Page 73 of Save the Game

“It’s all right,” he soothes, “let it out, love, just let it out.”

I have no concept of how long we stand there holding each other. My tears dry up and my breathing evens, and still I don’t let go. Luke doesn’t either, nor has he stopped brushing his palm up and down my spine. Every now and then he turns his head toward mine, nose brushing my scalp; I’m not sure if he’s smelling me or pressing soft kisses against my head. I don’t care. Whatever keeps him here, warm within the circle of my arms.

“Do you want to leave some of your clothes here?” I ask, voice thick with moisture from all the crying. “So that you have something to wear when you spend the night?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“We need to get you an icepack.”

“I’m all right for now.”

“I’m sor?—."

“Max.” He tightens his arm, giving me a little squeeze. “Don’t.”

Biting back another apology, I nestle my face further into his shoulder. It’s been a bit since the tears abated, but I probably still look wrecked—the longer we stand here like this, the more time my splotchy, tear-stained face has to go back to normal. I take advantage of Luke for another couple of minutes, breathing in his skin, before I pull slowly away. He brushes my hair back and gives me a gentle smile.

“Feel better?” He asks softly.

Pushing a single hard breath out of my chest, I return the smile. “Actually, yeah.”

“Me, too. All last night I was, like, frantic to get over here. I needed to see you—refill my Max tank, and hold on to you for a minute or ten.”

“Your Max tank?” I repeat, and the smile comes easier this time.

“Yeah, you know, some people need food to function, I need Max.” He shrugs. “Science.”

Laughing, I rub a hand over my dry eyes. I feel like I could go back to bed with him and sleep for a week. But I’ve got a game tonight, which means I need to get my head on straight. Luke, too, was supposed to have a game; glancing down at his hands, I grimace—I don’t envy the conversation he’s going to have with his coach. He catches the look and hooks a finger under my chin.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. I shrug.

“Goes both ways, Luke. You worry about me, I worry about you. That’s how it works. And while I appreciate what you did for me and why you did it, I can’t help but feel like shit that this is the outcome,” I brush a gentle caress on his forearm, well above the damage. “I feel like all I’ve done since meeting you is cause you trouble.”

“Jesus, Max, no. All you do is make me happy. You’ve never caused me trouble, not once.”

“You got arrested last night,” I point out, and he scoffs.

“I wasn’t arrested. And you know what? Even if I had been, it would have been worth it. Put aside the fact that it was you—beating the shit out of any rapist is worth getting arrested for.”

“No, you’re right. I just—I would have hated for something to happen to you because of me. That’s all.”

“Right,” he nods. “And I hate the fact that something did happen to you. Something that I can’t fix. But maybe now he’ll get what’s coming to him, and that’s worth a couple of broken bones.”

“We could go around and around on this all day, couldn’t we?” I muse, and he laughs. Palm on my cheek, he kisses the opposite side twice before doing the same to my mouth. I sigh, pulling him closer to kiss him deeper. “You know what the worst part about you having a broken hand is?”

“What?” He asks, kissing my neck.

“No fooling around. You need to be careful of the stitches.”

He looks offended. “Please, Maxy. Do you really think a couple broken bones and some stitches will keep me away from all of this?” He rubs a hand salaciously from my chest down my stomach, before hooking his fingers into my waistband. “You underestimate me.”

Laughing, I hook an arm around his waist and lead him back into the bedroom. “There’s something I want to talk to about, actually. In regards to…that.”

“Oh?” He sits down on the bed, leaning back on his less-damaged hand. I look away. His stomach is distracting. Walking to my closet, I pull out a few clothing items that will fit him and toss them to him.

“Not today, though. Not the right mood.”

Not the right mood, as in not the right mood to have a conversation about you topping me. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a bit now; before this year, I’d been more flexible about roles in bed—open to try new things and explore. I like bottoming, and most of the time I prefer it. I trust Luke, and I want this part of me back. I want it with him.

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