14. Lucas

Oh, shit.

Jase recoils, his face suddenly clouding over. He clutches his pilsner glass tight, fingertips white from his forceful grip.

How the fuck did I read him wrong again? At some point, I have to believe it's just wishful thinking on my part and most definitely not the fact that he likes cock.

But still… he doesn't pull his gaze away from me. And the pull is magnetic, too strong for me to even consider looking away from him. The air is heavy and thick with unspoken words, all of which are knotted in my throat, slowly choking me to death.

He said he didn't need saving.

Why can't I just listen for once?

"I have to use the men's room." Jase pushes back his chair, the worn wooden legs scraping against the sawdust-covered floor, the sound grating on my nerves like fingernails on a blackboard.

He stands up, his face flushed with color, eyes fiery pools of a deep shade of cobalt that always overtakes when he's full of anger. I've seen it happen several times over the past couple of days.

Looks like he wants to hit something.

Or someone.

I really hope he doesn't unleash whatever is channeling through him right now because we don't need any more black marks against our names, and Jase going ballistic in a famous steakhouse is bound to get people talking even more on social media.

Hoffman will lose his shit, Jase. So please don't lose yours.

He backs away from the table, from me, and just as he whips around to make a beeline for the men's room, he collides with a different server who happens to be carrying a full tray of hot food.

If he wasn't before, Jase is now officially hangry.

White ceramic dishes fly into the air, steaming hot steaks launching from the tray. Droplets of soup splash out of tipped bowls; glasses crash to the floor.

It's a mess… all over Jase.

"Goddammit," he roars, hunching over and closing a hand over his left forearm.

I jump out of my chair and bend down next to him. "Is it your arm?"

"Yes," he growls through clenched teeth. "Fuck, it hurts."

The server who slammed into him looks like he's about to shit his pants. He stands in front of us like a deer in headlights, staring at Jase as if he has the power to break him in half. Which he would if he wasn't doubled over in anguish.

"Mr. Maxwell, I'm s-so sorry," the guy says, wringing his hands together. "Can I do anything?"

Jase winces, kneeling on the food-stained floor. "Get me a fucking burger," he manages to hiss.

"Yes, sir." The kid runs to the kitchen, leaving the mess all around us. A few bussers show up to clean the floor and gather the broken dishes, glasses, and bowls.

"Can you stand up?" I put an arm around his shoulders, and he tenses, firing off a glare at me.

"I can do it myself," he rasps.

I lift an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Step the fuck off."

The server rushes back with a plate. There's a cheeseburger in the center of it. His voice drops as he leans in with it. "Your food still isn't ready, but the chef took this from another order."

Another guy dressed a little nicer than the server comes over, alarm etched into his face. "I'm so sorry about this, Mr. Maxwell. Can I call anyone for you? Take you to the hospital to get your arm checked out?"

Jase struggles to his feet, cringing with every inch. He grabs the burger. "I'm good. We're good."

"I, um, really hope this doesn't stop you from coming back. You know you're one of our best patrons and we will do anything to?—"

Jase takes a big bite of the burger and lets out a relieved breath like he's going to survive whatever comes next. "You could never keep me away," he mumbles through his chewing. "This place is the fucking bomb, brah." He takes another bite and holds the burger in the air as he walks out the front door like he owns the damn place.

Once we're outside, his forehead pinches and his shoulders slump. Fa?ade completely shattered. "Get me to the fucking hospital now." His voice is tight, and I know he's trying to hold it together.

I guess he's no longer worried that I made a pass at him.

Happy accident, I guess. For me, anyway.

I stay close to him as we walk to my truck, just in case he crumples in pain.

Or so I tell myself.

He gets into the passenger seat and collapses against the back of the seat. "Hot fucking soup. Two bowls full, all the hell over me. Who orders soup at a place like that? It's the beef fucking palace of pleasure."

I almost choke on a laugh. "Do you even realize how that sounds?"

He turns, white-hot flames shooting from his gaze. "For fuck's sake. Are you all cock, all the time?"

"Not all the time. Like when I'm sleeping, no." I tap a finger to my chin. "Well, even then, probably sometimes. Because you know, dreams."

"I'm going to kick your ass if you don't get into this goddamn truck."

I can't with this guy.

I jog around to the driver's side door and hop in. Pressing the ignition button, I turn to him. "You want me to call Dr. Mercer?"

Colin Mercer is the team doctor and would probably appreciate the heads-up since Jase is one of his patients.

"No, I don't give a crap who I see. I just… need… drugs." His eyes are squeezed shut, face twisted with agony. "Go!"

