Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

I can tell they’ve drugged him when he lies back on the stretcher panting. I move to the bed’s rail beside him. “It’s okay, angel. I’m sorry.”

Two people in scrubs are still bent over his leg; someone else is cutting off his jersey. There’s a young guy sticking leads onto his chest and shoulders.

Whatever sedative they hit him with, it worked. All he can do is stare up at me, his face pale and slack, his pupils small black dots in his dazed green eyes. His hand lifts, but it can’t even find mine—so I grasp his, wrap it up in both of mine and lean down near him.

“I love you, Ezra babe. You’re gonna be okay, my angel.”

Tears start down his cheeks in little rivulets, and I think he’s in pain because he shuts his eyes and winces as he tilts his head toward me. “Mills,” he mumbles.

“I’m here, angel.”

“I wanna…go.” He opens his eyes, his face twisting as he breathes with his mouth open. His hand squeezes mine. “Please.”

And then he’s biting his lip. He’s moaning as his left hand grips the bed’s rail. Someone else comes in—another doctor—and Ezra is peering up at me. He’s saying, “Josh.” He looks high as a kite, but his back arches as someone does something to his lower half. I realize they’re cutting off his pants.

“It’s okay, angel. I’m right here.”

His eyes shut, and he’s crying, muffled and quiet. It makes me want to break things, so I snap at the guy next to me. “It seems like he needs more pain medication, no?”

Someone down by his leg agrees, and on her orders, the young guy gives him more. After that, his body doesn’t move. Even his head rests still and heavy on its pillow. He just looks at me as tears drip down his cheeks, and I wipe them and tell him, “I love you.” He looks so pained and sad.

My stomach is nothing but knots.

“You okay?” I whisper as some people take an X-ray of his leg.

He shakes his head—this tiny movement. I notice that his eyes look weird. There are chills on his arms. Something dings, a machine, and someone pulls the mask off his face. Ezra never moves his eyes off mine as a nurse fits him with new oxygen tubing.

“You’re being so brave, angel.” I stroke his hand. “Everything is gonna be okay, I promise.”

“I wanna go home,” he says. His lips are barely moving. “Call Luke.”

I’m relieved when his eyes drop shut and a few of the nurses leave our area. A minute later, a tall, white-haired surgeon comes in. He’s affiliated with the Rose Bowl, he says. He stays on-call during the game in case a player gets hurt. The guy seems to be a fan of Ezra, so he’s pretty nice when he talks to me. He says basically that it’s an ankle fracture.

“Not so complicated till he moved and made it compound” —the man gives a look that’s almost like an eyeroll— “but it’s nothing we can’t fix. The X-rays don’t look too bad.”

Ezra’s eyes lift open just after the surgeon leaves our space.

“Mills?” he whispers.

Since there’s no one in here right now, I lean down and kiss his temple. “Yeah, my angel?”

“I don’t feel good.”

“I’m so sorry.” Tears are blurring my eyes. I wipe them and stroke his hair back off his clammy forehead. “You want me to get somebody?”

“No.” It’s whimpered. Then his lips are trembling. “Don’t leave. Please?”

“No way. I’m never leaving, angel. I’ll be here till you leave. Then I’ll take you home and take care of you, okay?”

His eyes look so miserable. When nurses come back in to start the pre-surgery prep, he’s dozing again, so I tell one of them he’s pretty scared of hospitals.

“When he wakes up, somebody needs to get me. And not make him wait. You know what I mean? It’s a big thing for him. Serious.”

She nods like she understands, and I can only pray she does. I text my mom and Carl and stroke Ezra’s arm while they bustle around him, doing things—I don’t know—to his body, putting on more wires and stickers.

His eyes peek open once or twice, and I say, “Just look at me, angel. It’s just me and you, okay? I’m with you.”

He nods once. One of the nurses pushes something into his IV, and his hand goes limp.

“We’re ready,” she says. “Time to wheel him back.” Her brows scrunch. “You are…? I don’t think I got your name.”

“Josh Miller,” I tell her.

I’m surprised when Ezra’s eyes open. “My husband,” he says, the words only slightly slurred.

The woman’s eyes pop open wider. “Oh, okay.” She smiles, looking mildly amused.

I laugh. Ezra’s eyes pull open again. He gives me this goofy little smile, and then they take him.

Six

Josh

We’re apart for a little over three hours. In that time, I talk to Mom and Carl, text with Luke McDowell, field a visit from Bama’s head coach, and receive Ezra’s luggage from the players’ hotel—plus a bunch of food that Luke and his man, Vance Rayne, had delivered. I get an automated-looking text informing me the surgery’s wrapping up and feel a wave of gratitude that Ez did okay.