Page 60 of On Merit Alone
Sulking.
My hands immediately went to my hips, the worry I felt earlier creeping deeper into my heart and planting itself there. This was bad. This was new. I’d seen nothing but smiles from him in the short time I’d known him. Nothing but casual surety and faith.
As I took him in—lying there on his back, uniform still on and a long-sleeved shirt thrown on haphazardly as an afterthought. His hair was tussled, the curls sticking up every which way like he’d been rubbing his hand through them. His breathing was shallow and slow, almost like he wasn’t breathing at all. His face was turned down in a clear frown, and his fists were clenched so tight I could see his forearms straining from the continual effort. As I took all that in, I also noticed a few things.
He wasn’t speaking. He was usually the one to talk first, but right now, he wasn’t even expelling enough effort to say hello. And around him, he hadn’t shown much effort either. On his knee there laid the melted remains of what seemed like the same ice pack he was given from the Defenders’ trainer. Thrown haphazardly on opposite sides of the room were crutches that looked a little too small for him, and on the coffee table there looked to be untouchedfood still in bags from whatever place the team had provided for tonight.
The more I looked, the more my heart hurt and the less I could take.
Storming into the room, I got to work. First, picking up the crutches and setting them neatly to the side. Then, swiping up the uneaten food, I toted it along with me as I ventured into the kitchen. Opening the stainless steel fridge, I set the containers on an empty shelf before moving over to the freezer.
Perfect, an ice maker.
Moving to the cream-colored cabinets that surrounded the kitchen, I opened cabinet after cabinet until I came across bowls big enough for what I needed. Then, I opened more cabinets until I found plastic resealable bags too.
At the ice maker, I filled the bowl with ice before adding just a little bit of water. Filling both bags, I made one with ice and one with just the icy water. Leaving the bowl in the sink to wash later, I returned to the living room and this time ventured all the way to Ira’s side.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said turn that light off,” he grumbled without even lifting to look at me.
I wasn’t hurt by his tone, I was actually relieved he was speaking at all. For a moment, I was worried, though if he kept talking in that depressed growly tone, I would continue to. It was so unlike him. It made me want to ask him plainly what happened, and what the prognosis for the rest of the playoffs was.
But I knew that wasn’t what he needed. He had probably gotten that from everyone else already. Right now he needed to stop thinking about it.
Ignoring his request, I said, “Just tell me if anything I do hurts, okay?”
Then I got to unwrapping his knee. The floppy melted ice pack was wrapped tight to his limb with the sticky plastic wrap that wasalways a bitch to get loose without scissors. After a minute of tussling with it, I got up to look for some.
“Merit,” my patient growled as I returned to his side. “The light.”
“No, Ira,” I said calmly and began cutting his knee out of the wrap. Picking up the old pack, I noticed the water was warm now. I shook my head. “Have you been on the floor since you got home?”
He didn’t answer.
I sighed, moving to come around his lower half. Reaching down, I didn’t let myself hesitate as I grasped onto his calf lightly. His skin was dusted with soft hair, his muscles taut and large in my grasp. He had to know what I wanted as soon as I touched him, there were only a few things that were even a possibility, yet he didn’t move a muscle in assistance.
Okay.
“I’m going to lift this leg, okay? You really should have it elevated.”
He grunted and I took that as permission enough, lifting the surprisingly heavy limb and slowly starting to stack all the couch pillows I could reach underneath it.
Once I had his leg resting again, I picked up my ice pack, making sure to make a lot of noise with it so he knew what was coming, and laid it over his knee. He didn’t even take a breath when the sharp bite of cold pinched his skin. He must really be out of it.
Reclaiming my spot on the floor next to him, I got to work on the rest. Sliding my fingers under the crook of his neck and slightly into the back of his soft hair, I lifted his head to slide a thinner couch pillow underneath it. Looking around myself, I searched for the remote. The speakers were playing the sound of the same sports reporters I had been hearing since the game ended. They were all contemplating things about Ira and his career. All discussing things he did not need to be hearing right now. I flipped the channel, and some kind of explosion moviereplaced the previous image. When Ira groaned, I muted it altogether.
Finally, I went for his hands—the arm that was thrown over his face, to be exact. I didn’t know what I would find underneath that arm but I knew, at the very least, his face needed a break from it. Laying my hands over his balled-up fist, I tugged on his arm to try and get him to release it.
He resisted a little but eventually let me move his limbs away from his face. And yep, it was as unhappy as I imagined. A little colorless and a little red at the same time. Like he both needed food and had been scrubbing his skin repeatedly. His eyes were pressed closed and he wouldn’t open them, not even when his face was uncovered.
“Ira?”
Grunt.
“Want some food?”
Another grunt that sounded a lot like, “Hell no.”
I sighed. Then, I used the pads of my fingers to poke his cheek a little. It was warm. He was still seething from the inside. I frowned. “Come on I, please? It doesn’t have to be that stuff they gave you for Team Meal. I’ll order you something, just tell me what you like.”
