep down where it couldn’t distract him.
He picked up his towel, crammed it into the wash bin, and shut the lid as firmly as he could.
· · · · ·
Visiting hours were technically over by the time he pulled into the hospital parking lot, but his mom had called ahead to the nurses’ station, and one of them waited to sneak him back.
Dad was propped up in bed, cannula fitted snugly to his nose.
Headphones hugged his ears. Probably listening to the Red Rising series on audiobook again.
He tugged them off, smiling as he pushed himself up.
Max resisted the urge to surge forward and help.
His dad hated that, feeling broken and weak.
Max got that from him, too.
His dad coughed, but it wasn’t wet or heavy. It sort of sounded liked a laugh. “I’m not gonna break, Max. Come hug your old man.” There was color to his cheeks, more than on their last video call.
Max didn’t hesitate anymore. He took three large steps across the room, slung his backpack onto the floor, and clutched his father in a fierce hug.
“I thought Thomas was supposed to be here,” he muttered into his dad’s shoulder. His oldest brother had moved his family closer for that exact reason, to alleviate some of the burden on their mother. They tried to time it so someone was always here, especially for overnight stays.
Max’s dad clapped him on the shoulder before giving a firm squeeze. “He left when you called your mom. Between you and me, he needed a shower. And to spend time with his lady. Speaking of which. . .” The suggestive tone clued Max in to where his dad’s mind went.
So he changed the subject as he dropped into the chair beside the bed. “Home tomorrow?” Max hoped aloud.
Dad rolled his eyes, and Max couldn’t help but notice the way the skin around them sagged. A tired you couldn’t erase with enough sleep and sunlight. It went deeper.
All the way to the bone.
“Let’s sure hope so.” Dad lifted his arm, and an IV tucked into the back of his hand followed. “Do you know how annoying it is trying to sleep when this thing’s pulling at you all night?”
Max snorted. “I can imagine.”
“How was practice?”
One question led to dozens more, and they talked for close to an hour, catching up on Max’s times and recent race results. At one point, Dad made Max retrieve a tablet from his bag and pull up the footage so they could review it together.
More often than not, Max forgot to watch the footage and instead focused on his dad, searching for any hint of his thoughts on Max’s performance. Every twitch of the mouth or shoulders, watery blink or squinted eye was catalogued for Max to dissect later.
Whenever his dad tried to broach the topic of girls, even if he never mentioned any by name, Max steered it away. He wasn’t ready to talk about Keely yet.
If it was the only mercy he received today, he’d take it gladly.
A few times, Dad talked his way into a coughing fit, and Max guided a cup with a lid and straw to his father’s hand.
Or offered tissues when some of it dribbled onto his chin anyway.
If the wheezing persisted, he could hit the oxygen button to deliver more fresh air.
Dad had that privilege now. Most patients in the oncology wing did.
Max had thankfully missed hospital dinner, and the fast-food cheeseburger he’d downed hours ago was long gone.
So he raided the vending machines, letting his dad steal Hot Cheetos while Max flipped through channels.
It settled on ESPN, and the rolling commentary between them became spare, choppy sentences before his father finally fell asleep.
Only then, with the lights of the hospital dimmed above him, did Max let his tears fall.