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Slowly, he allows me to take his hand, but he gives me little to no weight, his nostrils flaring with his own exertion. He turns slightly as he stands, leaning a hip against the island, and I shift behind him. I glance at his back, and there’s no glass in his sweats I can see, so I shuffle closer, hoping he’ll lean on me at the least.
“Be careful,” he whispers. “Don’t get glass in your feet.”
I look down at the sandals I’m wearing but say nothing as I try to slide under his left arm, but he doesn’t allow it, shifting away and moving ahead at a slow pace.
His posture is rigid, his fist bloody and clenched. I follow behind as he makes his way toward the couch and eases himself down.
A harsh breath hisses past his lips, and he drops his head back with a pant, as if it took all he had in his tank to get there.
My heart rate picks up, concern consuming me. He’s so pale, no sign of the forever tan I know him to wear, and his face is scrunched in pain and misery. Before I turn to a pile of panic, I rush back into the kitchen, snagging the first aid kit.
When I come back, Mason glances my way from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be fine. You can go.”
I lower onto the cushion beside him.
“I’m serious, Payton.”
I fold my feet under me.
He faces forward with a frown. “I’m tired.”
“I could use a nap.” I tip my head. “I mean, you’re just a little bruised. I’m the one carrying around a bowling ball.”
A grin splits his lips, and he jerks, his hand flying to his ribs. “Fuck, it hurts to even think about laughing.”
I say nothing, and after a stretch of silence, he sighs and holds his palm out.
Gingerly, I take one, using a pair of tweezers to remove two small pieces of glass, and then wipe the skin clean. The little cuts aren’t big enough to need a Band-Aid, but I add one anyway because they have little footballs all over.
Mason glares at the small white strip, and realization hits me hard and fast.
Oh my god,football.
My eyes fly to his face, and when he looks at me, it’s with a loaded expression I know all too well. It’s panic and pain. It’s fear and loss laced with utter disappointment.
And it’s all pointed right back at himself.
I have a million questions, and based on his next words, it must show.
“I’m guessing you haven’t talked to the others?”
I wince, feeling a little guilty. “I’m sort of…hiding out?”
He turns his head my way fully, worry etched in his brown eyes when he’s the one who’s hurt. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Something stirs in my stomach, drawing a sort of tension there. Mason is sitting here, hardly able to move a muscle, and he’s worried about me?
“I’m fine,” I manage to whisper.
Now he glares, and a low chuckle leaves me.
“Honest.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I fight a smile. Even in complete disarray, he’s still got his bossy boy edge. Or man.
I peek at him a moment, taking in his sharp features and vivid dark eyes.
