Fumbled (Playbook #2)(72)
Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
* * *
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“DAD!” ACE PUSHES past me into the medical room TK’s being checked out in. “Are you okay?”
TK pulls a towel off his head at Ace’s voice. I watch as his eyes go soft, seeing Ace run toward him, but I also see the way he flinches in pain when he sits up too fast. “Yeah, dude,” TK says. “Just a little knock to the head.”
I want to throttle him.
I want to jump his bones, kiss every inch of his gorgeous face, and freaking throttle him.
“Just a little knock?” I take a deep breath, not wanting to lose my mind in a room full of strangers. “I could hear the hit from my seat and you looked like you had fifteen shots of tequila when you stood up. That was not a little knock.”
“It’s just a slight concussion.” Jason, the trainer, tries—and fails—to comfort me. “He’ll be back on the field come Wednesday.”
“I’ve fuckin’ hit TK harder than that,” Donny pipes in. “If he couldn’t take a hit, he wouldn’t be a Mustang. He’s fine.”
I feel the heat creeping up my cheeks as unfiltered rage starts to flow through my body at the way everyone seems to be downplaying the seriousness of a concussion. I mean, what the hell? I know I’m no doctor, but a quick Google search will yield you pages upon pages of brain-injury-related articles.
“Poppy.” TK pulls my attention to him, probably concerned by the steam blowing out of my ears. “I’m okay. I promise.”
He’s not.
But I can tell Ace isn’t either, and I don’t want to scare him any more than he already is.
So I drop it . . . for now.
“Okay,” I whisper, my throat clogged and eyes burning all of a sudden.
Not surprising me at all, TK notices the change in my tone right away. And equally unsurprising, he does something about it.
“Hey, guys,” he says loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “Mind if I have a minute alone with my family.”
His family.
I freaking love him.
Now I’m definitely going to cry.
I walk to an empty wall past the navy blue upholstered exam beds and stare unseeingly at a poster detailing the muscles found around the knee. I don’t turn around until the trainers clear out, Charli tells TK to feel better, and Donny—a poet of vulgarities—parts with a classy, “You were a fucking beast out there today. That was a bitch hit and I know you’ll be back on the field soon.”
Awww.
Sweet.
The room we’re in doesn’t have doors, but it’s tucked away in a corner enough so the voices all fade after a minute or two.
“Come here, Sparks.”
I bite my bottom lip, breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth, and turn around once I’m positive my composure is back intact.
TK’s huge body is taking up the entire table he’s sitting on, and Ace is standing right next to him, so close he might’ve, in fact, fused himself to TK.
“You scared me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” He takes my hand into his and pulls it to his mouth, dropping gentle kisses on my knuckles and making Ace cringe so hard.
“I know you didn’t,” I say, proud of my even, nonhysterical voice. “It’s part of this stupid game. I just hate seeing you hurt.”
“She’s a worrier,” Ace pipes in. “She made me sit in a car seat until I was in second grade and still watches me walk to Jayden’s house even though it’s just down the street.”
“Dang, kid, you’re just gonna throw me under the bus like that?” I ask Ace, even though I don’t care at all. I’m just glad the haunted look he’s worn since TK went down is gone.
“She can’t help it.” TK wraps an arm around Ace’s shoulders, leans to his ear, and stage whispers, “I told you, us Moore men make her crazy.”
Since I can’t argue with that, I roll my eyes and say nothing.
“Now.” TK stands up, slow and with the caution my granny had after she had a hip replacement when I was seven. “Let me get changed so we can head out.”
“You can go?” I look up at the small screen mounted in the corner of the room and see the game is still going on.
“Yeah, it’ll be better because I’ll miss press and fans asking for autographs upstairs.” TK follows the path everyone else took a few minutes ago. “With the headache I have, I wouldn’t be my best.”
I don’t argue with him.
For one, I know nothing of the rules or etiquette of injuries.
Two, I’ve wanted to get him home since I saw him run out on the field.
And three—
“Plus, it’s a schoooooool night,” I sing to Ace, whose only response is a quick roll of the eyes and subsequent terrified expression for daring to roll his eyes at me.
“I think they set up some after-game snacks already in the family room. You guys can sit in there and wait for me if you want,” TK suggests before I can ask Ace if he took a hit in the head today too. “I won’t take too long.”
“Sounds good,” Ace and I say at the same time.
Because while Ace might be getting a little too grown up for his own good, the family room has brownies and Cherry Coke. And neither of us will ever be too grown up—and I will never have the self-discipline—not to hoard chocolate and caffeine.