Claire (Hart University Book 2) (7 page)

I stared at him. “And that’s normal? Show me where else you hurt yourself.”

“The trainers already checked me out,” he said, but he turned his right side toward me and started to lift the hem of his shirt.

“Shit,” he said almost immediately, wincing and letting the shirt drop. “Let’s just leave it, okay?”

But I’d already seen the purple splotches, and I grabbed his T-shirt myself and lifted it.

It was the biggest bruise I’d ever seen, mottling his skin from his hip to his armpit. It looked worst right around his rib cage.

“Oh my God, Will. You’re sure someone looked at this? You didn’t crack a rib or anything?”

“No. It’s just sore.”

I let the shirt go and took a step back. “You should put some ice on that.”

“I would, usually. But I was excited after the game and didn’t feel like waiting around for an ice pack. I’m fine, Claire. I promise.”

I’d forgotten all about the game.

“Oh man, I suck. I haven’t even congratulated you or told you how awesome you were.”

The side of his mouth that wasn’t split lifted in a crooked smile. “Yeah?”

“Are you kidding? You were incredible. It was amazing to watch you.”

“So you had a good time?”

“I did. I didn’t expect to, but I really, really did.” I paused. “You were right, you know. It was like a concert. The excitement… the feeling of being connected to all those people in the stands… and something wonderful happening in front of you.” I paused again. “I’m ashamed I’ve never seen you play before. You heard my band so many times last year, and I didn’t go to any of your games.”

Will shook his head. “Like I told you before, I rode the bench last year. If I’d really wanted you there I would’ve asked—and you would’ve come.” He grinned. “You came to this game, didn’t you?”

Standing there in his white T-shirt and jeans, covered in cuts and bruises, Will was the picture of male strength. He looked like he’d been on a battlefield, coming home bloody but unbowed, his hard-muscled arms and powerful shoulders stretching the thin cotton of his shirt.

Of course, there were plenty of guys in the world with good bodies. There were plenty of guys who were good athletes. But not many of them had eyes like Will’s, deep green and so full of warmth and humor and kindness… and now, pleasure in the fact that I’d come to his game and enjoyed myself.

It occurred to me that if I stayed in his room for too much longer, there was a really good chance I’d forget my pledge in a hot second and kiss him. But that would be reckless and impulsive and NOT something a good friend does. How could I be sure I was acting from real feelings for Will, and not out of my fear of being alone or my desire to be part of a couple again?

“Do you have any ice packs?” I asked abruptly.

“Yeah, downstairs in the freezer.”

“I’ll go grab them. You should ice those bruises.”

Will shook his head and started for the door. “I’ll get them. Do you want something to drink while I’m down there?”

“No, I’m good. But we need Neosporin and Band-Aids, too.”

“Whatever I’ve got is in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone it was like a weight lifted from my heart. Without those green eyes gazing into mine, I could remember all the promises I’d made to myself.

All I had to do now was figure out how to do that when he was in the room.

Chapter Seven

Coming down the stairs, I could see twenty or thirty people in the living room. It wasn’t the crowd we’d had last time, but it was starting to look like a party.

I went into the kitchen without stopping to say hi to anyone.

It was almost a relief to be away from Claire. The way she looked at me… the way she touched me…

“Will!”

I’d just grabbed the ice packs from the freezer. At the sound of my name, I turned around.

A girl I didn’t recognize was standing in the doorway. Her Panthers T-shirt was a size too small for her, which sort of put a spotlight on her breasts. She had long blond hair a little darker than Claire’s and blue eyes a little lighter.

She crossed the kitchen to give me a huge hug. Was it possible I actually knew this girl?

“I’m Brittany,” she said, which probably meant I didn’t.

The hug was over but she was definitely still in my personal space. She gazed up at me soulfully, which was a little embarrassing.

I’d had experience with the whole athletic fifteen minutes of fame thing back in high school. That was actually the reason Lissa first went out with me, although our relationship turned into more than that. But after we broke up, I decided I wouldn’t go out with another football groupie—and I wouldn’t rely on football to attract girls.

Did that make me a hypocrite for being glad Claire was at the game today? Maybe. Probably.

But I was glad all the same.

“You were awesome today. Does this hurt?” Brittany asked, reaching out toward the bruise on my jaw. I jerked my head away, not wanting anyone but Claire to touch me like that.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a little sore.”

“Of course,” she said quickly, backing off a half step but keeping her eyes on mine. “Do you want any help with your ice packs? I could… you know… hold them on you.”

There are some people who have the ability to make anything sound like a sexual invitation. Brittany was one of those people.

