42. Mason
Mason
Sadly, the most fun part of this day was seeing Simone. Now I’m just left to be objectified like all the other guys, putting on a show for charity.
It’s right up my alley, though, and normally something I would enjoy like hell. But it’s hard to now when the only person I wanted to put on a show for isn’t here.
I keep thinking about her lips, about the way she can get me so wrapped up in her orbit that nothing else around us exists.
She makes me feel alive for the first time in…well, hell, forever. And as much as my brain wants to question how genuine she’s being around me, I know deep down she is. She needs nothing from me. She’s enough all on her own. If anything, she’s risking a lot by being around me.
The sun is beaming down on us, I’m sweating, and the day has gone from fun to exhausting real quick. I’m leaning against the hood of Chase’s car, thinking about absolutely nothing except my plans for tonight.
I’ve been trying so hard not to let her be the only thing I think about, but it’s pointless. It’s not like I even want to stop, honestly, though.
I need a drink.
“Mase,” Tanner calls, jogging over to me. “We’re almost out of soap. Towels too. You and Tank mind running to grab more? We’ve still got like ten cars lined up.”
Tank pops his head up from behind one of the cars. “I call shotgun.”
I let out a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Sure. Come on.”
I peel off my wet shirt and throw it on a chair nearby. “Hand me a dry shirt.”
I put it on, and we walk over to my car. I slide into the driver’s seat while Tank’s big ass squeezes into the passenger seat.
“No wonder you have an SUV, your ass can’t fit in any normal-sized car.”
Tank shoots me the bird, and I laugh, starting the car.
I hear him struggling, trying to adjust the seat.
He finally finds the button and scoots it back until it hits my football gear in the backseat.
I stifle a laugh and try to cover it up with a cough, keeping both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road.
“Shut up, Sinclair. You want me to point out all your flaws?”
I fully let the laugh out now. “Please share. But I’ll have you know I don’t have any.”
He scoffs. “Neither do I. Girls love a big meathead who can pick them up, throw them around, and protect them. It’s your tiny prissy-ass little car that’s the problem.”
I hold a hand up in surrender, but he keeps going.
“How about we talk about the one weakness you do have that’s so blatantly obvious.”
I shoot him a quick look. “What weakness?”
“A pretty one with the last name Edwards.”
I bite down on my cheek, trying not to give him any reaction.
“See!”
“See what?” I shoot back. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says with satisfaction written all over his dumb face.
I try to ignore him, but no way can the giant dumbass drop it. He found his ammo, and he’s gonna use it.
“So,” he says casually, “you gonna admit it or what?”
I hit the gas, making him fly back in his seat a little. He shakes his head and laughs.
“Admit what?”
“That you’re into her.”
“She’s my friend. I’m not into her.”
I can feel him staring a hole through the side of my head. “Does your friend know you’re in love with her?”
My mouth drops open. “In love? Are you insane?”
“In general? Yeah. But right now, I’m serious. I’ve known you since our freshman year, Sinclair. You don’t look at any girls the way you look at her.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tank turns toward me, propping his elbow on the window. “Okay. Then look at me and tell me you don’t love that girl.”
I snort. “I don’t—”
I turn my head for one second. And that second changes everything.
The impact happens so fast and jerks me so violently that I don’t even have time to react or brace for it as the other car slams into the passenger side.
All I can hear is metal crunching. The car skids across the road and spins, glass exploding into the car, cutting my arms and face, and my chest instantly hurts from being slammed against the seatbelt and airbag.
It’s so intense that it knocks the breath out of me.
My shoulder feels like it cracks, and pain explodes in my arm.
The entire world goes white.
When everything finally comes back into focus, it’s all blurry, and I don’t really know where I am anymore.
I look up and see that the car is turned sideways in the middle of the four-way stop, smoke curling up from the hood.
The engine is still running, making an awful sound that worsens the pounding in my head.
My heart is beating so fast that I feel sick all of a sudden.
“Tank?” My voice comes out hoarse. “Tank—”
I try to turn my head and then see he’s slumped sideways.
He’s folded over in a way that makes my nausea grow even more.
He’s not unconscious. He’s fully awake, and that seems worse.
He looks like he’s in so much pain. His chest rises and falls like it’s taking all his effort.
