“I may talk shit”—Jordan splays a hand over the yeti printed on her chest—“but I was able to convince Mama Steele to use her pull here to get Kay into one of the bigger rooms with a couch and a large recliner. You can thank me for having a more comfortable place to sit, sleep…whatever…later.”
Bette turns, burying her face against E’s side to smother her laughter, but her bouncing shoulders give her away. Tessa has no such qualms and is bent over with her arms banded across her stomach.
I carry the surprising good humor with me while I take care of the unpleasant task of giving my statement to the waiting police officers. Hopefully, I can keep them from seeing the malice simmering beneath my surface.
The time I spent talking to the police was a lot shorter than I would have expected. Thankfully they meant it when they said they had enough evidence from others, because I wasn’t much help, seeing as I’m not completely clear on what went down. Most of what I gave was backstory about what led up to tonight.
As soon as I’m done, nurse Vicki—or Mama Steele, as Jordan refers to her—escorts us and what she says is “half the U of J campus” to the surgical waiting room on the fourth floor. It’s a lot nicer than the one for the emergency department. The ceilings are two stories high, and the couches and cushioned seats are done in a homey tan and gray color scheme.
This late at night—or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it—there’s only one other couple besides our group in the space. Other than looking our way when we first clomp in, they don’t pay us much mind.
Much to the hospital staff’s relief, a quick thank you to my teammates was all it took to cut our numbers down to sixteen people. It doesn’t seem like much, but you notice when the original group was upward of two dozen.
“Okay…” From her giant purse, Jordan pulls out an iPad, ready to jump right into the issue at hand. “Tell me everything that happened, and don’t leave anything out.”
Furniture is moved and repositioned into a makeshift circle in front of where E, Bette, Jordan, Tessa, and I sit. Em climbs onto Grayson’s lap, the two sharing a look as Em pockets her phone. Since Thanksgiving a few days ago, I’ve noticed CK hasn’t been as distant with Quinn, going as far as letting her sit in his lap now and looping an arm around her middle.
Trav settles himself across from me, the way his legs bounce giving away his own pent-up anger, while Noah, Alex, and Bailey round out the remaining open chairs.
Savvy, who arrived with Tessa, comes around, squeezing in with her friend, the two sharing some kind of silent communication. Carter and Wes have also hung around and remain standing, arms crossed behind those sitting, the former’s jaw hardening any time his eyes shift to Em in Grayson’s lap.
As a unit, we recount everything that transpired in the last eight hours or so, from Carter starting with what went down in the tunnels through Grayson ending with Kay taking a hit meant for me.
“I had a feeling something happened before the game based on how aggressively you all played tonight,” E says with a nod of approval.
“My guys and I had a message to deliver,” Kev says proudly, his pacing coming to a halt, his hands curling over the back of Alex’s chair. “Kay’s a Hawk. You don’t fuck with one of us.”
We echo his statement with automatic hawk cries, and E stretches out a fist to bump with a “Respect.”
“Why punch Kay though?” Jordan looks up, continuing to tap out something on her phone. “If his goal was to goad you into a fight, why pivot and hurt her?”
Because the motherfucker has a death wish, my inner coach surmises.
CK leans around Quinn to speak. “She wasn’t his intended target.”
“Explain,” E says with authority. I may have been nervous to face off with him when I was trying to win Kay back, but this? I think I’m finally getting to see his true scary-overprotective-brother side. Not gonna lie, I think it’s fiercer than his persona on the gridiron.
CK’s eyes find and hold mine, answering E but speaking to me. “Liam was slinging his typical bully-type shit, so when you turned to make sure Kay was okay, you didn’t see him lunge for you. Kay saw and tried to push you out of the way.”
“What the hell was she thinking?” I say through gritted teeth. She and I are going to be having some words later.
You need to check your girl, Nova.
Not helping, I snap back at my inner coach, though I hate that he’s right. Because, really…what was she thinking? Trying to get between me and a punch? I’m twice her size.
I rip my hat from my head and run a hand through my hair in frustration. I swear there are times I think she forgets how tiny she actually is.
“No, that’s not the right question to ask.” Savvy chimes in, sharing a conspiratorial smirk with Wes. “What we should be asking is, if Mase was his intended target, where the hell was he aiming for with his punch that he hit Kay in the face? She comes up to here”—I startle from a hand slapping against my breastbone—“on him.”
The logistics don’t matter to me. Knowing Kay was hurt trying to protect me when it’s supposed to be the other way around is what’s unacceptable.
#Chapter7
UofJ411: Update on #Kaysonova
*picture of Kay lying in a hospital bed*
@Msteresaap: She needed to be admitted? #HowBadIsSheHurt #CasanovasGirl
@Mylifethroughfiction: Holy shit! Look at the bruise on her face! #HumanPunchingBag #CasanovasGirl
@Notnow.imreading: We NEED to know what happened. #ISmellDrama #CasanovaWatch #Kaysonova
#Chapter8
Grayson and I fall into step as Dr. Nikols leads us down a stark taupe hallway past a handful of closed doors before coming to a stop in front of one labeled Recovery #5.
“Kayla won’t be here long. We’ll move her as soon as she regains consciousness and seems cognizant of her surroundings. It’s important to note that she may not remember much from any of her interactions as she’s coming out of anesthesia,” Dr. Nikols explains.
Both Grayson and I nod our understanding, each of us using the automatic hand sanitizer dispenser bolted to the wall outside the room.
I step across the threshold and stop—fuck! Grayson bumps into my back at my abruptness, our athletic reflexes the only thing keeping us from crashing to the floor in a pile of limbs.
The sight before me slays me. My breaths stutter in my lungs, my heart pushes against my ribcage, and blood roars between my ears.
Kay lies in a hospital bed—a sight I’m pissed is becoming all too familiar—arms resting on top of a white blanket tucked around her waist, IV taped to the back of her right hand, heart rate monitor clipped to the end of her pointer finger—her now ringless finger.
An oxygen tube is tucked inside her nose, the clear plastic following the curve of the bruise on her cheek then hooking over her ears. I wish they were able to wash her hair because her bloody curls look stiff where they’re fanned out on the pillow.
My gaze shifts to the screen next to the bed, focusing on the steady stream of peaks proving she is here, alive, and will be okay.