End Game (Bellevue Bullies 4)

Chapter Eleven

Sofia

I findmyself seated in the dining room of the Bullies’ house, and there is so much more I could be looking at. Yet I’m staring at Ryan’s naked torso as he delves into the first aid kit. Before I found myself mesmerized by him, I did check out the room. It is decorated beautifully in shades of teal with a huge black dining table in the middle. On the walls are oil paintings of dudes I don’t know, but their names are below each painting. I’m not trying to learn their faces or even their names; I’m too busy drinking in every single detail of Ryan Justice.

Like how his brows pull in when he reads a bottle. Or how he bites his full bottom lip as he holds up every single bandage, making sure they will work for each of my cuts. My mouth is dry and my body is trembling, but I don’t say anything as he gathers what he needs.

“So, a double back tuck with a triple twist is what broke the knee, but how did you tear the ACL?”

I shouldn’t be impressed that he remembered—I mean, he is a gymnast’s brother—but I am.

I really am.

Damn it.

“Same move.”

He scoffs. “Really?”

“Yeah, I knew I could do it.”

“Did you?”

“I landed both, but they ended badly.”

“Hardheaded?”

“Oh yes, personality flaw.”

He shakes his head, crouching down before me. “Or not.”

“It isn’t?”

“Not at all. Means you’re driven, won’t back down.”

“Oh,” I say slowly as he sprays some antiseptic on my knee. I almost complain until he blows softly on my wound, his eyes never leaving mine. The last thing on my mind is complaining, but giving words to what I’m thinking isn’t gonna happen.

For his safety and mine.

“Probably ’cause I’m hardheaded too.” When he winks at me, I’m surprised I don’t fall out of my chair. No guy has ever winked at me. Ever.

Apparently, Ryan Justice specializes in it.

Swallowing hard, I look down where he is patting my knee with a napkin. “So, it’s a flaw, but we ignore that?”

“Yeah, anything that can make us look weak, we don’t ever own up to.”

Ah, he’s speaking my language. But if we don’t move on, I’m gonna tackle him to the ground. What in God’s name is wrong with me?

Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, you tore your ACL?”

“Yup, sixth grade. I was out a whole season.”

“You actually stayed out?”

He gives me a dry look. “Come on now, you know I didn’t. I was on a crutch with a hockey stick in the other hand, shooting at the goal. I got in so much trouble with my parents, and the only reason I wasn’t on the ice was because I wasn’t driving yet.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and when I strained my other knee in high school, I still went to the rink. Amelia’s tattletaling ass always told on me, though.”

A giggle leaves my lips. “She did?”

“Always, which is cool. I got back at her when she broke her arm but tried doing things on her beam in her room.”

I give him a nod. “Way to go.”

“Right?” he laughs as he moves to the next scratch on my leg. “You don’t have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child.”

“How is that?”

I shrug. “I mean, I was in the gym twenty-four seven. When I wasn’t, I was sleeping.”

“So the girls in the gym were family, then?”

I shake my head. “I went to a very competitive gym. Even when I was in Texas, we were nice to each other, but we all hated each other. No one was friends. We all wanted to beat each other to get the top spot.”

“But the top was your spot?” His eyes are dark as they hold mine, stealing every single breath I have.

“When I wasn’t hurt, it was.”

He nods slowly as he bandages me up. “Which I doubt was often. You probably hid a bunch.”

I quirk my lips. “Something like that.”

We share a small smile before he goes to clean the next scratch. I really did a number on myself. “You don’t have to do this. I think the big scrape was the one that would have given me a problem getting back to my dorm.”

He waves me off. “I’m here. Stop trying to run off.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he throws back at me before glancing up at me through his lashes. “Probably because you don’t want to be around such a pretty boy and all.”

Kill me now. I bite my lip as he watches me, his fingers moving ever so softly along my leg, sending jolts of shocks through me. I swear his touch is like getting staticky clothes out of the dryer, but in a way, it’s satisfying.

Because, obviously, I’m insane.