Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
SAWYER
It’s taking every ounce of self-control I’ve ever possessed to keep myself from marching over to Preston’s dad and knocking his teeth out. What the actual fuck. Preston wasn’t playing. He wasn’t even on the fucking field.
I don’t want to believe Mr. Boyer deliberately tried to hit Preston with the ball—not even he is sadistic enough for that. But we didn’t have any players in the vicinity. There was no reason for him to throw the ball in that direction. It’s not like Mr. Boyer doesn’t know how to aim.
And the fact that he hasn’t even fucking apologized. Fucking fucker. As if I needed another reason not to like him.
“The doctor’s almost here,” I say, trying to comfort Preston, even though I have no idea how far the doctor is.
Preston whimpers and leans into me. He’s got a death grip on my hand, like he’s afraid I’ll let go. I squeeze back just as hard—I’m not going anywhere.
Mom’s right. Preston’s nose is definitely broken.
He probably needs stitches too, seeing as he almost bit through his lip.
He’ll be sporting double black eyes for a few weeks at least. Tears leak out of his swelling eyes and mix with the blood and snot running down his face.
He really doesn’t look good. And yet, he’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I love him. God, I love him so fucking much.
Terror and panic paralyzed me when it became apparent the ball would make contact with Preston’s face.
Jesus fucking Christ. Time slowed to a crawl while the ball inched its way closer.
I tried to shout his name, to tell him to duck, but the message from my brain to my vocal cords got stuck somewhere along the way.
By the time I managed to get them to work, it was too late.
My heart dropped through my stomach, then shot up to my throat, and it’s been lodged there ever since.
Preston starts shivering. Fuck. He’s going into shock.
“Mom!” I don’t know where she is, but when I call for her, she’s right there—with blankets in hand. Thank fucking god. She always comes through when I need her.
“Here.” She helps me wrap one around Preston’s shoulders.
“Thanks.” I rub my hand briskly up and down Preston’s back, trying to warm him up.
One of the Boyers’ staff hands Mom a basin filled with warm water and a towel. She sets them on the floor at Preston’s feet.
“Preston, can I take a look?” She slips her fingers around Preston’s wrist and guides his hand away from his face.
The bleeding hasn’t stopped completely but it’s not gushing anymore. Thank god. Preston whines and shrinks into me.
“It’s okay, Pres. Mom’s just trying to assess the damage.”
He whines again and Mom shoots me a stern look. Okay, so maybe “damage” wasn’t the right word to use. I mouth a silent “sorry” to her.
“I’m going to clean you up a bit, okay?” She dips the towel in the water, then wrings it out before bringing it to Preston’s face. With one hand on his chin to hold him still, she drags the cloth carefully over his skin.
It comes away bloody and soon the water is tinged bright red. Inch by inch, she wipes the mess away, revealing more of his injuries. He looks like he got hit in the face by a truck, not merely a football.
By the time Mom’s done, Madison is leading the doctor in. “He’s right over here.”
The doctor sets his bag on a nearby table and crouches down next to me. “Hey, Preston. I’m Dr. Myers. Let’s take a look at what’s going on here.”
Preston is folded in half, face hanging over his knees. The doctor bends to the side trying to get a look at his face, but the closer he gets, the more Preston turns away from him.
“Sorry, doc. Hold on a sec.” I pull Preston to his feet long enough for me to take his spot, then I drag him down again so he’s sitting on my lap, back against my chest. It’s still a little awkward, but at least the doctor doesn’t have to crawl around on the floor.
“Football to the face, huh?” Dr. Myers says as he puts on a pair of disposable gloves. “This is going to hurt a bit, okay?”
Preston stiffens and I squeeze him tighter. He flinches when Dr. Myers touches his cheeks and his nose, but he doesn’t pull away. Pride surges through me at Preston being so brave, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve planted a kiss on the back of his neck.
Mom and Madison are standing behind the doctor. Mom’s eyes narrow in suspicion and I stifle a groan. I’ll be getting a talking-to once Preston’s sorted.
Madison’s gaze snaps to a spot over my shoulder. The alarm in her eyes tells me Mrs. Boyer is somewhere back there. Fuck. I really hope she didn’t notice the kiss.
“It’s most likely broken, though I can’t be sure without an x-ray. It doesn’t feel crooked, though, so that’s good.”
