Since I have no other choice, I turn to face him. God, he’s handsome here in the sunlight. I can’t help thinking about it anytime I get caught off guard by him or the others. He’s wearing gym shorts and a tank top, and I can see the muscles in his biceps ripple as he walks toward me, swinging a pair of cleats by their laces in one hand.
But being shoved by a pretty boy doesn’t hurt any less. I would know. And if it weren’t for this injury, I’d know a whole lot better.
“Not coming to practice again today, pussy?” he calls after me, loud enough to make sure we’re overheard by the entire courtyard.
I look around. Everyone is watching as he walks by them. Their eyes snap from him to me. A few boys pull out their phones to record videos.
I really don’t want to get beaten to a pulp.
“I can’t,” I tell him in the hoarse croak my voice has taken on these past weeks.
He sneers as he comes to a stop directly in front of me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” I bluster. “I’m injured, remember?”
He grabs me by the arm and I wince, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. He grins. He can tell the difference.
“You little shit,” he says through clenched teeth, yanking my arm toward him so that I stumble forward, almost into his chest. “You and this stupid injury. It’s just an excuse.”
“It isn’t,” I lie, trying not to stammer. “I would totally play if Ms. Weber clears me, but—” I stop myself abruptly as his eyes widen and he takes on a wicked grin.
“Oh, you would, huh?” he asks. “Then why do
n’t we go see her?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
“She won’t—”
“That’s for her to decide, isn’t it?” He says, cutting me off. With a manic grin to rival Beck’s, Heath fixes his hand even tighter around my forearm and starts dragging me into the school building.
My brain whirs. I know I’m recovered enough to go to practice, maybe even play a little, but I really don’t want to. I don’t even know anything about lacrosse—which, honestly, is the least of my worries.
It’s a painful trip to the infirmary. Heath practically throws me into the room through the double doors. I teeter awkwardly on the spot as Ms. Weber looks up from her desk.
“Alex?” she asks, confusion on her face.
I laugh a little nervously and wring my hands. Heath comes in to stand next to me.
“Ms. Weber,” he says warmly. “How are you today?”
“Doing fine,” she replies with a small smile.
“We’re here because we’re wondering if Alex here,” he slaps my back, hard, and I try not to wince, “is fit to come to lacrosse practice. We’re awfully inefficient without him.” Heath adds the last bit with an evil glance at me.
Ms. Weber looks from me to him. She lets no sign slip that she knows my deepest, darkest secret.
“Well, I did just examine you yesterday,” she tells me. On my back, Heath begins digging his knuckles between my shoulder blades. “As long as you’re careful, I think you can attend practice—do your ribs hurt much anymore?”
Heath digs his knuckles into my skin further. I do my best not to show how much it hurts, but I’m reading his message loud and clear—come to lacrosse practice, or he’s going to make me regret it.
“No,” I say to Ms. Weber. I wish I could signal something to her with my eyes, but I’m too focused on not crying out from the pain in my back.
“As long as you’re careful, then, I think you’ll be okay. Keep your chest bandages, though,” she adds as an afterthought.
It’s a small thing. One that I’m grateful for.
I nod.