Page 13 of Possession

Justin nudges me out of the way. “Olive, that’s enough. Let us do our jobs here.”

“Don’t fucking talk to her that way,” Bax says, jumping up off the table.

His chest heaves. “Bax,” I say. “It’s ok. But you need to tell him what hurts or he can’t fix it.”

“I needyouto fucking fix it, Liv.” He tries to raise his arm to touch my shoulder, and he can’t. I think I know exactly what’s wrong, why he can’t lift his arm, but before I can speak up, Justin growls that I need to leave the room.

This gets Coach Burns’s attention, and he whips around.

“What the hell is going on over here, Morgan?”

“Coach, I want Olive to check me out,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well then have her check you out. What’s all this caterwauling burning holes in my ears?”

I bite my lip and stand to the side while Justin glares at me. “Olive Hampton no longer interns with the football team, Coach,” Justin says. “She is, as you know, an undergrad, and has been reassigned to the swim team where she can earn more—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck if she’s a hot dog vendor.” Coach Burns spits his gum out onto the table next to Bax. “My players are finely tuned machines. This finely tuned machine has it in his thick skull he wants a specific mechanic. Give him the god damned mechanic.”

Bax grins and, with his good arm, rubs the hair at the back of his neck. Coach walks away, and Justin throws his hands up. “This is a fucking liability waiting to happen,” he says. He moves on to another player laid up on a nearby table.

I’m not sure what the fallout will be, but I’m sure it’s not good. But I can’t worry about that now. Baxter is injured.

I step in front of him and help him out of his shoulder pads. “Ok, bud,” I tell him, placing a gentle hand on his leg. “You going to be honest with me about what’s wrong?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bax

“IT’S MY SHOULDER,” I hiss, squeezing my eyes shut. “It’s my fucking shoulder, Livvy.”

“Ok,” she says, soothing, brushing her hand through my hair and leaving a trail of sparks along my skin. I’m scared and I know she knows it. I felt something creak when I flattened that Maryland runner. I’m so fucking mad about it, too. My head hasn’t been right since last night. I didn’t get enough sleep and I’m all over the place with my thoughts, thinking about what Kevan said.

If I don’t know my teammates, if I can’t read people like I thought, can I read the offense? Can I even fucking do anything? Liv tries to lift my arm and I groan.

It started hurting even worse when her dickhead boss was moving it around. “Bax,” she says, gently moving my arm around. “I’m going to assess your A-C joint, ok?”

I don’t know what the hell that means, but if Olive says I need it, fine. I’m not letting that asshole guy put his hands on me again, though. I can tell you that.

By this time, my roommates are done getting checked out and are standing around staring. I growl at them. “Take a picture, guys. It’ll last longer.”

“Hey,” Liv says, squeezing my leg. God, that feels good. Her touch almost makes me forget the stinging ache in my shoulder. “Be nice, ok? I think I know what’s wrong.”

Justin steps away from whatever he was doing and frowns at me. He starts asking me stupid questions I don’t feel like answering, and then he tries manipulating my arm. I yank it away from him. “I want Olive to do it,” I snap.

My shoulder is starting to throb.

“Hey,” Olive says, resting her palm on my cheek. She never touches me this much. Fuck, she must know something’s wrong. I cannot afford to have something really wrong. “How about if Justin and I do it together, ok? I’m right here.”

He rolls his eyes and nods, and then resumes trying to lift my arm while Olive keeps her hand threaded with my left hand. She presses her other hand on my leg, and I try to focus on that. I hear Justin talking low with Olive, and she nods. She runs her fingers along my collar bone, and then points to the sore spot on my shoulder.

“It’s right here, right, Bax?” She presses on the spot where my collar bone connects to my shoulder and I hiss.

Justin sends one of the assistant trainers for ice and his attitude shifts a little, like he’s back to being pissed off. Good, that means it’s not too serious. “I think we’ve got a sprained A-C joint, Morgan,” he says. “One week no contact. Ice and stim. Some PT. It’s not separated or torn—just looks like you tweaked it when you made a tackle.”

I nod. “What about the pain?”

He cracks a maniacal grin. “Can’t handle a little pain?”

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