Chapter Three

I rub my leg discreetly as Mark walks to the driver's door. As he gets in, I force my hands to be still on my lap. This is not how I pictured my day going. The inside of Mark's car is pristine—I would expect nothing less from someone who turns up his nose at the slightest mess—and with the heat turned up, it's already warm.

Mark gets into the driver's seat, and he looks so preppy with that white polo and the luxury car. I bet Mark plays tennis during the summers. I wouldn't be surprised if he took a ferry to England and played polo, either. I bet he'd dominate in it. He's amazing at any sport he tries.

When he flicks on the headlights, they're those awful, eye-burning LED ones that are blinding even when it's not on high beams.

"You're in the college village?" Mark asks.

"No, I moved. I live in an apartment block five minutes into town. I'll get it up on my phone." I type my address into Maps and hand it to Mark. He checks the route and nods to himself before returning it.

I'm feeling awkward as we pull into traffic. I'd understand if someone I had been friends with saw me fall and wanted to help, but Mark and I haven't ever talked. Aside from trash talk, of course. I used to do a lot of that when we competed. So did he. I never held it against him, and I guess this means he hasn't held it against me.

"How sore is it?" Mark asks.

"I'm fine."

He grunts, clearly not believing me. He pulls off the main road and parks in front of a pharmacy. "Which painkillers do you prefer?" he asks.

"You don't listen," I reply.

Mark leans over me. I freeze at his proximity as he roots around in my pocket—his coat pocket—and takes out a wallet. "I'll just get Advil, then."

I sit, watching him through the window as he walks through the aisles, plucking items from shelves as he goes. He returns with a shopping bag and offers it to me. I take the bag and peek in. There's an array of painkillers, ice packs, rolls of bandages, and creams.

"Do you have the receipt?" I ask, irritated.

"Here." He slows the car to a stop and takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. He rolls down the window and leans out, tossing the receipt into an outdoor bin. Without a word, he continues forward.

I groan. "You're so annoying. I don't need all of this."

"Uh-huh."

"Mark."

"There's a bottle of water by your feet. You can use it to take some pills. I also got ones that dissolve in your mouth if you prefer those."

I glare at Mark's handsome profile, and he ignores me. Grumbling under my breath, I dig out two painkillers and swallow them dry. My leg isn't even bothering me. I'm too distracted by Mark being all—I can't even say nice. Forcibly nice. Meddling. Ugh. I sink down in the seat and grunt. "Feeling all superior, are you?" I mutter. I don't mean it, of course. I like that he's taking care of me, even if I don't understand why.

"Kyle." We're pulling into the underground parking at my apartment. Mark waits until the car is stopped before facing me. "You slipped on ice, it happens. Why would I feel superior about that?"

Well, when he says it like that, I feel silly.

"Because," I say.

"Because why?" Mark presses. He's leaning in, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I'm not a total asshole."

"I said you're annoying, not that you're an asshole."

Mark holds my gaze for several charged seconds. Then he turns, gets out of the car, and opens my door. "What apartment are you?"

"Third floor, number three."

Mark gets his arm locked around my waist and we go to the elevator. It's nice and clean, better than what you'd usually get for student accommodation. Only reason I can afford it is the insurance pay out.

Mark hits the button and keeps his arm locked around my waist. I can see his reflection in the metal doors as they shut. He's looking at me. "The only thing I'm feeling is worried, Kyle."

"I said I'm fine."

Mark says nothing. He probably thinks I'm embarrassed about falling in front of him. I'm not. I'm off-kilter and defensive, but I'm not embarrassed.

We hobble to my door and dig out my keys. The apartment is icy cold. Mark's body does a good job of keeping me warm, however…

"Can you turn up that dial to your left?" I ask. I switch on the lights as Mark adjusts the heating. And then my door is closed, and Mark is in my apartment. This has been the scenario of countless fantasies.

"Do you want a drink?" I ask.

"Sure." Mark adjusts his grip on my waist and we walk into the apartment. It opens into a spacious kitchen-living room, and I am very glad that I am a tidy person. If I had shown Mark a pigsty, I really would be embarrassed.

"The counter seats—"

"Couch." Mark doesn't give me a choice. He leads me to the couch and lowers me onto it.

"You're bossy. You know that?"

"I've been told," Mark says. He places the pharmacy bag next to me and strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place. I crane my neck to watch him. "Tea?" he asks.

