Page 71 of Save the Game

“Wait for me here, I’ll be right back,” my voice comes out sharper than I’d intended and I work to soften it. “I’ll bring you some coffee.”

With that, I leave the room and head for the kitchen. As expected, Marcos is sitting at the counter, sipping from his favorite mug and looking at something on his phone. When he sees me, he puts it down, watching as I cross the kitchen to the refrigerator and open the freezer door. Tossing an icepack onto the counter, I pull two mugs from the cupboard.

“Morning,” I greet Marcos over my shoulder. “Do we have a first-aid kit or anything?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one in my bathroom,” he says slowly. I glance at him.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Sure.” Standing up he takes a couple strides toward his bedroom before looking back at me and pausing. He opens his mouth to say something, shakes his head, and pushes through the door. He’s back a minute later, silently handing me a first-aid kit and watching me with careful, questioning eyes.

“It’s not me,” I tell him, thinking that he’s probably wondering if I cut myself or something. “Luke hurt his hand. Thanks for letting me borrow this—I’ll bring it back once I’m done, okay?”

“All right,” he says softly.

Turning, I balance everything as best I can with two hands and make my careful way back to my bedroom. Using my knee to open the bedroom door, I walk in and find Luke sitting up but otherwise unmoved from his position in the bed. He looks a little ill: eyes puffy and a defeated, downward tilt to his mouth.

“Here you go.” I put a mug down beside him, watching as he lifts it using his less-damaged hand and takes a sip. He looks up at me as he does, and my stomach clenches at the look in his eyes. I’ve never seen Luke look so sad. Wanting to reassure him, I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull the icepack toward me. “Here, let’s ice it first and you should take something for the swelling. I really need to see that paperwork, though. You do have it, right?”

I smile at him, trying to convey that everything is fine and he doesn’t need to worry—I’ll take care of him. He just watches me as I carefully wrap the icepack around his broken hand, holding it there unnecessarily—simply because I want to maintain contact with him.

“Discharge paperwork is in the pocket of my jeans,” he says. I go to stand. “But actually, Maxy, I really do need to talk to you. Don’t worry about this for a second; just come back up here and sit with me.”

I comply, a little frightened at the way his brown eyes are flat and melancholy. He hasn’t even tried to kiss me good morning, or teased me about my bedhead. Silently, because I can’t think past the worry that he might be in pain, I unzip the first-aid kit and find a packet of pain relievers. He takes them without complaint.

“Thanks,” he says, after I tip the pills into his hand and he throws them back dry. “I know what happened last October.”

I nod. “Right,” I agree, because we’ve already cleared that particular relationship pitfall.

“No, I mean, I know what happened.” For a second, his eyes close. He takes a deep breath before opening them and looking at me. “I know who slipped you the drugs and I know who raped you.”

Ridiculously, my first instinct is to correct him—they can’t prove a rape actually occurred. But then I look at him—really look at him—at the bruises and the banged-up hands. Hands that are a little too beat up for someone who got into a simple fight. And not just anyone, either, but Luke. My Luke, who flirts his way through life, spreading sunshine around with his teasing and his smiles. My Luke is a lover.

I stare down at his broken hand, reaching out to touch his forearm. I suppose I should have known the moment he’d told me he’d gotten into a fight, and that we needed to talk. When I look back up at his face, his eyes are already on mine.

“That’s who you were fighting with?”

“Yeah.”

I nod, again, feeling strangely distant from this conversation. It’s as though I’m floating above it, watching as two strangers discuss something that has little to do with me.

“Who was it?” I ask, when what I really want to know is do I know them?

“Theo—or Theodore, I guess—Cox, and Robert Cruz,” he says, and the names mean nothing to me. Luke waits for any sign of recognition before continuing. “Cruz roofied you.”

I nod, hearing the rest of that sentence even though he didn’t speak it out loud. Cruz roofied you and Theo raped you. Looking back down at his hand, I see that the icepack has melted. Reaching out, I pull it off, gently resting my fingers on the bandage.

“We need to change this,” I tell Luke.

“Max—."

“I don’t know who those people are,” I interrupt him, tightening my hand around the icepack. “Why—why would they…” Luke stares at me helplessly, looking miserable. “How do you know it was this Theo guy, anyway? Did he tell you?”

“Yes.”

I rear back from the word as though it’s a physical thing. I hadn’t meant that as a serious question. Luke continues, speaking slowly and looking as though every word is causing him pain.

“He told me that he slept with you last year—bragged about it. Sloppy seconds, he said. Couldn’t remember your name, or maybe he didn’t even know it to begin with, I don’t know. Either way, he said a lot of things that all add up him being a piece of shit. And then when I was at the police station, Officer Reynolds told me that Cruz was singing like a canary—flipped on his buddy and straight up admitted what they’d done to you.”

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