I get to the hospital in about twenty minutes, weaving through slow-moving traffic the whole way across the city. By the time he gets out, my truck smells like a slaughterhouse. I walk ahead and push through the emergency room doors. A muffled buzz vibrates through the room and people stop, stare, and point.

Jase doesn't notice. Or at least, he pretends not to. He walks right up to the reception desk. The girl looks up and drops her cup of coffee. Right on the desk. All over a stack of charts.

And he plays right into it, offering her one of his worth-a-million-dollars-because-they're-so-rare smiles.

A twinge of jealousy stabs at my heart.

Within seconds, he's being taken back behind the heavy double red doors. With a quick look over his shoulder, he nods at me to follow. "You just gonna stand there and stare?"

I bite back the response on the tip of my tongue, that the view of his ass is better than the one of the scowl he insists on wearing most of the time that I'm with him.

But I swallow the words and hurry after him. The nurse from reception is grinning from ear to ear, and he's picked up three more who are all giggling and talking to him, edging their way closer. They don't bring him to a room; they just take him directly to X-ray.

Of course. Because that's how all emergency rooms work when people who look like Jase Maxwell need immediate medical attention.

One of the nurses points to a nearby room with an open door. "You can wait for him right in there."

I'm not upset that they don't recognize me. I know I'm a rookie and not really in the public eye yet.

But the pang of envy has morphed into a full-fledged flash of anger. And it's directed more at me than him. I put myself in this vulnerable position because I just couldn't stay away. Now, I'm at the mercy of the GM, his scorned jackass son, and the whole world because I didn't walk away when I had the chance.

I pace the room while Jase is gone, practically wearing a hole in the tiled floor. I glare at a chipped square and use my foot to jab it. About half an hour passes before he comes back, and I have to seriously wonder if they managed to get him to agree to a sponge bath.

When he's wheeled back by one of the nurses and not an orderly, I fight the urge to roll my eyes, something I seem to do a lot when I'm around Jase. He smirks at me and lets her help him out of the chair and into the bed.

I stare at the nurse, my mind thinking of all the ways I could make her disappear right now. Except even if I could, it wouldn't change things. My chest tightens more and more as he smiles and jokes with her. He looks relaxed, happy, genuine. And she's close to swooning over her patient.

Son of a bitch.

He's straight as a fucking arrow.

I hate her. Hate her!

A knock at the door jolts me from my attempts to kill the nurse with my mind. A man pops his head in. A big smile stretches across his face as he walks in with an iPad.

"Mr. Maxwell. I'm a big fan. Sorry to meet you under these circumstances." He looks down at the screen, furrows his brow, and swipes his finger a few times. When he looks up, his smile isn't as wide.

"I'm afraid you have a fractured forearm. However, because of the positioning of the bones, you won't require surgery."

Jase's face pales. "How long will I be out of the game?"

The doctor taps his stylus against the screen. "We'll put you in a cast. This type of injury can take from six to eight weeks to heal, but depending on level of pain?—"

"No," he thunders. "That's too long. I need to be game ready in four weeks."

"That's going to be a challenge. Even the most seasoned athletes?—"

"I don't care about them. I only care about me." Panic flickers in his expression. "It is possible to get back after four weeks, right?"

I look at the doctor, silently willing him to cite potential for a miracle that Jase can cling to. He forces a smile. "Let's get that arm cast and then we can talk a little bit more. There are options."

"Great. I'll take them."

Once we're alone again, I sit silently next to him. The anguish on his face is too much for me to bear, though. "No working out for at least six weeks, huh? You're going to need to watch the burgers and fries if you can't lift."

It's a pathetic attempt to make him smile. But it works. Kind of.

"Fuuuuck." His head falls back onto the pillow.

"I can get my chef to prepare a meal plan for you."

He sits straight up again. "Are you out of your fucking mind? I'll starve."

Ooh, he's fired up now. My pulse jumps. Even if he's devastated, he's still talking. I haven't lost him… yet.

"No, you just won't turn into an apartment building."

"I'm a right tackle, brah. I'm supposed to be an apartment building."

I wonder if they gave him some drugs when they took him back for his X-ray because he's all sorts of engaging now, even after the news he just got. But then again, who gives a damn?

I really don't give a shit why. I'm just glad to see this side of him.

My phone vibrates against my leg. I pull it out and see Krista's name flash across the screen. I stab the Accept button.

"Hey, Krista, what's u?—?"

"Lucas."

A chill licks at the hairs on the back of my neck, my stomach dropping into my shoes when I hear the panic in her voice.

"You need to get here as soon as possible." She pauses, her voice thick with panic. "It's the kids."