Page 46 of Make Me Yours
Okay.
My hands won’t stop shaking, and every second that ticks by feels heavier than the last.
When I finally push open the door to the medical room, I’m hit with a wave of concern that stops me cold. Steele is stretched out on the exam table with a bag of ice pressed against his temple. His jersey and pads have been stripped away, leaving his chest bare and much too still.
The sight of him injured and vulnerable nearly brings me to my knees.
His head tilts at the sound of the door, and for a terrifying second, he doesn’t say anything. Just blinks up at me with hazy, unfocused eyes.
Somehow, he manages to smirk. It’s crooked and tired but unmistakably Steele.
“Hey, lucky charm,” he rasps. “Didn’t mean to scare you out there.”
I exhale sharply and rush to his side. “Well, you did.”
“Relax,” he mutters, wincing slightly as he adjusts the ice pack. “It’s just a little concussion.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s too shaky to be convincing. “There’s no such thing as alittleconcussion. And you should know that by now.”
When he doesn’t answer, I step in closer. My fingers find his damp hair, and I thread them through gently, like I’m searching for further damage.
He doesn’t flinch.
If anything, he leans into my touch.
The doctor continues his exam, rattling off the usual instructions. No screens, no alcohol, no strenuous activity, andplenty of rest. Steele nods along, like he’s paying attention, but I know better. I can see in his eyes that he’s already fading.
And it only stretches my nerves tighter.
I cross my arms over my chest and force myself to sound calm even though my heart is still in full panic mode. “I’m taking you home.”
I half expect him to push back or give me one of those stubborn smirks and say he’s fine.
Instead, he just nods his acceptance, allowing me to help him off the table. One of the trainers grabs his personal belongings from the locker room and helps him into a hoodie and sweats. When they’re done, I slip an arm around his waist, steadying him. He leans against me as we head for the door and then out of the building to the parking lot.
When he moves to slide behind the wheel of his Lamborghini, I laugh and hold out my hand expectantly. “Absolutely not. You heard what the doctor said.”
His forehead creases. “He didn’t say anything about driving.”
“Give me a break. You have a concussion, Steele. You’re not getting behind the wheel of a car that goes zero to sixty in three seconds. Your precious baby will be just fine. I promise.”
“I’m not worried about the Lamborghini,” he mutters. “And you of all people should know that.”
I stare at him for just a second.
“I do,” I say, gentler now.
With a quiet sigh, he walks around to the passenger side and then slides into the seat, wincing as he leans back and closes his eyes.
I glance at him, worry twisting low in my stomach. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Lilah,” he says with his eyes still shut. “I just want to go home.”
“Your wish is my command,” I murmur, settling into the driver’s seat and pressing the ignition.
“If only that were true.”
My belly dips hard.
