The Hardest Fall

My knees were up just like his, but I decided to sit cross-legged instead, which brought me closer to his side. “I won’t say anything, okay? Just tell me what’s going on.”

He rolled his head toward me and finally let me look into his eyes.

Slowly, I released the breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. He looked devastated. “What happened?” I whispered, angling my body toward him so I could put my hand on his arm. His gaze followed the movement, and I felt his muscles tighten under my touch. Thinking maybe it wasn’t a good idea, that he didn’t want me to touch him when he looked ready to bring down the building, I attempted to pull my hand back. But, the second I lifted it, he reached out and took his time lacing our fingers together.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his eyes glued to our intertwined hands. “Am I allowed to do this?”

I swallowed, hard. What was I supposed to say when he looked so devastated? No, actually, it’s not okay, Dylan, because my brain seems to short-circuit every time you get this close to me. I didn’t think so.

“Is this what buddies do, Zoe?” he continued, his voice harder.

Is he angry at me?

What the hell did I do?

My brows drew together, but I didn’t try to pull my hand away—like I said, short-circuit in the brain, and holding his hand had helped before, the night I’d fallen asleep on his shoulder. Maybe he was a hand holder; maybe that was his thing.

He studied my face then made some sort of huffing sound and let our hands drop to the hardwood floor. I tried not to wince.

“Dyl—”

“Don’t answer that.”

When his head hit the wall behind him yet again, I couldn’t hold back my wince.

“It’s JP,” he said to the ceiling.

“What about him?”

“He got injured.”

Didn’t college football only happen on the weekends? It was only Thursday.

“When? I didn’t know you had a game today.”

“No game, just practice. He had a little trouble with his foot in the last game, but he said he was fine. Today one of the guys stepped on it wrong and now he has fucking a Lisfranc injury.”

“Lis—what? Is it bad?”

His eyes closed as he released a humorless laugh. “Is it bad? Yeah, it’s bad. He is done for the season. We don’t even know if he needs surgery yet. If he doesn’t, it’ll still take him at least five to six weeks to recover, and that’s me being a fucking optimist.” As an afterthought, he added, “It’s a foot injury.”

When he roughly scrubbed his face with his free hand, I gave the other one that was still holding mine a small squeeze. It was the wrong move, because it drew his attention back to our hands again.

“If he ends up needing the surgery…how long is the recovery time then?”

He met my eyes and I held my breath. Oh God… Jared was right; I loved his smile. I both hated and loved how I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back at him, but the look on his face when he was angry…it made me wish I had my camera with me so I could take a shot of him just like that and freeze time for us, a heartbeat I could carry in my pocket that would forever be mine.

“Five to six months,” Dylan replied, oblivious to my thoughts. “And even after that, no one can know for certain whether he’ll get back to his pre-injury state or not. Doesn’t even matter because he won’t make it to the combine either way.”

For the third time since I’d met him, I couldn’t look away from his eyes, and it wasn’t because we were having a staring contest. It had nothing to do with that; I just didn’t want to. I’m not sure if it was because of the vulnerability I could see in them or if it was the obvious pain and worry, but I couldn’t do it.

“Where is he?”

He was frowning at me but still answered my question. “Coach sent him home. He can’t bear weight on his leg.”

“And when will they know if he’ll need the surgery or not?”

“They need to run some tests. We should know more next week.”

“Don’t you want to be with him?” I asked tentatively.

His frown deepened. “He doesn’t want to see anyone. We were supposed to do this thing together. Now, with the timing of his injury, his entire career might be over. This whole goddamn year is—”

His phone must have been sitting next to him because the next thing I knew it was sailing in the air, heading toward the wall right in front of my eyes, until it thankfully came to a stop right after crashing into my equipment bag. If my bag hadn’t been in the way, with the force he’d thrown it, it would’ve been broken into a million pieces.