Page 187 of Make Me Mean It

None of it exists.

Just Theo.

Warm beneath my hand.

Breathing.

Still fucking here.

His arm lifts towards me and the movement barely gets halfway before his face pinches with pain.

“No.” I catch his wrist immediately, lowering it carefully back to his chest. “Stop moving.”

Theo’s eyes crack open.

“Just stay fucking still for once in your life,” I tell him, trying to make it sound annoyed, but my voice cracks halfway through and ruins it completely.

He rolls his eyes at me.

Actually fucking rolls his eyes.

“I’m alright, Con,” he murmurs.

A horrible sound catches in my throat, half laugh, half something else, and then my face is wet.

Fuck.

I swipe uselessly at one cheek, but another tear follows it before I can stop it.

“Don’t try and comfort me, asshole,” I whisper.

I bend over him, pressing my forehead carefully to his, both hands cradling his face now because I need to feel him. Need the warmth of his skin against my palms, the brush of his breath against my mouth, every tiny fucking proof that he’s here.

My eyes squeeze shut.

“God,” I croak. “I hate this fucking sport.”

Theo laughs.

Or tries to.

It breaks into a sharp hiss almost immediately, his face tightening with pain, and I pull back just enough to look at him.

His eyes flick down.

To my mouth.

Then away.

My heart stutters.

I stare at him, at the blood smeared over his lips, the small split at the corner of his mouth, the dazed, exhausted look in his eyes.

I nearly just watched him get carried off this ice unconscious.

And suddenly I cannot remember why I ever thought any of the rest of it fucking mattered.

My hands tighten around his face.