Page 68 of Save the Game

“Now, Mr. Kelly, I recommend you go to the hospital and have that hand looked at.” He aims a pointed glare at my right hand, which is resting on the tabletop. It looks like I’ve shoved it through a meat grinder.

“I can just…leave?”

“Yes. You’re not under arrest,” he says, for the third time. “Mr. Cox has been advised by a Public Defender that—given the severity of the evidence and the nature of the crime—it would be best for him to not pursue assault charges against you. He has decided to cooperate with that advice at this point in time. You are free to go.”

“And…Bryce, too?”

“Bryce, too,” he says kindly. I stand up too fast, and have to catch myself on the table. Officer Reynolds stands as well, tucking his papers back into Max’s folder and stepping toward the door. He unlocks it and I follow him through, barely able to believe my luck. “Just through there,” he tells me, pointing toward another door.

Bryce is seated in the lobby, elbows planted on his spread knees and face hidden behind his hands. The tremors that have plagued me since this whole nightmare began seem to increase, until I’m having some sort of vertical seizure. I’m in so much pain, and I got my best friend handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police car in front of half the student body of SCU. I try to say his name but it comes out a strangled mess. His head pops up, face anguished as he looks at me.

“Luke,” he breathes, standing up and taking two long strides toward me before yanking me into a rib-crushing hug. “Luke. Jesus Christ, are you all right? Fuck. Fuck.”

His fingers are clenched against my shoulder blade, as though he’s actively trying to grab hold of any part of me he can. I press my face into his shoulder and fight back tears. I will not cry; not here.

“Are you all right?” He asks again, giving me a little shake.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Bryce. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean for you?—."

“No. We’re not fucking doing that,” he says fiercely, dropping his arms and stepping back. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We need to get you to a hospital. I already called an Uber.”

I try to convince him I don’t need a hospital, but he won’t hear it. His face is set, and every argument I make is met with a firm no. Your hand is broken, he tells me, as if this is something that matters to me even a little bit. I want to go see Max. I want to lay down beside him and inhale his clean, fresh scent; put a hand on his chest and feel his heart beat. I want to verify—with my own two eyes—that he’s safe. The need behind this is so strong, I can’t think beyond it. Who the fuck even cares about a broken hand?

Bryce cares. He brings me into the hospital, fills out my forms and hands over my insurance card. He explains what happened to the doctor, and he stands behind me as they stitch me back up. I feel nothing when they tell me I’ve broken three bones. No more baseball, I think, numbly, before asking if we can leave now. Bryce puts a quelling hand on my shoulder; I close my eyes, willing myself to be patient. Max is safe at home, in bed, and he’ll still be there once you’re discharged.

Bryce orders us another Uber, and it’s waiting for us as we walk out of the hospital. It’s 2 a.m. and I’m well past the point of exhaustion. My right hand, stitched, wrapped, and one step away from mummified, is throbbing with pain. Rolling my head along the back of the car seat, I wait for Bryce to look at me.

“I’m sorry, Bryce.”

“I already told you not to do that,” he says gruffly. Grimacing, he looks away and out the window. “I won’t say anything about Max.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“We’ll go pick up my car and then I can drop you off, okay?” He looks back over at me. “You want to go to Max’s, right?”

“Right.”

Bryce nods, resting his head against the window and closing his eyes. We’re not the kind of friends that say I love you, but I want to in this moment. I want to tell him what it means to me, knowing that he had my back even when it looked like we were both being arrested. Reaching across the dark car, I wrap my fingers around his wrist where his hand is resting on the seat between us. He looks over.

“I love you, man,” I tell him, and he gives me a weak smile. “And thanks for having my back.”

“I love you, too.”

I stand outside Max’s front door, broken hand cradled to my chest as I scroll through the contacts on my phone until I find the one I’m looking for. I don’t bother texting, but click his name and listen as it rings.

“Hello?” Marcos answers, voice rough with sleep.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say, and then, when I’m met with silence, add: “Luke.”

“Are you okay?” He asks, and the question is so unexpectedly kind I have to clear my throat before I speak again.

“Can you come to the front door, please?”

“Luke, it’s nearly three in the morning, what are you?—."

“Marcos, please. Please.” My voice breaks and I hear him breathe in sharply. The call disconnects and I take a step back from the door. I know he’s coming.

I hear the deadbolt click back and then he’s there, basketball shorts skewed across his hips and chest bare. He’s barefoot, but steps out and closes the door carefully behind him. He rubs a hand across his eyes, trying to dispel the sleep.

---