“It’s too early to say how serious the injury is,” Deck continues, his eyes graver than the smile firmly planted on his face. “As a precaution, it’s safe to say August probably won’t return for the last few games of the season, which is tough. Everyone knows he’s a once-in-a-lifetime player. I have no doubt he’ll be just fine.” He glances past them to the hospital entrance. “Now I better get in there and check on our boy.” He waves, ignoring the follow-up questions, and makes his way inside.
When the camera cuts back to Avery, it catches her in an unguarded moment, and genuine concern shadows her pretty face. It’s been rumored for months that she and MacKenzie Decker are dating. I wonder if she knows August personally. Her expression definitely goes beyond the bounds of professionalism.
She looks into the camera, composing herself and slipping her reporter’s mask back on. “Keep us posted, John. Now, I think we have a comment from the other side of the court. Speculation aroun
d the league about a dirty play by Caleb Bradley started almost before West hit the floor. I think we have some sound on that from the Stingers’ locker room.”
Caleb’s face comes onscreen, his expression concerned and contrite as he stands by his locker, grabbing his leather jacket. His hair is still damp from the shower.
“I can’t say how sorry I am this happened.” He gulps as if it’s hard to swallow, his eyes blue, free and clear of malice. “August and I have been playing together since we were kids, and of course there’s a friendly rivalry between us. We bring out the best in each other on court. I respect his game, and he’s a great guy. I unequivocally deny that it was a dirty play. I would never do something like this, and I think my reputation speaks for itself.” He looks down at the floor, shaking his head and running a hand over the fair hair curling at his collar.
“He’s in my prayers, and I hope he’s gonna be okay.” He slides his jacket onto his powerful shoulders and looks solemnly at the reporters circling him. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get home to my fiancée and baby girl.”
Fiancée?
We’re not engaged, and he’s never said that publicly.
Yeah, something has definitely shifted. I sit on the edge of our bed and wait for him to come home so I can find out what it all means.
17
August
“You stupid motherfucker.”
Decker’s anger hurts almost as much as my leg. They gave me painkillers before we even left the arena, so the blinding pain has dulled to a persistent throb. I struggle to focus on Decker’s words as the drugs sap my lucidity.
“I told you, West,” Decker says, drawing a deep breath through flaring nostrils. “I warned you about this shit with Bradley.”
I don’t speak. I fucked up, and I have to take this.
“And when we had the game won and I advised you to sit out the last minute, you what?” Decker demands rhetorically. “Needed to piss a circle around Caleb to prove you got the bigger dick?”
My mom clears her throat from the corner.
Decker grimaces. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“No problem,” Mom says. “But maybe you can save the recriminations for when my son is not in unbearable pain and waiting for the surgeon to arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Decker dips his head in deference to her. “You’re right. I’m just a little frustrated.”
“I understand. We all are, but August getting better is the priority, and the only thing I care about,” my mother says quietly. “Now, I’ll leave you two alone. My husband is on his way. I’ll go meet him.”
The door closes behind her, and Decker looks back to me.
“She’s right, and I’m sorry.” Disappointment and fury wrestle in the look he lays on me. “I feel bad for you, but I’m also so damn angry with you.”
“Not as angry as I am with myself.” I bang the bed with my fist, shaking my head at my own recklessness.
The door opens, and the orthopedic surgeon walks in, Dr. Clive.
“How you feeling, August?” he asks, glancing at the folder in his hands.
“High as a kite. They gave me some painkillers.” I release a heavy sigh and wince at the needles of pain in my leg. “But it still kinda hurts like hell.”
“What are we looking at, Doc?” Decker leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Dr. Clive’s brows lift over the silver rims of his glasses. If the bone jutting from my leg didn’t tell me this can’t be good, the twist of his lips and the reluctance in his eyes do.