“He won’t end up with a bump on his nose, will he?” The question comes from Mrs. Boyer. She comes around to peer at Preston’s face.
Preston ducks his head and my simmering rage bubbles to life. Jesus, what is wrong with his parents? Is that really what she’s concerned with right now?
“We’ll get a better sense of alignment when the swelling goes down. If anything looks unusual, we can try to push it back into place. Any clear discharge from the nose?” Dr. Myers asks, looking at me.
“It’s hard to tell with all the blood,” I say, answering for Preston. “But I don’t think so?”
“You didn’t hit your head on the ground when you fell?”
“No,” Preston mumbles, sounding nasally.
“Good. Let’s take a look at your lip. Can you open your mouth?”
Preston makes a distressed sound, but he cooperates when Dr. Myers peels his lip back to examine the cut.
“I’ll have to put a stitch or two there.”
Preston shrinks back against me at the doctor’s pronouncement.
“Is it going to scar?” Mrs. Boyer asks.
Mom catches my gaze and gives me a tiny headshake to warn me. I grit my teeth together before I spit out something impolite.
“It might. But even if it does, you shouldn’t be able to see it. It’ll be on the inside.” Dr. Myers turns to his bag and starts pulling out supplies.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I whisper to him. “Scars are sexy.”
He gives me such a baleful look I almost kiss him again.
“In that case, I’ll leave him in your capable hands,” Mrs. Boyer says before skirting around me and exiting the room.
It wasn’t clear whether she was referring to me or the doctor, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll make sure Preston’s taken care of.
“Alright, I’m going to numb the area before putting the stitches in,” Dr. Myers explains as he turns back to me and Preston.
“That means you won’t be able to feel anything for a couple hours.
You can still eat and drink, it’ll just be a bit tricky, so be careful.
I’ve got some painkillers for your nose.
Make sure you keep icing a few times a day for the next several days.
And you’ll need to sleep with your head upright for a while too.
Just stuff a bunch of pillows behind your head. ”
I nod, making mental notes of the doctor’s instructions. “I’ll make sure he does all that.”
“Great.” The doctor smiles at Preston. “You’re lucky to have such a caring partner. You’ll be better in no time.”
Preston doesn’t seem to react to Dr. Myers’s words, but they hit me right in the gut. Partners. Me and Preston. That’s what I want us to be. That’s the dream.
I hold Preston as the doctor works, but it doesn’t take long for him to put the stitches in. He gives me instructions for the medication and Mom brings over a glass of water for Preston’s first dose. Then we guide him upstairs to my room.
“Need anything?” Mom asks.
“Not at the moment. I’m going to get him into bed.”
Mom glances down at Preston’s clothes and grimaces. “Maybe a shower first?”
He’s still covered in blood and dirt. “Yeah, good idea.”
“Get him settled,” Mom tells me with a pointed look. “Then we need to talk.”
Crap.
Mom leaves us to head back downstairs, and I bring Preston into the bathroom. After cranking the water all the way up, I help him wrangle his shirt over his head. All those nights of undressing Preston while he’s half asleep have been practice for this very moment.
When steam starts curling up toward the ceiling, I lead Preston into the walk-in shower. He’s filthy. His hands, chest, legs. He’s even got blood and dirt in his hair. With a washcloth, I gently wash the grime away, being extra careful around his stitches and anywhere that looks too tender.
Through it all, Preston is in a daze. He stands where I put him, moves when I direct him. The drugs might have something to do with it, but I think it’s more than that. Coming home is never fun for Preston, but this weekend might take the prize.
I wish I could turn back the clock and stop Mr. Boyer before he threw that ball.
Or push Preston out of the way. Or take his spot and catch the ball with my face instead.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been hit.
Preston doesn’t deserve this. He deserves so much more than parents who are preoccupied with a party, with his appearance rather than his injuries.
Once the water runs clear, I bundle us both into bathrobes and hustle him toward the bed.
His head is lolling now and he can barely keep his eyes open.
The drugs are definitely doing their job.
I tuck him in under the covers, making sure there are plenty of pillows to keep his head upright. He’s out before I’m done.
I sit next to him, holding his hand and giving myself a moment to breathe.
The emotional rollercoaster of the past couple hours is catching up with me—anger, fear, guilt, worry.
It’s just a broken nose and a split lip—people get those all the time.
In the grand scheme of things, they’re minor injuries and he’ll recover quickly.