Page 58 of Rematch
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” he lied. He raised his hands, and I immediately noticed more bruises and cuts on his knuckles. “I just needed to see you.”
I stepped back before he could cup my face. “You need your wounds dressed.” I grabbed his hand and towed him towards my bed. “Stay here,” I commanded as I shoved him to sit on the edge. “I’ll go get my first aid kit.”
He grabbed my wrist. “No,” he insisted. He pulled me between his spread legs with one hand while his other arm wrapped around my thighs. Pressing his face into my stomach, he squeezed me tight. “Don’t go. I need you right here.”
His racing pulse thumped through his forearms and against my skin. His chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm. His fingers dug into my skin in a feeble attempt to cease the subtle tremble rumbling through them.
Sighing, I lay my arms on his shoulders and weaved my fingers through his short curls. I massaged his scalp with my fingernails. With every circle I rubbed, his heartbeat and breaths slowed. His adrenaline gradually faded away.
Once I felt his heartbeat return to its steady state, I moved my hands to his cheeks. Gently, I pulled his face out from my stomach and tilted it upward. “I need to patch you up,” I pleaded. “I’ll be right back.”
Nodding, he finally released me.
I tip-toed downstairs to grab a bowl of hot water and an ice pack. When I returned upstairs, I stopped by the hallway closet to grab a clean washcloth and our first aid kit.
Max glanced up at me as I walked back into my room. “I’m fine,” he repeated, eyeing the supplies in my hand.
“You don’t look fine,” I replied. I set the bowl on my nightstand and took a seat beside him on the bed. I held out the ice pack. “Here. Put this on your eye.”
For once, Max did what he was told. His lips pulled into the tiniest grimace from the cold touch against the swelling area.
I dipped the rag into the bowl of water and wiped the blood from around his lip. “What happened?” I asked again.
His eyes tracked my hands as they opened the first aid kit and rummaged through the contents. “Nothing I want you worried about.”
“It’s too late for that.” I located the bottle of alcohol and cracked the top open. I dabbed some onto a cotton ball. “Who did you fight?”
Max leaned backwards as I aimed the damp cotton ball toward his lip.
Not in the mood for his games, I grabbed his jaw and held him still. He hissed as the alcohol met his cut.
Torture wasn’t exactly my forte, so I quickly cleaned the cut before moving to the ones on his knuckles. “Tell me,” I commanded as I started dabbing a new alcohol-damp cotton ball along his free hand.
“Your self-proclaimed boyfriend,” he finally admitted.
“Carter? Why?”
“He approached me first, huffing and puffing about when I punched him the other night at the club.”
“And he wanted his fair one?”
“He wanted you.”
My eyes shot up to him. “Wait, what?”
Max kept his eyes locked on the floor. “He didn’t like that I’ve been pushing up on you. He tried to pull the whole ‘winner wins the girl’ shit. He put up a good fight, but he never really stood a chance against me. Inside or outside the ring.”
I scoffed. “So, that’s what this is? You came here to claim your prize?”
“Don’t start. You know it’s not like that. I just needed to see you. Needed to know I haven’t lost you.”
I crossed my arms, determined not to let his sweet words soften my stance. “Why’d you agree to fight him?”
He finally raised his gaze, flares flickering in his dark irises. “What else would you have expected me to do?”
“I expect you to act like an adult. We are too old to be fighting over stupid shit.”
