Chapter Six

I'm in line for a roll in the cafeteria when the girl behind me kicks the crutch from under my arm. Instinctively, I put my leg out to catch my weight. It doesn't hold. I crash into the guy in front of me. The pain that shoots up my leg is so overwhelming I don't even yelp—my breath just goes from me in a whoosh .

I catch myself on the guy in front—he grunts, but he's big and doesn't fall—as an array of high-pitched ‘sorrys!' gush from a girl behind me.

Trembling, I orientate myself and get my weight back on the crutches. I focus on that and not everyone's gazes. The receding pain leaves me misty-eyed, and I blink several times as I control my breathing. I tell the girl behind me it's okay, she didn't do it on purpose, as the guy in front of me turns. "Sorry," I tell him. "I…"

It's Tommy.

"Oh," I say. I stare a second before I sniffle and drop my gaze. "Sorry, Tommy. I slipped." I focus on my leg—it had hurt slotting my swollen stump into the prosthetic this morning, and the constant-low level ache is now a throb. "Mhm." A muted, pained hum escapes from my throat.

Dark spots dance across my vision. I shut my eyes—a big mistake, because now I'm swaying, or I feel like I am. Am I?

"I've got you." Someone's arm slips around my waist and locks on. I don't process my surroundings until my skin cools down, and I register the cool breeze against my face. I realise I'm sitting, have my elbow propped on my good leg, and have my face leaning heavily into it. My head weighs a ton. A familiar hand is rubbing my thigh, placed carefully where he knows there's no bruising.

I blink until my vision clears and Mark comes into focus.

"Hey." Mark sounds relieved as he meets my eyes.

"Mhm," I answer.

"I'll drive you home," he says.

I don't argue, only nodding. I was stubborn this morning about putting the prosthetic on when I should have just stayed in bed under the covers to satisfy both my mental and physical needs.

"Do you have painkillers with you?" Mark asks.

"In my bag."

Mark is crouched in front of me, and he glances to the side. I hear rustling and turn to see Tommy searching through my rucksack. I have two types of painkillers with me for emergencies, and Tommy finds the strong ones. He offers them to me, then withdraws the pills with a frown. I'm left reaching into empty air.

"You need food to take these," Tommy says.

"I'll just do one," I say.

"No, you—"

"Give them here, Tommy," Mark says, frigid. I startle at his aggressive tone and look in surprise at the glare he's fixed on Tommy.

Tommy's jaw clenches and he glares right back. "My aunt has the same prescription. You take even one without food in your stomach and you'll be throwing up in ten minutes."

They stare off, and Mark is tensed as if he's about to launch at Tommy and take the pill bottle by force. The doctor's warning comes back to me. "There should be Paracetamol in there, somewhere." I'll take the strong ones, following the proper instructions, once I'm home.

Tommy replaces the strong pills in my bag and finds the packet next. I swallow two dry, and lean back. I press my head against the glass at my back. I finally notice that we're in the walkway between the main building and the cafeteria, and the two doors leading outside are propped open, providing the cool air.

Mark is watching me intently.

"You were nearby?" I ask. Usually I notice Mark the second I walk into a room.

"I was at the coffee station," Mark answers. He's rubbing my thigh lightly. It's soothing. He studies my face at length. "You have a bit more colour now. If you wait here, I'll bring my car to the door. Is that okay with you?"

I nod.

Mark casts a hard look at Tommy as he leaves. Tommy looks like he wants to knock Mark upside the head in return. I shuffle, gauging the state of my leg, and shiver in acute discomfort as I find out.

Tommy sits next to me. He's wringing my bag in his hands, casting me side-long looks filled with worry. I meet his eyes and raise an eyebrow. "I'm alright, Tommy," I tell him.

"I'm not," he says.

"Oh?"

Tommy swallows and looks away from me. His face goes red, and he looks even more upset. He puts my bag down between his feet and gestures to it. "My aunt has those pills. I know they're not for short-term injuries. They're prescribed for chronic pain. So you not joining the sports clubs this year isn't because you decided we're not good enough for you; it's because of whatever reason you're taking those. Right?"

