8. Skylar
Skylar moved before her brain caught up.
She shoved past Charlie, dropped to her knees beside the fallen man, and pressed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was thready, but there. Her lungs expanded. Blood pooled beneath his head, dark and spreading across the sticky floor.
Behind her she heard Wyatt. “I didn’t . . . I just pushed him. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey.” Charlie sounded confident. “Look at me. Breathe.”
“Is he dead? Oh shit, is he—”
“He’s breathing. I can see his chest moving.”
“Charlie.” Skylar turned to him. “Get me clean towels. As many as you can find.”
He moved toward the bar without hesitation.
The girlfriend’s screaming had stopped. Now she stood over Skylar, mascara streaking down her cheeks, finger jabbing toward Charlie. “He pushed him. I saw it. He pushed Tad and he fell and—”
“Nobody pushed anyone.” Skylar didn’t look up. She tilted the man’s head gently, examining the wound. There was a deep laceration along the temporal region meaning a possible skull fracture. Definitely a concussion. “He tripped over a barstool.”
“That’s not what I saw.”
“Then you need your eyes checked.”
Charlie knelt beside her with a stack of bar towels. “An ambulance is on the way.”
Skylar folded a towel into a thick pad and pressed it against the wound. The man groaned and her shoulders dropped. Being responsive to stimuli was a good sign.
“What can I do?” Charlie’s hand pressed on hers. It didn’t shake like hers. Whatever panic churned inside him, he kept it locked down.
“Keep pressure on this.” She swapped their hands, hers on his, as the white material darkened with blood. “Firm but not too hard.”
“What’s his name?” she asked the girlfriend.
“Tad.”
“Tad.” Skylar leaned closer. “Can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes.”
His eyelids fluttered.
“Is he going to be okay?” Wyatt sounded seconds from vomiting.
“We won’t know until he gets to the hospital.” Skylar sat back on her heels. “But head wounds bleed a lot. It might look worse than it is.”
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.
Charlie’s gaze fixed on her face. “How do you know all this?”
“I work at the hospital. ER admissions and sometimes triage assistance.”
His eyebrows shot up. “How many jobs do you have?”
“Three.” She stood, wiping her bloody hands on her jeans. “Four if you count the photojournalism assignments.”
“When do you sleep?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”
The ambulance arrived in a blaze of lights and noise. Paramedics pushed through the crowd, and Skylar stepped back to give them room. They loaded Tad onto a stretcher. The girlfriend followed, still shooting venomous glances at Charlie. The drunk friends shuffled out behind them, suddenly sober.
Grant materialized at Charlie’s shoulder. “We should go to the hospital. Make sure he’s okay.”
Wyatt stood near the door, his face the color of old paper. Charlie crossed to him and put a hand on the freshman’s shoulder. Whatever he said was too quiet for Skylar to hear, but some of the tension drained from Wyatt’s posture.
“I’m coming with you.” Skylar grabbed her bag from the booth. “I know the staff. I can help smooth things over.”
Charlie turned to look at her. Surprise or maybe gratitude flickered across his face. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to.” She slung the bag over her shoulder. “I want to.”
The words hung between them. Charlie held her gaze for a beat too long, and Skylar’s chest tightened.
Grant cleared his throat. “Booker, Seb, find out if anyone recorded anything. Then take Wyatt back to campus. Keep him calm. We’ll update you when we know something.”
The group dispersed. Skylar followed Charlie and Grant to the Audi, sliding into the back seat while Grant took the passenger side. The drive to the hospital passed in tense silence.
New Haven’s emergency entrance blazed with fluorescent light. Skylar led the way through the automatic doors, navigating the familiar chaos of a Sunday evening ER. She spotted Dr. Reeves at the nurses’ station and made a beeline.
“The head trauma that just came in. What’s his status?”
Dr. Reeves glanced up from her chart. “Skylar. Aren’t you off tonight?”
“I was at the bar where it happened. This is Charlie Carnell and Grant . . .” She realized she didn’t know Grant’s last name. “They were there too. They want to make sure he’s okay.”
The doctor’s eyes flicked to Charlie and recognition dawned. Seems everyone knew the Carnell name in this small town. “He’s getting a CT scan now. The family’s been notified and they’re on their way.”
Charlie stepped forward. “Can we wait?”
“The waiting room is down the hall. I’ll send updates.”
Skylar thanked her and led Charlie and Grant to a row of plastic chairs. The waiting room sat half-full: a mother with a feverish toddler, an elderly man clutching his arm, a couple holding hands and looking terrified.
Charlie sank into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. The posture made him look younger, smaller. Less like the golden boy quarterback and more like he might buckle under a weight he couldn’t set down.
Grant took the seat beside him. Skylar hesitated, then sat across from them both.
“He’s going to be fine.” She bit her lip. “Head wounds are scary, but the scan will probably come back clear.”
Charlie didn’t lift his head. “Wyatt could lose everything. His scholarship. His spot on the team. His whole future.”
“Wyatt didn’t do anything wrong.” Skylar placed her hands on her knees, curling her fingers to hide the dried blood under her nails. “He was trying to protect you.”
Grant shifted in his seat. “You should call your dad. Warn him.”
Charlie’s head shook. “Maybe Seb and Booker can contain it.”
Skylar looked at the two men. “We’ll just tell the truth. That Tad threw the first punch.”
“When has the truth ever mattered?” Charlie’s laugh was bitter. “People believe what they want to believe.” He finally looked up. His blue eyes were flat, empty in a way that made Skylar’s stomach clench. “They want to believe the worst about me.”
The words landed like an accusation. She’d made assumptions based on Charlie’s last name and the wealth attached to it. She bit the inside of her cheek.
“I’m going to find coffee.” Grant stood. “You two want anything?”
