How Sinners Fight (Sinners of Hawthorne University 2)

I suck in a breath and peel off the tape that holds it close to my skin, then close my eyes as I—

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Blue?”

The door swings open and Elias walks in, his eyes going wide as he looks at me.

“I can’t pay for any of th

is.” My voice is still rough, although it’s easier to speak than it was yesterday. And there’s a note of panic in my tone as I grab the needle again. “Gotta get out before it gets too bad—”

Fuck. I really do hate needles. I can’t even stand the sight of the little fucker poking into my skin, and a wave of nausea washes over me at the thought of yanking it out.

“Blue.” Elias steps forward quickly and grabs onto my forearm, giving it a gentle tug. He forces me to look at him, and when I finally tear my gaze away from the needle, I catch a smile as bright and disarming as the sun outside my window. “It’s okay. You’re not paying anything for this, I promise. We all have access to our family’s money, and we’re covering this one. The three of us, not you.”

He puts emphasis on the last two words, as if he’s trying to cut off any argument before I can make it.

My mouth falls open. I snap it shut, but my jaw drops again and just sort of hangs there as if all the muscles in my face have gone slack. My heart is crashing against my ribs, and my stomach is tying itself into knots for an entirely different reason now.

Why would they… why would they do that for me?

I’m thankful, I really am. I want to tell him, want to show him, but I can’t. There’s a lump in my throat, and gratitude wars with panic inside me. I’m not used to being taken care of by anyone. I’m not used to having people care about me at all.

To my surprise, Elias just laughs when he sees the freaked out look on my face.

“What’d you think we’d do, Blue?” he says, pulling me back to the bed. He lifts me up easily, setting me back down on top of the sheets. “Leave you to pay for it yourself? Let you spend the rest of your life in debt because of a fucking accident? We’re doing this because we want to help you.”

He leans up against the edge of the bed, watching me closely. My heart picks up speed, racing in my chest as I try to process everything that’s happened in the last five minutes, the rollercoaster of emotions I’ve been through.

A fucking rollercoaster. That’s what it’s been like not just today, but for the past couple of months that I’ve known the Sinners.

“You can say thank you if you want.” Elias’s lopsided grin is teasing.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I know I don’t sound that thankful, but he gets the point. He knows me well enough by now to know I’m not great with touchy-feely emotions—and honestly, even the fact that he understands me that well is a little terrifying.

Silence falls between us for a long moment, and I think he can tell I’m still on the verge of losing my shit, because he moves a little closer.

“You know,” he says slowly, the tips of his fingers brushing against the back of my hand, “last time I was in a hospital was when I got hurt.”

His eyes flicker up to meet mine, and I have a feeling I know what he’s talking about. I’ve heard the story before, just not from him. And I didn’t get a lot of details, just a basic outline of what happened.

“Yeah?” I ask, holding his gaze. Focusing on him instead of on me helps clear my thoughts, and I get the sense he doesn’t talk about this often. So if he’s sharing it with me now, that means something.

“Yeah. I got hurt pretty bad playing football my senior year of high school.” He lets out a breath, tilting his head. The sunlight catches his blond hair, making the highlights in it shine like gold. “Thought it was going to kill me. Not the injury, just knowing I wouldn’t be able to play the same again.”

“That sucks.” I wince. “It was a bad injury?”

“Yeah. Shredded my ACL. Took two surgeries and a lot of rehab to get me fixed up. I can still walk on it,” he says, “thank goodness for that. I just can’t play the way I want to anymore.”

I don’t know shit about football, but I do remember him at the game—the serious way he watched every play, the intensity in his posture that not even all of the players on the field had. And even though Elias’s voice is steady and casual, I catch the lingering frustration in his tone.

It meant a lot to him, the game. Which means that by telling me about it, by letting me see his loss… he’s trusting me, just a little bit. Sharing a small part of himself.

“I know it’s not the same thing you’re dealing with,” Elias finishes, shaking his head. “But I can understand some of what you’re going through, and it fucking sucks. At least with my leg, my parents’ insurance covered pretty much everything. None of us guys wanted you to have to worry about paying for the medical bills on top of getting better. I can’t imagine that.”

I turn my palm over beneath his touch, threading my fingers through his. Even that small physical contact makes little sparks dance up my arm.

“Thank you,” I murmur. This time, it sounds a little more honest, a little more raw. “I mean it.”

It’s hard to accept such generosity. I don’t like charity. I never have. I grew up in foster care, and I learned pretty quickly not to accept favors or kindness from anyone. For one thing, most favors come with a million hidden strings attached—another lesson I learned the hard way.