"Not good enough?" I repeat, confused. But I think about the messages. I had a complete shut-down after the accident and only pulled myself out of it when the next semester was starting. By which point I'd left several heartfelt messages to get in touch with me on read. I know Tommy isn't ignoring me because he suddenly started hated me. It was the opposite—he'd been worried, and when he saw I was fine, he was angry for the emotional turmoil I'd put him through.

"When I saw you come back after the summer, I…" he gestures to nothing in front of himself. "I don't know. I guess I thought you were off hiking the world with your brother and hadn't been bothered to even send a text that you were okay. I've been an asshole," Tommy finishes.

"I get it, Tommy. You were worried. And I ignored you first."

"No, I…" He groans. "I'm so embarrassed. I acted like a twelve-year-old, ignoring you."

"It's fine, Tommy."

"I had Mark, of all people, telling me off," Tommy mutters back. He casts me a long look. "Since when are you and him friendly?"

"Since he saw me wipe out on the ice," I tell him. "I don't know why he's being nice. Maybe he feels bad for me?"

Tommy looks unconvinced. "I'm surprised you didn't tell him to screw off."

My faces gives me away.

Tommy's lips curve into a smile. "You did, huh? You're still the same old Kyle, then. Too shy to ask him out instead of curse at him."

"Shut up," I say, face reddening.

Tommy chuckles. He straightens up and places his hand on my shoulder, squeezing. I glare at him. He's the only one who ever put two and two together and realise why I always pick fights with Mark. And since I've known since early in our friendship that Tommy doesn't gossip, I've always been okay with him knowing.

"You've made progress," Tommy says.

Tommy's grin is smug. I elbow him. "Stop. Stop smiling like that."

"He was quick to come help you a moment ago. Pushed me right out of the way so he could do it."

"He did?" I process that, but ultimately shrug off his implication. "Like I said, I think he's just being nice because I'm injured."

"Being nice and getting involved are two different things," Tommy says.

Mark pulls up with his car. He's taken off his jacket and approaches in a neat white polo shirt. It is one of those simple ones that gives him a preppy vibe but somehow suits him perfectly. Mark's eyes narrow at Tommy as he gets close, his gaze lingering where Tommy cups my shoulder. He drags his gaze to meet mine. "Will it be easier to lean on me or on the crutches?"

"I can manage the crutches."

"But which is easier —"

"The crutches, Mark," I say wryly.

He nods and grabs my bag from the ground. "Do you need anything from the campus before we go?" As he asks, Mark shuffles between me and Tommy, body-blocking Tommy as I stand up. Mark holds my shoulders steady so I don't wobble.

"I don't think so," I answer. Even when focusing on keeping my weight even and steady, I see the small grapple as Tommy takes my bag from Mark, and Mark snatches it back. And then Tommy tries to take it back, but Mark has a firm hold on it this time.

What are they doing?

"You'll rip my bag apart," I say. "Stop it."

"I'm bringing him home. I need his bag," Mark says coolly. He stands up to his full height, eye-level with Tommy. I eye the two of them. They both have similar strong, athletic builds. Tommy can lift more, but Mark has always been more dexterous and faster on his feet. It's why he'd end up in crucial roles in their team sports—Mark took to new skills like he'd been practising them since birth. However, I'm certain Tommy could pack more of a punch than Mark. Tommy's worked at his dad's car garage since he was a kid, and he has the muscles to prove that he's not afraid of hard labour.

"I'm coming, too," Tommy says, glowering.

I used to fight with Mark all the time, and when I'd knock him down with rough tackles his friends would get involved, which meant my friends would get involved, which meant—very often—all out war. However, while Tommy was always there to back me up, he never started a fight himself.

"Can we go?" I interrupt their stand off warily. If they even shove each other, I'll get knocked down as collateral damage. Mark glances at me and sees that I'm edging away from him. He releases the bag, giving it up to Tommy. Tommy looks stupidly smug, annoying me.

"Of course, sorry, Kyle." Mark returns to my side.

"I'm just grateful for the lift home," I say. "Are you missing classes, dropping me home?"

"Nothing important," Mark replies.