Lin snorts. Tyler doubles over in hysterics, and Andy flies toward the ball, saving it from touching the floor. Juggling it, he settles it on his foot, then stares at Kris, deadly serious. “Mewling cut-purse.”
Laughter erupts in the room, the ball starts flying, not once touching the ground, as shoulders drop and frowns dissolve. I watch the ball travel in a psychedelic blur across the space as stars dance in the corner of my vision. The room’s warmer, my labored breaths a refrain as it tilts and spins beneath me.
I take a step back and brace myself against the wall, rubbing a hand over my face. My hand comes away damp. I’m sweating. Clearing my throat, I try to take a slow breath, and squint, one-eyed, hoping it clears my vision.
For a moment, the world seems clear, and I can see how different the atmosphere is in the space, now. As if a switch was flipped, the room’s mood is shades brighter, like the sun bursting over land the moment it escapes a cloud.
The oaths just keep coming, their laughter swelling in volume and complexity like a swarm of bees. These guys either all picked up on Ren’s cursing creativity over the past three years, or they’ve turned into giant Shakespeare dorks, too. Whatever the explanation, the effect is the same. Morale restored. Spirits lifted.
God, the brilliance. Ren did what he always has—brought the joy, made people feel better. And this is why he’s instrumental to the team. This is why, as my legs buckle and I sink to the floor, I can only hope he’s too busy to notice that not even his miraculous sunshine can save this little cloud from being swallowed up in the storm.
Without opening my eyes, I already know where I am. I know by the smell, the scratchy sheets, the threat of fluorescents nearby. Maybe a bathroom light left on, the door wedged open.
The fucking hospital.
When I take a jagged breath in, my lungs feel less soupy than they did, however long ago that was, when the warehouse went sideways, and my legs turned to goo. I have no concept of time.
I can feel my hip throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch. I lick my lips and am surprised to feel they aren’t chapped. I feel the warmth of a calloused palm pressed to mine, long fingers wrapped possessively around my hand.
Ren.
My eyes blink open, slide right, toward the hand that he holds. I smile involuntarily at the sight of him, sleeping. Slouched low in those wildly uncomfortable hospital recliners, his mouth faintly open, smudges under his eyes.
I’m weak. I can feel that. My body feels heavy, and I already want to go back to sleep, but I want Ren to know I’m okay even more.
My nose itches. I scratch it and bump clumsily into an oxygen cannula. My hand aches where the hep-lock is taped on, where the needle sends God-knows-what into my system. Antibiotics. Saline. Steroids. Pain relievers.
The prescription list is written in scraggly marker on the white board at my feet. I can’t read it for shit. I just know it’s long. Ren shifts in the chair, stays asleep, and I watch him. I’ve watched him sleep before, and maybe that sounds weird. But sometimes I wake up before him and watch dawn paint his face, cast shadows over his cheekbones, his soft lips, that smooth brow, relaxed in sleep. His brow isn’t smoothed now. It’s furrowed. He’s worried.
I try to squeeze his hand but can barely do it. Clearing my throat, I rasp, “Ren.”
His eyes snap open, dart my way, then widen. Sitting upright, he stands and bends over me, cupping my face. “Hey,” he says. His voice is unsteady. His eyes red-rimmed.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
He nods. Blinks, eyes wet with unshed tears. I try to lift my arms to wrap around him, offer him comfort, but they’re too heavy.
My voice feels raw, but I clear my throat and croak out, “Come here, Zenzero.”
A sound breaks from him as he leans closer, rests his head in the crook of my neck. I turn my head and kiss his temple. His arms slip carefully between me and the mattress. He sighs, slow and heavy. The sound of relief.
“Frankie.” It’s all he says, but I feel what he means, love and worry braided with my name.
When he pulls back, he sits and drags the chair closer. After smoothing back my hair, he slides the cannula back where it’s supposed to hook around my ear.
“How long have I been out?” I whisper.
He focuses on my hair, his fingers making gentle work of its tangles. I’m sure I look like double-microwaved hell.
“Forty-eight hours.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Impressive.” Clearing my throat again, I grope for the button to raise myself up a bit. “How’d the game go?”
Ren drops his hand from my hair, squeezes my hand. “We lost.”
“I’m sorry, Ren—”
“Good morning, sunshine!” Lorena stands, framed in the doorway, reading my thoughts, seeing the frustration, the embarrassment.
The helplessness.
Crossing to the other side of the bed, she smacks her lips to my forehead. “I won’t even ask. I can tell you feel like shit.”
Dropping to the foot of the bed, she starts massaging my legs. I groan because it feels amazing, and I also hate that the people who love me know me this well. I feel weak and needy.
“I heard you made quite the dramatic exit.” She gives me a saucy grin.
I glare at her. “Why are you here again?”
Ren swallows his smile, hiding it behind a fist and clearing his throat.
“Because you have double-lung pneumonia,” Lo says, “and you’re one of mine. Because I love you, and when we’re healing, we need all the love we can get.”
Ren brings my hand to his cheek, kisses my palm, then sets it against his beard. Reflexively, I curl my fingers into the soft hairs, scrape my nails along his scruff.
Lo sighs. “Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds. I’m gonna go bug your nurse. Boss somebody around.” Standing, she kisses me again on the forehead and pats my leg. “Welcome back, baby.”
Ren watches her walk out, then gently stands and shuts the door behind her.
I stare at him as he moves, loving the way simple clothes drape beautifully on his body. Ball cap pulled low. Jeans that are dark and worn, a weathered blue T-shirt that brings out the ice in his eyes and the copper in his hair. When he sits, he strokes my cheek with the back of his knuckles.
I clear my throat roughly, then lick my lips. Ren reaches reflexively for the hospital tray and sweeps up a lip balm. Uncapping it, he swipes it over my mouth, then pops the cap back on.
“You did that?” I ask. My voice sounds watery.
“Pretty much the only thing I could do was make sure you didn’t wake up with cracked lips.” His smile is faint. “Frankie. Why didn’t you tell me how bad you were feeling?”
I search his eyes. “I knew you’d worry. I didn’t want to pull you away from the game, from the best chance of winning.”
His eyes tighten at the corners. “So, you decided you’d make that choice for me?”
Shifting in the bed, I try to buy my hip some relief. “I know you, Ren. This way, you got to play the game, and I got to have the peace of mind that I wasn’t a roadblock. This is what I talked about when we agreed to give a relationship a chance. I don’t want to be a point of resentment. I don’t want my health stuff to prevent you from doing your work and being successful.”