Down by Contact (The Barons 2)

I looked up at them, barking out an ugly laugh. “Because that homophobic motherfucker planned to hurt Simeon.”

“What’s Simeon to you, Bravo?” Another reporter shouted through the fray.

“I love him. And whoever doesn’t like it can go straight to hell.”

Simeon

“I don’t need to go to the hospital, Dan.”

“Yeah, you do. You were immobile for a few solid seconds, kiddo. Gotta get that skull scanned.”

If my head wasn’t throbbing, I’d have given him one of Adrián’s big eye rolls. The ones that reminded me of an insolent kid sassing his teacher over being disruptive in class. A laugh welled in my throat, but the motion made my head hurt so bad my eyes teared.

“Lord. That fucker really smacked me, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

Dan, my favorite trainer in the world, avoided my eyes. My first tip-off that something was going on, but I was a little slow on the uptake given my processing speed was down by half. Instead of interrogating him or my coach, or any of the other annoying people lingering around my prone body, I shut my eyes.

The best-case scenario was that there was no real damage, and he’d just knocked the wind out of me. I’d never lost consciousness. I didn’t think so, anyway. All of it had happened in one big blink. One minute I’d been throwing the ball across the field like a dart, and the next . . . I was staring up at the night sky. Shit, maybe I had been out.

Fear took hold of me faster than it ever had before. What if I had a real concussion? The real deal, where they told me another hit would kill me. It’d happened to other guys I knew, even rookies who’d only gone through training, but I’d never thought it would to me.

Or what if it was a neck injury? What if I ended up like Ricardo Lockette—retiring after suffering a career-ending injury from a single hit? Seeing him drop to the turf had been one of the most terrifying moments in my career, and I’d only been a spectator. After watching someone go down like that, you never stop asking yourself when your turn will come.

A gasp tore out of me. Fuck, I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, everything felt wrong. My neck, I was light-headed, every symptom of every tragic thing manifesting all at once. I was going to lose my mind before we even got to the hospital.

“Simeon?”

His voice snapped me out of it. Mostly because he was definitely not supposed to be here.

My eyes tore open to the sight of Adrián Bravo looming over my stretcher with red eyes and wet cheeks. I instantly tried to reach up to touch his damp face, forgetting I was strapped down.

“What the hell are you doing back here?” I hissed. “Someone will see you!”

He laughed, sardonic and with a tinge of hysteria. “A little late for that.”

“What—” I strained to look around as I was carted out to the ambulance. No one was looking at Adrián, and he was keeping pace. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the hospital with you. Duh.”

He’d lost it. He’d really lost it.

“Love, you are in the middle of a football game.”

“It’s not like I’ll be back in the game, man. And after that shit, I’m probably in the middle of my release from the Predators by Monday. At the very least, I’ll be suspended rest of the season, and they’ll fine the hell out of me.”

“Wha—”

I was loaded into the ambulance before I could finish my question. Frustration filled me, but before I could shout, Adrián was at the foot of the vehicle arguing with the EMT.

“Please? I’m begging you. Is that what you want?”

The EMT was speaking in lower, calmer tones than Adrián’s surround-sound voice, so I couldn’t hear his end. I did, however, nearly have a heart attack when Adrián exclaimed: “Whatever, son. We’re about to move in together. Does that count for shit?”

He’d lost his mind. It was the only explanation. I’d taken a hit to the head and somehow, maybe because he spent so much time with our bodies locked together and connected, he was feeling the aftermath.

Adrián appeared at my side, holding my hand and grinning his little-boy grin. It was even more absurdly charming with him sweaty and bloody and wearing all his pads.

“You—” The words jumbled in my mouth. I took another deep breath. “Adrián, you’re going to ruin everything.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You think—” I glanced at the EMT, feeling the burn of an audience. “Adrián, please.”

He smiled again and leaned down to kiss my hand. The touch was so goddamn gentle, and the exact thing I needed, that I couldn’t argue anymore. I just stared in wonder.

“What did you do?”

“Beat the shit out of my own teammate, and then told a reporter that I love you.”