"Above the kettle."

"Do you take sugar?"

"A spoon of honey."

Mark opens the fridge and takes out the milk, though his gaze lingers on the contents of my fridge. "You cook?" he asks.

"No. I'm signed up to a meal service." I have dietary requirements I have to meet, and I've never been fond of cooking.

"No roommates?"

"No."

Mark approaches with two steaming mugs of tea. He hands me one and sits next to me. I shift in discomfort, wishing he'd sat on the other side. He glances around the room, his gaze hovering on the books laid out on the coffee table in front of us. Textbooks stacked on textbooks, copies and scribbled notes galore. It's the only mess in the apartment. Mark moves on from that; to the impeccable state of the rest of the room.

"You're tidy," Mark says, a note of surprise in his voice.

"I guess."

"Tea okay?"

I sip it. "It's good."

We lapse into silence. Mark seems content with it. I, however, squirm. I have Mark one-on-one; it seems a waste to spend it in silence. "Are you tidy?" I ask.

"Very."

I snort at the surety in his answer. But I knew that already; from the way he keeps himself neat, clothes always without wrinkles, to the state of his car—anyone could tell you he likes things orderly.

His mouth moves, a half-smile forming.

"You live with Eddie, right?"

Mark doesn't ask how I know that. He nods.

"Is Eddie tidy?"

"No," Mark says grimly.

I smile into my cup as I take another sip. Casually, Mark sets his hand on my thigh. He rests it a few centimetres above my knee. I go rigid.

"Kyle," Mark taps my thigh with his thumb. "I heard a snap, and I'm certain that you broke your ankle. I can't leave in good conscience without seeing for myself how bad it is."

I breathe hard through my nose, staring at Mark's hand. He doesn't move it any closer to an uncomfortable spot, but I'm still having a hard time dealing. I don't even look at my leg. I avert my gaze, usually doing everything I need to in the dark before turning on the lights, and it's hard to have someone's hand so close. If I had gone to that therapist, they would probably tell me I'm in denial.

I release a shuddering breath. "I didn't break my ankle, Mark."

"You were in a lot of pain. And you knew instantly that your leg couldn't take weight, so I know you're just saying that to get rid of me." Mark leans forward, placing his cup onto the coffee table. "I need to see, because if it's broken, I'm driving you to the hospital, and if it's not? I can get ice on it and wrap it for you."

I meet Mark's eyes. I see the intensity and emotion there.

I hand him my cup; he places it on the coffee table. I lean forward and stare down at my sneakers until I grapple my mental state into a semblance of calm. It wasn't like I could pretend, anyway, and that wasn't what I'd consciously set out to do. The hiding was mostly from myself.

"I'm fine," I repeat. I reach down and fold up my trouser leg with trembling fingers. The heaters have warmed up the space, and I have Mark's coat on, but I still go cold as the first fold reveals the gleaming stainless steel. Fold two, fold three, fold four.

My prosthetic is on full display. The only hidden part is what my shoe conceals.

I lean back, glancing first at Mark's slack hand on my thigh, and then at his expression. It's frozen. He glances from the prosthetic to my face. Swallows.

"I told you," I say.

Mark's dark eyes return to the prosthetic. I tip back my head, staring at the ceiling. He can look; I'm still averse to it.

"I was wrong about your ankle," Mark admits. "But I was right about that snap." He squeezes my thigh. "Can I lift your leg? Will that hurt?"

I'm still looking at the ceiling. "It's fine."

Mark cups the back of my knee and guides my leg up. I grunt—he freezes.

"Hurts?" Mark checks.

"I'm fine."

Mark sighs. "You've said that about a dozen times now, and it's not been convincing once." He hooks my knee over his thigh, and when I brave a peek—his face, not any lower down—he is examining my prosthetic with a look of concentration.

"I'm no expert," Mark says after a long examination, "but I think you'll have to replace it. It's the main support beam that's cracked. I wouldn't trust it to hold your weight even if you glue and duct tape it." His hand is back on my thigh, rubbing me with his thumb in soothing strokes. It feels nice this time. I don't tense up.

"The pylon? I felt it go earlier," I admit. There must have been a weakness in the metal already. That fall shouldn't have been enough to do any damage to steel.

"How long do they take with replacements?" Mark asks. That soothing motion with his thumb is turning into more of a massage. And I guess I've really been neglecting that leg, because my lids grow heavy and I barely stop myself groaning.

