Page 98 of Priceless

I nodded. My head throbbed.

The circle opened up again. Patrick knelt beside me, cradling my shoulders in one arm and sliding the other under my knees. He lifted me easily and stood. I rested my head against his chest.

“Text us,” Grace was saying. “Don’t forget.”

“I will.” He carried me to the exit. The game was back in play, but when there was a pause for a foul, the announcer had to throw in that I was being carried out. There were cheers and whistles.

Outside, I stared up at the midnight blue sky. Patrick moved carefully so as not to jostle me. His sweater — merino wool, deep charcoal gray — was soft next to my cheek. I held on to the back of his neck.

“Congrats,” he said as we crossed the parking lot. “You’re famous.”

“Don’t start.” The clouds moved overhead. “That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever experienced. And if you got off on it, I’m going to punch you.”

He snorted. “I didn’t.”

“Not even a little bit?”

We stopped at his car — impeccably clean, obviously old. Patrick had to unlock the passenger door manually. He set me down, keeping a firm grip on my waist as he opened the door.

“Christina, if you think collapsing on a basketball court because you’re sick is anything like what we do in my room, then you don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it.” I settled into the passenger seat, my head feeling so heavy. My eyelids kept dragging down. “I just want to keep talking so I can stay awake.”

A wry smile played over Patrick’s lips. “Go ahead.”

He shut my door. I heard his footsteps circling the back of the car, his door opening. The car sank as he sat down in the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“I let all the girls down.” I stared through the windshield at the rows of cars shining under bright lights. Patrick turned onto the main campus road. “Literally. That was exactly what I was trying not to do. I felt like crap when I got up this morning. I was desperate to push through and show up, and I ruined everything.”

“No, you didn’t.” He rubbed the back of my head. “They’ll survive.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No.”

“Sydney—”

“Don’t worry about her.” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Seriously, don’t.”

“She fell with me.”

“And she got up and walked away. Your “friend” was just fine. Pissed, but fine.”

“Oh.” I crossed my elbows over my chest and grasped my bare shoulders, shivering.

We stopped at the intersection of Campus Drive and Pine. Patrick pulled his gray sweater over his head, and handed it to me. “Put that on.”

“God, you’re bossy. Next you’ll be telling me to eat my vegetables.”

I put the sweater on over my uniform. The wool was soft and fine. The sweater smelled like Patrick: fresh, cool, faintly salty, like ocean air. You could have fit two of me in there. I tucked my hands in the sleeves and curled up on the seat, hugging the sweater to me. Patrick cranked up the heat, but he left my window open a crack.

“Thanks,” I murmured, grateful for the fresh air.

“You’re welcome.”

“When I was a kid, it always seemed so glamorous in old books when ladies would faint. But it's the least glamorous thing ever.”

“Mm,” Patrick said.

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