Page 69 of Save the Game

“Max is sleeping, Luke,” he says, before getting a good look at me. His eyes widen and he takes a step forward, frowning. “What happened?”

“Theodore Cox and Robert Cruz. They play for the football team.”

“What—."

“They’re the ones who hurt Max.”

If I’d pulled out a gun and asked for his wallet, he’d look less surprised. I wait, giving him time to shuffle through his mental yearbook and try to put faces to the names. Judging by the scowl, he’s not having any luck.

“I don’t know who they are,” he says.

“I was at a party tonight, at the Pig. They were there and…and Theo just admitted what he did. He said it right to my face—bragged about it like it was something to be proud of. And then, after the cops showed up, they found Rohypnol in his pocket.”

Marcos stares at me, eyes nearly dark in the dim light of the hallway. His feet have to be freezing on the concrete floor.

“Are you okay?” He asks again, quietly this time, and I see his eyes drop to my bandaged hand.

“Not really,” I admit. “I had to listen to some piece of shit talk about raping Max like it was nothing, my hand is broken, I was handcuffed and brought into the police department like a fucking criminal, and I’m—I’m just really tired, Marcos.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding and reaching behind him for the door.

“That’s it? You’re not going to ask…well, anything?”

He looks at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues. “Luke. You look awful, and you’ve had a really bad night. Yeah, I’ve got questions, but they can wait until tomorrow. Just…come in, and try not to freak Max out.”

Gratefully, I follow him through the front door. The vestibule light is on, lending me visibility as I wearily remove my shoes and tuck them back by the door. Marcos waits for me to finish, eyes unreadable.

“Try not to scare him,” he reminds me, voice barely above a whisper. I know what he’s asking—he’s asking me not to tell Max what happened until tomorrow. He’s asking for one more night where Max doesn’t know the details of the worst night of his life.

“I won’t,” I promise. Marcos nods and leaves me to it, padding off into the dark toward his room.

I crack Max’s door open, using the light in the hallway to send a triangle of visibility over his bed. He’s curled on his side, nothing more than a lump beneath the covers; I stand there, just looking at him, for long enough that he stirs. Lifting his head up, he peers blearily at the open doorway, squinting into the light.

“Marcos?” He asks.

“It’s me,” I whisper, and the smile that blooms over his face is heartbreaking in its intensity.

“Luke,” he murmurs, laying his head back down on the pillow like it’s too much work keeping it aloft.

I step inside and close the door, the latch clicking quietly behind me. Stripping down and leaving my clothes piled in the center of the room, I carefully walk over to his side of the bed and sit down next to him. When I touch his shoulder, he’s warm with sleep—solid and whole beneath my hand. Shifting again, he props himself up on one elbow.

“Luke?”

“Can I stay here, tonight?” I ask, jumping, slightly, when one of his hands finds my face in the dark. He’s sitting up, now, face close enough to mine that I can feel his breath on my skin.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, which is a question I absolutely cannot answer tonight. Leaning forward, I find his shoulder with my chin, wrapping an arm around him and trying to convey with a hug that nothing is wrong right now, because I’m here. He leans into me, both arms banding around my middle immediately.

“Hey, baby,” he says in a sleepy drawl. I squeeze my eyes shut and tuck my face into the warmth of his neck. My hands, where they’re resting on his back above his shirt, are gentle enough that he hasn’t noticed the presence of bandages yet, and the room is far too dark for him to notice the bruising on my face. “Come lay down,” he says, rubbing my back.

I don’t need telling twice. Carefully extracting myself from his arms, I wait for him to scoot over before I slide in beside him under the covers. I’m in the spot he just vacated—warm from his body heat and the faint scent of mint from his shampoo on his pillow. I’d known he was home and safe, but now I know; I feel wrung dry and as though I could sleep for days.

I wait for him to settle into his new spot, curled up with arms and legs in whatever position is most comfortable, before I move closer. Grimacing in pain when I jostle my right hand too much, I press against his back to spoon him, tucking my less-fucked-up hand over his side. He sighs, unconsciously shoving himself further back into me, and mumbles something I can’t discern.

I try not to think about it. I try to think happy thoughts about beach dates, about sunny baseball games, and the way Max’s hair looks when he takes off his helmet. I try not to think about him being drugged until he was pliable, or of bruises that didn’t come from hockey practice. It takes me a lot longer to fall asleep than I’d thought it would, with my thoughts a chaotic mess of Max, past and present. He sleeps soundly—barely moving an inch all night except for when he’d push himself backward into me, blindly seeking heat and safety.

For once, it’s me who is plagued by nightmares, falling asleep only to wake up gasping, hands and arms throbbing with pain as I hold tighter to a sleeping Max.

16

---