KNIGHT
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The flight back to Missouri gets delayed because of snow on the runway.
It’s a long delay, so we don’t make it back until Monday morning when the sun is bright, and the temperature is in the forties.
I tried to sleep in the airport and on the plane, but after the incredible win we pulled off Saturday night, it was a while before the adrenaline let go of me.
The heart-stopping finish came down to me and D.
We wound up four points behind because our defensive line got torn up and fatigued by UCP’s aggressive offense in the first half.
By the fourth quarter, they weren’t able to keep up with the other team’s lightning fast wide receiver, and their clever running back was literally running circles around his coverage.
Offensively, we were doing our part, marching down the field and scoring with every possession, but not always managing to land it in the end zone, having to rely more heavily on our field goal kicker than I liked.
I don’t know if it was all the cheesesteaks the bigger guys claimed to eat the day before, but the whole team felt sluggish.
In the end, we needed forty yards and a touchdown.
I remember Dillon and Derek looking at me with wide, earnest eyes like they’d die trying to protect me in the pocket, and Deandre with a fierce determination on his face like no way would he let me down in this game of all the games we’ve played.
Speaking to the rest of them in the huddle, I remember saying something like “Just this play, nothing else matters, keep D open, give us everything you’ve got, focus, and it’s fucking done. This win is ours.”
It came together like magic, one of those perfect moments I live for in a game.
D caught my soaring pass, and ran the ball uncovered all the way to the end zone and our victory with three seconds remaining on the clock.
So, not quite a Hail Mary, but it sure as hell felt like one. There were definitely prayers involved.
Sullivan’s text after the game read: you gave me an actual heart attack.
I replied: I had one too
With the delay, I’ve only got one night before my flight to Michigan leaves so I can be home for Christmas.
I’m hoping Sullivan is still in town because I need to lay eyes on him more than I need to breathe, but there’s a chance I’ve missed him, and he’s already headed home.
If that ends up being the case, I’ll find him in Sunrise Point.
I’ve kept myself from calling him because I have a feeling I’ll come off way too overbearing or possibly even desperate.
I won’t sound like a friend with a reasonable concern about how he’s doing.
I’m going to sound like how I actually feel—I’m scared.
The alarm that went off when we were on the phone Friday night is still actively blaring, and no matter how many times I tell myself he’s fine, he’s talking to you, he’s home, it doesn’t change the way his voice sounded.
It’s stuck in my head the way the melodies he played that first summer on the violin would get stuck there.
I hate it. I hate the way I’m panicking, and I hate the way I love him.
I love him like he’s the only thing that matters, and without him, I’m fucked.
Anyone who knew would tell me it’s not healthy.
It’s not right to feel this way or make myself sick over someone who probably shouldn’t be in a relationship until he’s had years of therapy, but nothing stops it.
There’s no advice anyone could give me that would solve the problem of him and me, and I have no experience with anything else besides being totally enthralled with him even when I know it can’t be me who winds up with him.
I can’t save someone when I haven’t even figured out how to protect myself from me.
Maybe I should be more worried about protecting him from me, but I can’t let go of this idea that he needs to see me as much as I need to see him.
The way he was clinging to me in the tunnel at the Front.
The fact that he finally told me about Adrian and the money and the fucking grooming.
It looked like it took everything out of him, and he was giving it all to me—or he wanted to. I think he wanted to.
It’s on me to figure this out. If he wants to stay friends, whatever.
It’s fine. I’ll survive. He’s not getting rid of me.
But if he wants more, then I have to find a way to give him that.
My dad’s always talking about how smart I am, so what the hell good is that if I can’t put together a plan to make the guy I love happy and keep him safe.
It’s what I’m telling myself as I approach his back door, stomping through snow and slush—you’re smart, you can do this, just read the field, find the openings, and come up with the perfect play.
When the latch turns, I catch my breath. It could be either of his roommates, so I shouldn’t feel so high off adrenaline suddenly, but I do, and then I see him.
For long seconds I can’t form a word or even a thought as I take him in. The bruise on his forehead, the cut on his lower lip, the blackened cheekbone. Worse, the cast around his lower right arm, covering most of his hand.
