Heath smacks into me several times. Normally he limits himself to two or three tackles, but today he’s going all out. I fall to the ground once, twice, three times, four times. I lose count at six.
I’m hurt. I’m gasping. I’m barely able to stand on the field with my stupid stick clutched in my hands. And I don’t even have the damn ball—but here comes Heath, barreling toward me with a wicked grin behind his faceguard, and slams into me so hard I’m actually knocked clear off my feet and am suspended in the air for a fraction of a second.
The coach’s whistle blows as I hit the ground. The wind gets knocked out of my lungs for what feels like the millionth time today, and I roll onto my side, coughing and sputtering. I hear the coach saying something to Heath, but I can’t make out the words.
I sit up, still coughing and this time the coach offers me his hand. As I use it to help myself to my feet, a sharp pain shoots up my ribs.
I freeze, not daring to move another muscle as my head spins dangerously.
“You good, Alex?” the coach asks flatly.
I grit my teeth and look up at him. I’m bent almost double, clutching my ribs. He’s staring at me impassively. At his elbow, Heath grins manically at me.
I’ve had enough. I think one of my ribs might be broken. Not just sprained this time, but broken.
It feels like it’s crackling beneath my fingers, beneath the gauze.
I rip my helmet off and throw it on the ground. “No,” I snap. “I’m sitting out for the rest.”
Heath’s face drops into a scowl, but no one stops me from limping my way over to the bleachers. I just want to be left alone to figure out how badly I’m actually injured, but Olive immediately scurries down to meet me.
Shit. I forgot she was here.
“Alex!” she cries as I sit painfully down on the bottom row and start tugging my padding off.
“Hey,” I say, too tired and hurt to ignore her.
She settles next to me and helps me pull my padding off. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she says happily. “I was worried about you, y’know.”
“Nice of you,” I grunt. I barely have to try to keep my voice deep-ish anymore.
I just wish she would go away. Heath’s already injured me again. Just let Jasper see this and he’ll finish me off.
“That looked like a nasty tackle,” she sighs, still helping me remove my padding. “And so soon after your accident.”
I try not to laugh at the ridiculousness. She was there. She saw it was no accident, not really. I might have thrown myself down those stairs, but she knows it was hardly without reason. That reason being the same one I’m sitting here on this bench beside her.
“My ribs still haven’t completely healed, I don’t think.”
“You poor thing.” My padding finally off, she makes a pouty face and leans forward to settles her hand on my knee.
Holy shit. I stiffen. Olive is hitting on me. For real this time.
I glance out at the ongoing game, where Jasper has stopped in the middle of the field. I can’t see his expression beneath his full-face helmet, but it’s turned toward me.
A small part of me, the part of me that should know better but obviously doesn’t, feels a thrill.
Rather than jump away like I should, I lean a little bit toward Olive. “I don’t know,” I sigh, playing it up. I see Jasper’s shoulders twitch out of the corner of my eye. “I’m okay. Just need a breather.”
“You shouldn’t even be playing,” she says emphatically, scooting closer to me.
The coach’s whistle blows, signaling the end of practice. No sooner has the solitary note ended than The Brotherhood comes jogging up.
“Alex,” Jasper says, jerking his helmet off his head with a ferocious tug. “I see you’ve met Olive.”
“Several times,” I reply nonchalantly. As if he hasn’t warned me about her before. Olive’s hand doesn’t leave my knee, even with the boys’ arrival, and Jasper’s eyes are fixated on it. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Or, if she does, she does a damn good job of hiding it.