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“Who’s the other guy?” I ask, my blood turning cold as I usher him inside.
“That assclown Graham,” he mutters.
Shit. I need to get him out of here. If Austin comes home with Kelly and finds Grayson here, it’s going to get ugly…and it’s not something I have any interest in being in the middle of.
I take him to the kitchen sink first, and he perches on the counter while I find some supplies to clean him up.
Once I gather my stuff, I move back toward him, and I move in between his legs. His hands find my hips, but I’m not exactly in the mood right now.
I use a washcloth to gently clean his wound. He winces as I dab at the cut. It’s minor, but it’s obvious Austin punched him. I can’t help but wonder why.
Getting into a fight with a teammate is bad news. I can’t help but wonder whether he’ll be fined or suspended or worse.
“What happened?” I ask softly as I clean him up. His eyes fall tenderly to mine when I glance up into his, but I force myself to concentrate on what I’m doing.
He sighs. “It was him.”
“What was him?”
“He posted that video of me talking to Beckett. Or, rather, he gave it to someone else to post.”
My hand slips a little at his confession, and he winces when I scrape the washcloth against the cut. It’s small, and it’s not like it’s gushing, but it’s right under his eye, and it can’t feel good. With his blood thinned from the alcohol, it’s bleeding more than it probably should be.
“I confronted him at the bar, he didn’t like what I had to say, and that was it. He got mouthy with me, so I gave him a right hook. And if I wasn’t a few gins short of a bottle, I might’ve had the reflexes to duck his return.” He shrugs and twists his lips wryly at the end.
I roll my eyes. “You punched him first? That was stupid, Grayson.”
“What he did was pretty fucking stupid, too.”
“He’s your teammate, and you were out with players. You don’t think this’ll get back to the front office? You think you’re untouchable because you’re the coach’s brother?” I ask, my tone demanding because, frankly…I’m angry.
“I’ve got a better shot at getting out of it than that asshole. And he had it coming.”
“Be that as it may, you need to control yourself,” I say. I finish cleaning the wound and toss the washcloth in the garbage can. I put some gauze and a bandage over the cut.
I head over to the freezer and fish around until I find a bag of frozen vegetables. I end up with broccoli. I think you’re supposed to use peas on what’s going to become a black eye, but I’m a pastry chef, not a nurse, and this is all I’ve got.
“Here,” I say, and I shove the vegetables at him. I don’t get close enough for him to set his hands on my hips again.
“I’m not hungry, and these are frozen.”
I roll my eyes and set my hand on my hip. “Put it on your eye, asshole.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says quietly—almost meekly. He does as he’s told since I’ve never called him an asshole before.
But if the shoe fits…
“How do you know it was him who posted the video?” I ask.
“He was standing behind me when I said that shit to your brother. I didn’t see him until it was too late. And you know I didn’t mean it. I had to keep up the act for Beckett.” He lowers the broccoli, and I push his hand back up.
“Keep it there,” I say.
“It’s cold,” he whines.
“Too bad. Why would he post that video?”
“He’s got it out for my family. I told you that from the beginning.”
