Page 147 of The Hot Shot
“Couple of scrapes. Broken wrist.” Finn’s expression is blank, barely a flicker of movement. He glances down at my hand resting on the bed.
“How ironic. Mine just healed.”
The corners of his mouth pinch. “Love that you can joke. Two times, I’ve had to hear you were in the hospital.” Blue eyes pin me to the spot. “That’s two times too many.”
“It’s not like I planned this.”
He grunts.
“I’m not even a clumsy person. Both times, they ran into me.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of looking both ways, Chester?” He actually glares.
“It was a one-way street. Who thinks to look for rando bikers going the wrong way?”
“You do. From now on. Jesus.” He wipes a hand over his mouth. “My heart can’t take another call like that, okay?”
“Okay. I’m sorry.” I am. Not for getting hit, but for putting that look of abject fear in his eyes.
Finn scowls. “Don’t be sorry. How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy.” I blink down at my body. The inside of my elbow has a bandage on it from where they put an IV in earlier. A saline drip that had provided cool relief and, later, some very exceptional painkillers. One thing to love about a hospital, I guess. “I can’t remember what I look like. Give me a damage report.”
His throat works on a swallow. “A few scrapes and bruises on your right temple and cheek.”
“That’s not so bad.”
“Debatable.”
This is not the reunion I’d planned. Finn is here and clearly worried about me, but he’s distant and fairly humming with some emotion I can’t figure out. My memory clears a little more and a bolt of horror hits me. “Oh, shit.”
Instantly, Finn jolts as if pinched. “What? Are you hurting? Talk to me.”
“Jake. How is he?”
Finn settles down with a scowl, then rubs a hand over his face. “He sprained his neck. And, like you, has a concussion. He’s out for the season but, all in all, he got lucky.”
“I saw it happen. I was so scared.”
Finn pales, and his lashes lower. “Me, too.”
“I know. I should have been there.”
Finn glares down at his fists.
I want to touch him, stroke away the stiffness along his neckand shoulders. But he looks as if one touch will shatter him, and I don’t know what to say to bridge the gap between us. “Did you win?”
The muscle on his jaw bunches. “Yes. We weren’t going down without a fight.”
But there’s no emotion in his words. He keeps glaring at his fists as if he’s thinking of punching something. I don’t know what to do.
“You were magnificent,” I tell him with a soft voice.
He grunts.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Yes.”
