Page 136 of Almost Rotten

It’s not the hospital’s fault. He’s mastered the art of downplaying. He stoically tolerated all the poking and prodding, reporting his pain level was between a three and a four. Then he flipped the switch and was brash and rude enough to goad them into wanting to be rid of him.

Inside the guys’ dorm room, I drop my bag and stretch my neck from side to side. It’s been a hell of a day. Between the excitement and adrenaline of the game and the stress of dealing with Ty and his injuries, I’m exhausted.

The standoff with Mercer was icing on the cake.

When I refused to leave with him, I could practically see his shields going up.

His reaction hurt, but I understand. I promised I wouldn’t shut him out again, and he thinks that’s what happened tonight.

This wasn’t a shutout, though. I wasn’t rejecting him.

In the presence of those people, and with Ty in that state, rocking the boat would have been disastrous. I knew where I needed to be most. Just like I knew we wouldn’t be at the hospital long.

I promised to check in with Mercer, which I’m anxious to do now. This early, there’s still a chance we can meet up for the night like we planned.

“What’s the prognosis?” Atty asks Tytus. “I’m assuming you’re not coming out tonight?”

When Ty doesn’t answer, I chime in.

“He’s got a contusion on his upper inner thigh. No broken ribs to report, because he didn’t bother showing them anything but his leg.”

“Oh shit.” Atty’s eyes go wide as he lunges toward me.

No.

Not me.

He’s lunging for Ty.

Heart in my throat, I turn.

Ty stumbles back, catching himself on the doorframe, his face pinched.

Atty dips under his arm and takes his weight. “Easy, big guy.”

Ty doesn’t reply. Masking his pain for hours at the rink and the hospital has clearly taken its toll.

“What’d they give him?” my brother asks as he guides Ty to his bed.

“He got a shot of ketorolac and exactly eight pain pills to take as needed.”

Atty scoffs. “Eight? So two days’ worth?”

I shrug. “Serves him right. He’s the one hiding cracked ribs.”

“I don’t want any fucking pills,” Ty mumbles as Atty helps him sit.

My brother turns, giving me a knowing look.

Ty has always hated pain meds. I used to think it was because his dad was an alcoholic, and he was worried about his predisposition for addiction. But now that Ty’s old enough, he drinks occasionally. I’ve never asked him outright, but now I assume it’s because the medication makes the nightmares worse.

“Let me see what you’re dealing with,” Atty says, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

Rather than put up a fight, Ty slumps against his pillow.

As I peek over my brother’s shoulder, I gasp.

Ty’s side is covered in crimson splotches. They don’t look like bruises at all. They’re too angry.