They both shook their heads. Grant disappeared down the hallway.
The silence stretched. A baby cried and monitors beeped. A stretcher rolled past with squeaking wheels.
“Can I ask you something?” Skylar pulled her legs onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees.
“Depends.”
“At the bar. With that guy and his girlfriend.” She chose her words carefully. “You could have walked away. You should have walked away. But you didn’t. Why?”
Charlie stared at the floor. For a long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I don’t like seeing women treated that way.”
“Most people don’t like it. Most people still walk away.”
His fists clenched. “Then most people are cowards.”
The words carried heat. Skylar studied his profile. The tight line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were curled into fists on his thighs.
This was personal.
Before she could push further, a man and woman rushed past them toward the nurses’ station, the woman yelling for Tad.
“Those must be his parents,” Skylar murmured.
Charlie rose from his chair.
“What are you doing?”
“Talking to them.”
“Charlie, that’s a terrible idea. You should let a lawyer—”
“I won’t hide behind a lawyer.” He squared his shoulders. “They deserve to know what happened.”
He approached the parents and introduced himself. Their expressions shifted from grief to confusion to rage.
Skylar crept closer, near enough to hear Charlie say, “I understand you’re upset. You have every right to be.”
“Upset?” The father’s voice cracked like a whip. “My son is in there getting his head stitched back together because of you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix a cracked skull.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Charlie’s posture stayed calm. “That’s why I want to make sure all of Tad’s medical bills are covered. Every scan, every stitch, every follow-up appointment. I’ll handle it personally.”
The mother’s tears slowed. The father’s posture shifted, suspicion replacing rage. “You think you can just buy your way out of this?”
“I’m not trying to buy my way out of anything. Your son got hurt. That shouldn’t cost your family a dime.”
“What about the police? The university?” The father stepped closer to Charlie. “My son could press charges. We could go to the Dean.”
Skylar’s stomach knotted. She glanced back at Grant, who had returned with coffee. His expression was grim.
“You could,” Charlie agreed. “I wouldn’t blame you.
But I’m asking you to consider what that would accomplish.
Tad was drinking underage. He started the altercation.
There are witnesses and videos.” A pause.
“I’m not saying that to threaten you. I’m saying it because dragging this through official channels would hurt your son more than it would hurt me. ”
Silence stretched between them. Skylar held her breath.
“What exactly are you offering?” The hairs on the back of Skylar’s neck raised at the mother’s calculating tone.
“Full coverage of medical expenses. Plus fifty thousand dollars for pain and suffering, deposited into whatever account you specify. In exchange, this ends here. No charges or complaints to the university. We all walk away.”
Fifty thousand dollars. Skylar’s hands curled into fists. More than ten times what her grandparents needed for the electrical panel.
And Charlie had offered it like pocket change.
“How do we know you’ll follow through?” The father’s tone had lost its edge. This was not a negotiation.
“I’ll have my family’s attorney draw up the paperwork tonight. The money will be in your account by Wednesday.” Charlie extended his hand. “You have my word.”
The father hesitated. He looked at his wife, then Charlie’s outstretched hand.
He shook it. “If Tad has any complications—”
“Call me directly. I’ll make sure he gets the best care available.”
The parents moved toward the treatment area, the mother clutching her husband’s arm. Charlie stood alone in the hallway, his shoulders dropping the moment they disappeared from view.
Grant appeared at Skylar’s elbow. “He does this every time. Takes the hit so no one else has to.”
“He just paid them off.” The words tasted like smoke and ash.
“He protected Wyatt’s scholarship.” Grant rubbed his chin. “He kept this out of the papers and away from his father. He just made sure a family doesn’t go bankrupt from hospital bills their son’s own stupidity caused.”
“By throwing money at it.”
She knew all too well how rich people solved their problems with money. After the fire, after three people died in their beds because of wiring violations. The Heffernan family’s lawyers had arrived with settlement offers. As if any amount of money could replace her family.
Money didn’t solve problems. Money buried them.
Charlie walked back toward them, his expression blank. He stopped a few feet away, and Skylar rose from her chair.
“Fifty thousand dollars.” Hands on her hips. “That’s your solution.”
“I had to do something. If the story gets out—”
“You think money solves everything, don’t you?” The words shattered between them. “Camera breaks? Buy a new one. Guy gets hurt? Pay off his parents. Is there anything in your life that can’t be fixed with your father’s credit card?”
Charlie flinched.
Good. Let him feel something.
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” Blood surged in her veins. “Rich family causes a problem, rich family writes a check, problem disappears. No consequences or accountability. Just money changing hands and everyone agreeing to forget.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, hands shaking at her sides. “You just handed over fifty thousand dollars like it was nothing. Like that amount doesn’t represent years of work for normal people.”
“What would you have me do, Skylar?” The rawness in Charlie’s face disappeared, replaced by a careful blankness.
“What’s the noble choice here?” He held her gaze, and the emptiness in his eyes made her chest ache.
“Wyatt might lose his scholarship. His whole future. If throwing money at a problem is the only tool I have, then I’m going to use it.
Every time. Without hesitation.” Charlie stepped back.
“If that makes me the villain, so be it.”
He turned and walked toward the exit.
Grant rose from his chair. He shot Skylar a look she interpreted as disappointment and followed.
Skylar stood alone in the waiting room, her hand pressed against her collarbone, as if the pressure could stanch the bleeding in her heart.
Charlie wasn’t the Heffernans. Some distant, rational part of her brain knew that. He hadn’t ignored safety violations. He hadn’t let people die. He’d stepped in to help a woman being mistreated and then spent fifty thousand dollars protecting a teammate who didn’t deserve to suffer.
But the money. The ease with which he’d offered it. The casual way he’d made the problem disappear.
It was too close. Too familiar.
She set her jaw and let the cold back in.