The Trouble With Quarterbacks(78)

“They have you on pain medicine.”

Oh, right. Well then. I swallow down my distress and turn to look at Logan, finally noticing the worry lines near his eyes and the deep furrow between his brows. He has his ball cap in his hands, coiled tight in his grip. He looks like he’s been wringing it like that for ages. There’s a chair beside my bed, but he’s not sitting in it. Instead, he’s standing near my knees, glancing down at me.

“Are you all right?” I ask, wondering if he was injured too.

“I’m fine.”

“Oh okay. It’s just that you look a bit odd standing there. Why don’t you sit down?”

He ignores me. “You’re probably hungry. We never did get that breakfast, and it’s already past lunch. I was going to go down and grab you something from the cafeteria.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m fine, actually. The meds they have me on must be making my stomach hurt a bit. I don’t think I could eat.” I pat the bed beside my hip. “Sit by me?”

He doesn’t budge from his spot. Instead, he keeps wringing that bloody hat.

“Logan?”

His eyes are on my chest, like he can’t quite meet my eyes. I’ve never seen him like this, and it has me worried. I try to sit up and reach out for him, but the movement messes with my precarious state of equilibrium. My head suddenly starts pounding, and I immediately lie back down.

Logan jumps forward to help me position myself on the pillows.

“Easy, Candace. You’re really hurt.”

I offer him a lopsided grin. “Oh come on, I bet this happens to you all the time on the field and you handle it like a champ. I’m a big baby with these machines beeping away.”

He glowers at me, clearly not appreciating my quip. “I don’t think you understand how serious this was…how much worse it could have been.”

I frown, not quite sure what he’s playing at. It was just a collision with a cyclist. It probably happens all the time in New York City. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened to me before with how careless I am.

“Just a bit of a scuffle with a bike. Next time, I’ll win,” I tease.

His smile is a flat line as he replies, “There was a car too. It nearly hit you both. I watched it swerve out of the way in the nick of time.”

The expression on his face contorts as if the memory makes him sick. I understand completely. My stomach tightens too, imagining how much worse off I would be right now if there’d been a car involved as well.

“But it did swerve,” I remind him. “So there’s no sense in worrying about what could have happened.”

His gaze flits up to mine and I flinch back, shocked by how much fury I see lurking under the surface.

“You don’t get it. This was horrible, Candace. Seeing you lying there on the street, bleeding from your head…”

At that, he turns and shoves his hand through his hair, as if he can’t even bear to look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I offer weakly. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Is that what he’s after? An apology? Does he think I willingly put myself in harm’s way?

“Jesus, don’t apologize. You don’t apologize. None of this was your fault. It was my fault.”

“What? What do you mean?”

He wasn’t even by me when I stepped off the curb. He was trying to get to me, but there were too many people.

“I never should have let us walk to breakfast like that.”

“I walk places all the time!”

“Yeah, before.”

“Before…”

“Me!” he explodes.

The room fills with the aftershocks of his outburst, and we sit in absolute silence. He thinks this was his fault. He’s angry, but not with me.

“You didn’t invite those photographers there,” I say meekly. “They’re the ones to blame for all this.”

Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut, because my words only seem to anger him more. His eyes are hot coals when he glances back at me.

“You don’t get it, Candace. This is the life I lead. It’s what comes with my career. The lack of privacy, the photographers—all the bullshit. It’s not just going to magically go away.”

“Well so what? I know what I’ve signed up for. Don’t you think I realize how serious this all is?”

“No. I don’t think you do. Not after this morning. That—” He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge the memory of it. “That can’t happen again.”

“Okay…so we won’t walk to breakfast for a while. Or y’know, next time we’ll use better disguises. Kat actually has these awesome wigs—”

He cuts me off. “Candace, you’re not getting it.”

His tone is sharper than ever before, and I can’t help but feel wounded. Does he think I’m a complete idiot? That I’m not going to be more careful next time?

Then our eyes meet again, and it suddenly clicks.

“What do you mean it ‘can’t happen again’?”

“I won’t let it.”

So that’s it then? This is how it ends?!

“Jesus, what a coward you’ve turned out to be! Just say what you’re tiptoeing around. I can’t stand it!”