I see Mark's grin, and he twists so that two hands are massaging my leg. And—shit. I groan. "Fucker," I mutter. Mark's grin becomes a smile. I'm pretty close to fusing with the couch I'm so relaxed.

"How long?" Mark prompts me.

"It depends," I answer. "I think they told me a month, but with my insurance plan? Probably two weeks."

I'm trying to look at Mark, but his hands are sinking into the flesh of my upper thighs now, and I'm dead certain that he's taken classes on giving mind-numbing massages. My eyes flutter closed and I just let myself go, enjoying how good it feels.

"Do you have crutches you can use in the meantime?"

I hum.

"Answer me, Kyle."

"Yes."

His hands make their way back down, and he pauses when he's just above my knee. I peek to see him frowning.

"Is it sore here?" Mark asks. "The way this attaches—is that what hurt when you fell?"

"Yeah."

"Should we ice it?"

"I'll do it later."

Mark stares at the prosthetic, rubbing my thigh absently. I don't look. I know what's there. A few inches of leg past my knee, and then a stump for the prosthetic to suction to. I was told by several doctors how lucky I was that they could salvage my knee—apparently the range of movement in the joint is hard to replicate in prosthetics. I kind of get what they mean. Hardest thing about learning to walk with the prosthetic was not having an ankle joint to manoeuvre.

"Is your knee sore?" Mark asks. "And don't say ‘I'm fine'"

"It twisted a bit."

"Can I ice that?"

"You're obsessed, Mark." Mark just stares at me with those dark, sexy eyes until I grumble, "Fine."

He snags the pharmacy bag from the ground and pops one of the ice bags. He sets it on my knee, but tugs at my jeans with a frown. "Can I take these off?"

"No."

"I mean for the ice."

"I know what you mean. I have to take off the prosthetic to get my jeans off. It's a whole thing, so no, you can't."

Amazingly, Mark accepts that at face value.

"I'm sorry," Mark says. "I was sure your ankle was broken, and I didn't want to leave you stuck here. I didn't mean to force you to show me."

Mark looks abashed and guilty. It's a handsome look on him, but I'm a sucker and don't like the thought of him feeling bad. "It's fine," I say. "I didn't mean to curse at you earlier."

"I get it," Mark says. His hand is back on my thigh, his thumb rubbing me above the spot where the ice-pack is. It's nice.

There's a pause of awkward silence. I'm not sure how to fill it.

"Where are the crutches? I'll get them for you." Mark swivels his head, searching the room.

"They're next to my bed. There." I nod him in the right direction and he returns with them. He eyes me up as he sets them down against the couch.

"I can grab a pair of shorts for you," Mark says.

I glance at him.

"So you can take off the prosthetic and change out of the jeans," he adds.

"No," I say. Like I mentioned earlier, I'm in the pits of denial—I don't like looking at my stump under any circumstances.

Mark's cheek indents like he's biting it on the inside. His hands twitch at his sides. "What if you're all bruised?"

"I'm sure I am."

Mark does not like that answer. His eyes narrow.

"I'll treat myself. Later."

"Once I'm gone?"

"Once you're gone."

Mark doesn't look convinced, but it's not as if he can force me to remove my prosthetic.

"Okay," Mark says, looking somewhat frustrated. "Can I get you anything before I leave?" He gestures to the kitchen. "Want me to warm up any of those meals?"

"No. Thanks."

Mark lingers, shifting his weight. "What about my number?"

"What about it?"

"I'll put it in your phone."

"I have it," I say. I quickly realise that's weird given our relationship up till now. "We've been in a million team chats. Remember?" I don't ask if he has my number saved. His question implies that he doesn't, and I'm too shy to offer it.

Marks licks his lips, and his weight shifts around restlessly again. "Can I drive you to class in the morning?"

"No," I answer before he's finished asking. I add a smile to soften the rejection. "I appreciate the offer, but no." I would feel too weird accepting.

Mark runs a restless hand through his hair. It's very visually stimulating, especially with his hair all mussed up by the end. Mark has nice hair, wavy, thick, and as dark as his eyes—ebony in sunlight, black anytime else. He drops his hands with a sigh. "Make sure to use the bruising cream anywhere that's sore, even if there isn't a bruise yet."

"Okay."

"And ice down everywhere that is even slightly tender."

"Okay."

"And—"

" Mark, " I say, exasperated and amused. "Go."