Page 70 of Touchdown, Tennessee
“Fuck,” I hissed.
My knees hit the lawn and the entire left side of my arm pushed into the shrub, thorns tearing at my skin and one part of my face.
“Oh, God. No,” Andrew said.
I turned and his eyes widened even further as he looked at me.
I glanced down and saw a streak of blood dripping down my arm. And then I turned it further and saw another. Then another.
And then I felt it trickling down the side of my face, too.
“I’m fine,” I said, more as a default than anything else.
“Shit, Gray, you don’t look fine. Let’s get you inside. Come with me?—”
“Fuck, please don’t make me walk into a frat party all bloodied up,” I protested. “The last thing I need is anyone seeing me like this.”
Andrew’s eyes darted across my skin, panic rising in his face. “It’s a lot of blood, dude. Some of those cuts look deep. We need to get antiseptic on them.”
“I’ll probably be okay.”
“There’s a way we can go back inside. No one will see us. We go in through the side doors, into the study room.”
“And if there are people in there?”
“Trust me. No one will be in the study room.”
He put his hand down to help me up. I gripped his palm and winced as I moved, feeling one of my cuts sting.
He took me around the far edge of the building, past windows where I could see the outlines of people dancing and drinking inside, without a care in the goddamned world.
There was a small door around the corner. I let Andrew walk in first, and he swiveled his head around, checking for any people.
“Nobody here,” he said to me.
He reached back to take my hand and I took it without thinking.
As he led me through the dim room with ornate wooden walls and desks scattered around, I realized the improbability of the situation.
The rich star football player, holding my hand. Leading me to a place he can take care of me.
It almost made me dizzy.
Or maybe that was the liquor.
As he led me to a staircase just outside in the hallway, I thought we’d gotten away with it. But right as we turned to start walking up the stairs, a door creaked open behind us.
“Oh. Hey, Andrew. Hi, Gray.”
I cursed under my breath before turning around.
It was Max. The bartender from the Hard Spot, here in Andrew’s frat house.
I was suddenly keenly aware of the fact that I was still holding Andrew’s hand, as if we were a couple, instead of… whatever we were.
“Max,” Andrew said, smiling politely. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Holy shit, Gray. Are you okay?”
