Page 65 of Penalty Shot

Stumbling and flailing, I drop the grocery bag and land hard on the sidewalk. A lightning bolt shoots up my arm, making me holler like a wounded animal. Surprised and in pain, I realize the primary victim of my clumsiness: my wrist does not look right.

“Elise! Fuck, Elise! Are you alright?” He’s saying my name as if he’s the one in agony. Randall kneels beside me and brackets my back with a brawny arm. His blond hair flops over furrowed brows. My wrist is gently cradled by his large hand.

“I tripped,” I say feebly, mortification clogging my throat.

“Your wrist is hurt, baby,” he mumbles. “How’s your back? I need to know before I lift you.”

“My ass is sore, but there’s nothing wrong with my back.”

Randall carefully slips an arm under my knees while the other one tightens across my back. He lifts me effortlessly. My nose is pressed against his white shirt, and I inhale his clean, masculine scent.

Is now a good time to tell him I can walk on my own? In a minute.

“This is my fault,” he murmurs softly. “Jesus, I can’t believe I thought surprising you was a good idea.” Randall’s voice is choppy with worry.

“What are you doing here?” I ask while he transports me to the passenger side of his car.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Randall, why are you here?” I repeat when I’m positioned on my feet so he can guide me in. Instead of answering, he shuts the door and jogs to the driver’s side.

Despite the throbbing pain, my brain reorients its priorities.

“My phone. I dropped it.”

“I’ve got your phone in my pocket. I left the condoms on the sidewalk.”

Oh, right. The grocery bag.

“I need to call someone from the theater to fetch those.”

He presses his lips tightly while grabbing the phone from the front pocket of what I can confirm are sexy gray sweatpants.

“I can dial for you as soon as we get to the hospital. I’m sure the orgy can wait.”

He begins driving.

“Orgy?”

He shrugs, looking past the windshield instead of at me.

“Not my business, Elise. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Please stop the car, Randall. I need to make this call and my wrist isn’t going to get worse in the next two minutes. Do you even know where the hospital is?”

He turns right, away from the main thoroughfare, and settles on a quiet side street.

“Thank you. Please hold the phone while I use my good hand to dial.”

His gaze flickers to my injured right wrist, which is limp on my lap. Randall frowns and swallows with effort. I want tocomfort him—and correct him about the orgy assumption— but this call can’t wait. Holding my phone up, Randall watches me dial Kaden’s number.

“What’s up? You’ve been gone a while,” Kaden answers.

“Hey, I tripped and dropped the condoms at the sidewalk in front of the theater. Can you grab them?”

“Are you OK?” He’s on speaker, so his concern echoes in the car.

“Yeah. A friend is driving me to a doctor to get my wrist looked at. Get them to tech as soon as you can.”