Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

My palm moves to his forehead as if taking his temperature. “I was about to leave when you got hit.”

He nods, wincing. Physically pained.

“Where does it hurt?”

“All over.”

I nod with authority, ready to take charge of the situation. “We’re going to get you off the field so I can get you home, okay?”

“Jesus, lady, he was fine a minute ago,” someone nearby uncharitably points out. “He tripped over his own feet.”

I ignore him, shooting him my most ferocious glare before refocusing on Jack. “Can you sit up? We have to get you off the field.”

“I think so,” Jack moans in his British accent, lifting his head from the ground, attempting to raise his body using his core. He manages it with loud groaning and wincing.

Poor thing! “Easy now,” I urge supportively, wanting him to be careful. The last thing we need is an injury due to his injury!

He eases his way up until he’s at a stand, leaning on me for support, weight transferred to one foot. Jack is heavy, but I can shoulder it, doing what I must.

“Give me a second to call a car, and then we’ll have one of your teammates help you to it.”

“I can manage,” he croaks. “I think I can make it if we go slow.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Don’t want to bother anyone else. They’re in the middle of this match.”

I understand and sympathize; he’s trying not to be a burden the same way I try not to be a burden on him. I’m so happy to help—so glad I was here for him in his time of need.

Slowly we shuffle toward the road, our transportation on its way, and I follow its progress through the app, watching as a teeny little car gets closer and closer.

I need to get him home. Get his head on a pillow and his knees elevated.

“We can watch a movie or something if you want. Do you want to take a shower or anything when we get back?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I’m all that dirty, was only in the match a few minutes before I fell.”

He’s being modest; if he’s self-conscious because he got pummeled to the ground, he shouldn’t be. People get hurt playing sports every second of every day, and the fact that he is more of a novice and less of an expert makes him all the more susceptible.

We’re home in no time, though it’s no easy feat; Jack remains slouched over in the back seat beside me the entire trip, and I worry about him. I don’t want him falling asleep or passing out—what if he has a concussion?

The trainer said his pupils were not dilated, and I suppose that’s true; I would have noticed. My roommates would occasionally come home high after smoking pot, so I definitely know my way around a dilated pupil.

“Hey, we’re home.”

I give him a slight nudge before opening up the door and helping him out, mindful of the uneven concrete pavers lining his driveway.

It takes me a little bit longer to get him inside the house and up the stairs, where I proceed to get him situated in his bedroom, mother-henning him as if I were a private nurse.

“Really, love, you don’t have to trouble yourself. I’m all right.” His eyes slide closed as his head hits the pillow.

Jack coughs.

Coughs again.

Oh dear…

This is worse than I thought. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“How about some tea?”

One eye cracks open. “Perhaps I could go for a spot of tea.”

Cough, cough.

“All right. I’ll go get that started, you wait here. Don’t try to get up.” I tuck the coverlet around his shoulder and turn on the ceiling fan to circulate the air. “Be right back.”

“’Kay.” His eyes drift shut.

Fussing around the kitchen, I wonder how I should make this tea for him; does he like sugar or honey in it? Don’t British people like milk? Similar to coffee but different, sort of prepared the same way.

I open up several cabinet doors before discovering his tea service, removing both a cup and saucer from the cupboard. Locate the tea bags, choosing several so he has options: chamomile, Earl Grey, and green.

Pluck a lemon from the basket on the counter and slice it, adding several slices to a little tray. Boil the water in a measuring cup in the microwave, not wanting to waste time doing it on the stove top.

All this done, I take the entirety of it back upstairs to my patient.

Clearing the bedside table, I put everything down and prepare his drink. “What kind of tea would you like?” I whisper. “I have a few.”

Jack hums. “I fancy the green tea—no caffeine, you see. I’d love to rest.”

He sniffles.

“Sugar? Honey?”

“Little bit of sugar.” His eyes open and he glances over at the tray. “And a bit of milk.”

His eyes slide shut.