He shrugs. With me on his shoulders. It’s like he doesn’t even feel me. “It will keep my calluses up until I get back to practice and back in the weight room.”
I don’t ask why he would want calluses. I just write it off as some sports thing that will never make sense to me.
“When do you go back?”
He blows out a breath. “Next week. As long as I’m certain I won’t lose my head and f**k things up even worse for myself.”
“How will you know you’re ready?”
“I was going to have you tell me.”
“Silas . . . I can’t do that. How could I possibly know what’s going on inside your head?” I leave off the implied unless you tell me.
“You’re the authority on having your shit together. I figured you’d be able to recognize when I got there, or when I was on my way or something.”
If only.
“Apparently I don’t have things as together as I thought.”
I’m working on a particularly strong vine. I tug hard, and my hand slips right out of the oversized glove I’m wearing. I swirl my arms, trying to right my balance, but it only makes it worse. I’m falling backward. We both are. I might scream something. Silas’s hands clamp down on my thighs like bands of iron, but I’m still teetering.
It occurs to me to protect my head, just as Silas pitches himself forward onto his knees. He hits hard, and the jolt unseats me from his shoulders, but thanks to him I’m closer to the ground. And with reflexes practically in superhero range, he even manages to snag my hand as I’m falling. His hold keeps me up just enough that my bottom hits first, followed by my lower back, but my head never goes down.
Even with Silas’s efforts, my tailbone hurts like a mother, and my lower back spasms painfully, so I let go of his hand and lay back against the grass. His knees have got to be hurting just as badly, but he still shifts to lean over me.
He blocks out the sun, and maybe it’s the pain or maybe it’s just him, but it feels like one of those rare total eclipses where you know you’re not supposed to look because it can destroy your eyes or something, but it’s so incredible that you can’t help it.
“Dylan, are you okay?” He says the words slowly, and I get the feeling that he’s already said them once, and I just tuned them out.
I blame the pain, but when the impulse rises, I let my hand stretch out and touch his face. Just a skim of my fingers across his jaw, but the jolt of energy I get from that small touch is nearly as debilitating as the jolt from my landing.
He closes his eyes, and without his gaze on me, I come back to my senses. I draw my hand away just as a few people round the edge of the house, drawn no doubt by the screaming that I probably (almost certainly) did a lot of. A few others lean over the roof to check out the situation, but my eyes automatically search out Henry to see the look of complete horror on his face at the sight of Silas hovering over me, one of his legs between mine.
I realize I still haven’t answered Silas, so I say, “I’m okay,” and use the same hand that had touched his face to push him back enough that I can sit up. My tailbone protests, but I grimace until it passes and ask, “Are your knees okay? That was crazy, but I’m pretty sure I would have cracked my head open if you hadn’t done it.”
He shifts back to sit beside me and closes his eyes as he slowly straightens out his legs. That’s the only outward sign of feeling he shows, but I know it had to hurt badly to hit with the force of his own body, plus my extra weight.
I have a sudden horrible realization that something like that could really hurt him. Aren’t knee injuries really common for football players? What if I’ve just ruined his career, ruined his life?
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” I don’t even feel any pain as I lurch up to my knees and grab his face. His eyes open to look at me, and they look dark, too dark, almost clouded by something. “Tell me you’re okay. Is it your knee? Knees?” Oh God, what if I’ve done something to both his knees? He doesn’t say anything and there are fireworks of panic exploding one after another in my chest. “I’ll go get my car. We’ll get you to the hospital. Ice! I’ll also get ice from Mrs. Baker before we leave. And pillows. To prop up your legs in the car. I’m so, so sorry. Just . . . I’ll be right back. Don’t move. I’m so sorry.”
I start to stand, and my legs wobble like a newborn colt. Just as I get them steady, Silas tosses his head back and laughs.
It’s only then that I notice the full audience we’ve gained, and at Silas’s reaction, they all begin to laugh quietly, too.
“This better mean you’re okay.” I point a threatening finger at him. “Because you’re not allowed to laugh if you’re actually hurt.”
He holds a hand to his abdomen and laughs even harder.
God, he’s such a jerk.
A really handsome jerk, who kind of, sort of sacrificed himself for me, and looks even more gorgeous when he laughs. A laugh, by the way, that’s low and throaty and pretty much makes my ovaries melt.
I know when I’m fighting a losing battle. It’s a sensation I’ve felt at many a meeting or protest. And this battle with Silas, he’s winning by a landslide.
Chapter 15
Silas
I don’t mean to laugh, especially because my knees do hurt like a bitch, but her panicked determination to wheel me away to a hospital after a measly fall is just so damn cute.
If the same thing had happened to me on the football field, I would have been called a pansy already and told to get up and walk it off. I decide to do just that, and when I bend my knees to stand, pain spears through the joints. My legs are stiff, too, like I’m caked in drying cement. I must wince because Dylan is kneeling by me in seconds, her blue eyes intense on me.
“You are hurt. Damn it, Silas!”
I can’t remember if I’ve ever heard her cuss or not. Those words sound better from her lips than I think they ever have.
“I’m fine. Just a little stiff. It will go away.”
“How do you know?”
I give her a look. “I have some experience hitting the ground with considerable force.”
“Smartass.” I really like it when bad words come out of that good girl mouth. “What can I do?”
“Just help me up.”
She crawls underneath my arm, but she’s not strong enough to help me up, and it’s taking most of my willpower just to bend my knees. Putting pressure on them to lift myself up isn’t happening. It’s the project leader, Greg, who takes hold of my other arm, and together they help me up.