He shakes his head, slowly, mechanically as he backs away from the door, putting his casted arm behind his back, like the rest of the way he looks isn’t bad or obvious enough.
I take a slow, steadying breath as rage like I’ve never felt before boils directly beneath the surface of my skin. “Who the fuck did that to you?”
He keeps shaking his head.
As deliberately as I can, I step inside, shut the door, and keep my distance.
“Sullivan?”
“It’s over,” he whispers.
“What do you mean it’s over?”
“I mean, I just…I don’t have to go back. It’s over. I’m fine. It’s done.”
“It’s—” I have to take another breath. “What happened to your arm?”
“Um…” He lifts his arms and looks down at the cast like he forgot it was there. “My wrist broke.”
“It broke?”
“It wasn’t severe. I didn’t need surgery. Supposedly, it’s gonna be okay.”
I swallow hard when my vision blurs momentarily. As the kitchen and Sullivan come back into focus, I give myself a second to study the field, find the play.
“The important thing,” he says, “is it’s over.”
“Meaning what?”
“I never have to go back.”
My inhalation is shaky. All my nerves fire, misfire, sizzle. “Good,” I say as calmly as possible.
He manages a very, very weak smile and nods then says softly, “You’re back.”
I don’t know if I’m mentally or physically capable of changing the subject.
I understand he doesn’t want to talk about it.
That for him “it’s over” solves the problem of his broken wrist and his beat-up face, but all I want to do is get him out of his clothes and examine the rest of him.
See the rest of the damage done to this man I love so stupidly I’m positive I would do anything for him even if it meant ruining my own life and body in the process.
Keeping a cool head and steadier thoughts, I reply, “I thought I’d be here sooner, but we just landed.”
“Because of the snow?”
“Yeah.”
I’m openly staring at his face, and I don’t think he likes that, so he turns away. “Want some water or coffee or something?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
“I was gonna make coffee. I just woke up. No one’s here. Harrison and Chelsea both left last night for home. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Me too,” I tell him.
“Yeah? What time? Do you have a flight, or are you driving? I was gonna drive, but I don’t know. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow, I guess.”
“Does it hurt?” I’m thinking mostly of his arm.
“No, it’s not so bad. They gave me the good drugs. I won’t drive on drugs,” he babbles as he scoops mounds of coffee into a filter. “I only have a couple of those pills left, but ibuprofen helps, too.”
I take a few small, experimental steps closer to him.
His eyes dart up to track me, but he doesn’t flinch.
I stop where I’m at, the edge of the counter, and he closes the lid on the coffee maker.
Taking the pot off the burner, he moves to the sink, closer to where I’m standing, and fills it with ten cups of water before replacing it and pressing the button to brew.
“That game,” he says suddenly, startling me, “Holy shit, I was a mess. Chelsea and I were screaming our faces off. Were your parents there?”
“No. They’ve got grandkids at home for the holidays. They couldn’t make the trip.”
“I was just blown away. I mean—obviously if anyone could have pulled it off, it was you, but seeing it happen in real time, I just felt so lucky.”
I frown at the same time he does.
“Lucky was a weird word choice,” he says, and I wonder if the chattering he’s doing is in any way related to the meds he mentioned. “Maybe I meant proud. Proud of all of you guys. School spirit, like you said. You know?”
“Sullivan,” I say in a low voice. “I can’t not talk about this.”
He clears his throat. “Can I make coffee first? I really need some coffee.”
I nod. He nods back and then turns to busy himself by taking two mugs out of a cabinet, finding some creamer in the fridge, and setting out a variety of sweetener packets along with two spoons.
The coffee continues to drip, and the furnace clicks on.
I take off my coat and put it on one of chairs at the kitchen table behind me.
I get out of my boots, too. They’re muddy and wet, and I don’t want to track any more dirt inside.
I’ve only been in this house once before, but it was a memorable enough experience that I know the layout.
Still, I’m not about to go chill in the living room while the coffee brews when he’s only got one working hand.
His right arm is the one in the cast. That’s his bow arm.
It’s also the hand he uses to write music.
I do need to sit, but I do it at the table, keeping my eyes on him.