It’s like he’s trying to breathe…and can’t.
“Tank,” I choke out, unbuckling my seatbelt, fumbling, and panicking to help him. “Hey—hey, stay with me, man.”
I basically fall out of the car, my legs barely holding me up from the pain and weakness in them. The passenger side is crushed inward, and the handle is barely hanging on from the impact.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” I gasp out, yanking at it anyway.
It does nothing.
Tank wheezes with one hand clutching his side. “Mase…” he manages. “I—I can’t—”
I can see where his shirt is torn, and the flesh from his stomach is ripped open, tendons and bones exposed.
“Fuck. I know—” Emotions start to cloud my throat.
All I want to do is fix this.
I look over my shoulder and see it. The stop sign I missed.
I did this.
Fuck. I didn’t even see it. An overgrown tree hangs over the stop sign, making it barely visible.
I turned my head for a second. For a fucking second.
The guy from the other car luckily gets out, not looking too badly injured as he walks over to us.
I turn back to Tank.
“I’m here,” I say, my hands shaking so badly that I can barely reach him through the broken window without cutting myself more. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s blood everywhere, on him, on the seat, on my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I keep saying, over and over again, like it’ll somehow help. “I wasn’t paying attention. I swear—I swear I didn’t see—”
I start to hear sirens in the distance and want to feel relieved, but they sound too far away. He needs help—now.
Eventually, people start yelling around us, and someone tries to pull me back, telling me to let them help, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to let go. This is my fault. This is on me. He’s hurt because of me.
When the paramedics and firefighters finally get him out, they strap him onto the stretcher, load him into the ambulance, and quickly take off.
I feel hollowed out, completely numb everywhere. I don’t remember sitting on the curb. I don’t remember my head hurting this bad until I have to clutch it to ease the pain.
A paramedic kneels down in front of me, placing her hand gently on my arm to lower it. “Hey, we need to get you checked out, okay?”
I just nod and let her lead me over to the ambulance.
I watch as they close the back doors, and just stare at my car—what’s left of it. All I can do is pray and beg God to let Tank make it. I swear to him that I’ll get my shit together; I’ll do anything if he’s just out there, listening, and answers this one time.
My head is pounding, and every bump sends pain radiating through my skull. My wrist aches badly, stinging when I try to move it, and my shoulder is on fire.
I just stare up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, and try not to throw up.
* * *
“You’ve got a concussion,” the doctor tells me. “And a grade II AC joint sprain alongside some cuts and bruises. We’ve stitched up the bad ones, and they look good to go.”
I nod, not even looking at him. I feel so numb right now that I couldn’t care less about my own injuries.
“When would I be back on the field?”
I don’t know why I even ask. I don’t care about football or anything else right now. But I know that’ll be the first question my father asks, so I’d rather have the answer ready for him.
“Concussion alone would have had you back in about a week or two, but with the shoulder sprain, best-case scenario, you’re looking at three to four weeks before full-contact football. Worst-case, closer to six weeks or more. And that’s assuming you follow instructions.”
I drop my head on the bed behind me and close my eyes, already knowing how that one’s gonna go over.
I look back at the doctor, silently pleading with him again. “Do you have an update on my friend?”
He gives me a sympathetic look, and he places his hand on my non-hurt shoulder.
“As soon as we know anything, we’ll get that information to his family.
We’ll let them know you’re asking, so if they want to share that information with you, they can.
I know you’re worried, but he’s in the best hands here. ”
The door clicks shut behind the doctor, and the room goes quiet. The thoughts in my head won’t shut up, playing on a loop, scared to death that my mistake could have cost a life. The thought scares me so badly that I physically recoil and shiver. I hate not knowing how he is.
All I can see is Tank’s face when he couldn’t breathe. The way his hand desperately braced at his side. The sound he made when they cut his shirt off and covered his wound.
My phone starts vibrating against the mattress beside me, pulling me from my thoughts.
It’s my dad—of course.
I let it keep going off longer than I should, just staring at his name, wanting to pretend I don’t even see it. It doesn’t stop, though. It just keeps buzzing.
He’s not gonna stop. If he got word of all of this—which I figured he would—he’s gonna keep blowing me up until I give in and answer anyway. Might as well rip off the band-aid now.