Page 86 of The Hearts We Fumble
“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy,” he adds, a weak attempt at humor that falls flat.
I don’t laugh. I don’t even breathe.
“Come on,” I say softly, wrapping my fingers around his. His grip tightens for just a second, grounding himself in me before he follows without protest.
I flick the light on in the bathroom, and the brightness only makes the damage more apparent. His knuckles are a mess of torn skin and swelling, the bruising creeping up his fingers like ink seeping through paper.
“Can you move them? Make a fist?”
I watch closely as he curls his fingers, the movement stiff and slow. Pain flickers across his face, but it’s gone as fast as it appears.
“It’s gonna be sore tomorrow.” My stomach twists, knowing he has a game coming up.
A part of me wants to ask who did this to him. Who pushed him to the edge? Who was stupid enough to throw hands with Zane Kinnick?
But I don’t.
Because I already know.
I heard enough of his conversation earlier to piece together that Myla was at a party in Keaton. I don’t know what happened, but I do know Zane. He doesn’t throw punches unless there’s a damn good reason.
“Is Myla okay?” I ask instead.
He nods once. “Yeah. She’s okay.”
The tension in his voice tells me something happened.
I swallow down the questions, the urge to press for details. Instead, I pull open the linen closet, scanning the sparse contents. He doesn’t keep much here, but thankfully, I spot a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
Turning on the faucet, I adjust the water to warm and grab a clean washcloth.
“Wash your hands,” I tell him gently.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say another word.
Stepping forward, he just lets the water rush over his battered knuckles while I stand beside him, gripping the sink like it’ll hold me together.
Zane hisses when the soap stings his busted knuckles, his jaw tightening as he gently scrubs them under the warm water. I stay close, ready with a towel to pat his hands dry the second he’s done.
The bleeding has stopped, but his knuckles are raw, the skin torn and angry. His fingers look swollen, and I know they’ll be sore as hell tomorrow.
“Here,” I murmur, carefully dabbing at the wounds with peroxide. He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with tired eyes, letting me take care of him.
When I’m done, I lead him into the kitchen, heating the dinner he barely touched earlier. I don’t have an appetite anymore, so I leave him to eat while I slip into the bathroom, washing my face and brushing my teeth.
By the time I return, the plate is empty, and Zane is gone.
I find him in his bedroom, sprawled out on his bed in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts. The sight of him—broad chest, tanned skin, muscles shifting as he runs a hand over his abs—stops me in my tracks.
His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.
“You gonna join me,” he drawls, “or you just wanna stand there and stare at me all night?”
I roll my eyes, even as warmth spreads through my chest.
“I’m still deciding whether I’m mad at you,” I say, tossing an ice pack onto the mattress beside him. “So, for now, maybe I should keep my distance.”
His smile fades slightly, eyes darkening as he studies me.