I felt my face getting red and I was glad no one else was around to witness my lack of coolness.

“I think I’m good,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Count on it,” she said, giving me a slow, very sexy smile.

I slipped past her and headed for the stairs.

Back up in my room, Claire was all business. She’d gotten a bunch of supplies from the bathroom and was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Let me start with your face,” she said. As I sat down beside her, it occurred to me that if she’d said
Let me start by cutting off your left ear,
I would have gone along with that, too.

She poured hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball and dabbed it on my forehead, and it wasn’t the liquid that made my skin tingle. Then she opened the little tube of Neosporin, squeezed out a pea-sized dollop, and smoothed it gently over the cut.

Now it was more than tingling. I was practically shivering.

I couldn’t look away from her face while she worked on me. She looked focused and serious, a single frown line between her eyebrows.

She didn’t put peroxide on my lip but she did dab on a little Neosporin. Then she applied a small square bandage to the cut on my forehead and sat back in satisfaction at her handiwork.

“Okay, let me see the bruise on your side.”

I pulled off my T-shirt obediently, wishing like hell I had a bruise lower down.

“Hold this,” she said, putting one of the ice packs against my ribs. I kept it there while she wound a long strip of gauze around my waist to bind it in place.

“Good,” she said, scooting back on the bed when she was done. “Keep that on for fifteen minutes, okay? And you should ice again before you go to bed. Oh, and you should take ibuprofen. It’s good for pain, of course, but it’s also an anti-inflammatory and will help control the swelling.”

She shook out tablets from a bottle and handed them to me, along with a glass of water.

“Thanks,” I said after I swallowed the pills. “If this is your bedside manner you’re going to be a great doctor someday.”

She grinned at me. “Well, I—”

There was a knock on the door. Before I could say anything it opened, and my new friend Brittany was standing in the doorway with another girl. This one was dark-haired and curvy, and her breasts, like Brittany’s, were straining against the material of her Panthers T-shirt. It was just automatic when my eyes went there, and when I jerked my gaze back up to her face she was smiling.

“Hi,” Brittany said cheerfully, glancing briefly at Claire before disregarding her completely. “This is my friend Nicole. We came to drag you down to the party. You
are
coming, right?”

A minute before, I’d felt like a million bucks. Maybe Claire really did have a magical healing touch, or maybe it was something else. But every second her hands were on my body felt like the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Now I felt pissed off and guilty at the same time, as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

I looked at Claire to see what she was thinking. Maybe I could figure out if she’d felt anything when she touched me… anything like what I’d felt for her.

But there was no conflicting emotion in her expression. She was just pissed.

She walked over to Brittany and Nicole and stood with her hands on her hips. “He’ll be down in a few minutes. He has to finish icing his bruise first.”

Brittany seemed pissed, too. “What are you, his nurse? Or his wannabe girlfriend?”

“Neither one,” Claire said, grabbing the doorknob. “I’m just a friend. The kind of friend who thinks taking care of an injury is important.”

She started to close the door, basically forcing Brittany and Nicole to back up or push past her. They chose to back up, and Claire shut the door in their faces.

Then she locked it.

“There,” she said in satisfaction, turning to face me with her arms folded. “That should give you a few minutes of peace.”

I looked back at her. She seemed so fierce and protective… even more now than when she was patching me up.

But was it the protectiveness a girl felt for a guy she wanted to be with, or the protectiveness a friend felt for another friend?

“Will,” she said, sounding like she’d come to a decision.

God, I hoped it was the kind of decision I could get behind.

“Yeah?”

 “I want to fix you up with someone.”

I blinked. “What?”

She nodded several times. “Definitely. I mean, otherwise you’re going to end up hooking up with someone like—” She gestured toward the door. “Someone who’s only into you because you’re a star quarterback.”

Okay, that bruised my ego a little. “That’s the only reason you could imagine someone being into me?”

She frowned. “Of course not. That’s not what I meant. It’s just that you should be with someone worthwhile. Someone who can appreciate all of you. Not just the football stuff and your—” Now she gestured at me.

I raised an eyebrow. “My what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t fish for compliments. Will you let me fix you up, or what?”

“I can find my own dates, Claire.”

“You mean like those two Pantherettes?”

“They seemed like very nice girls,” I said judiciously.

Claire glared at me suspiciously for a second, and then she relaxed.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“You’re making it easy.”

She leaned back against the closed door. “Yeah, okay, I guess I am. Sorry. Are you telling me it’s none of my business?”

I shook my head. “I’m just telling you I can find my own dates.”

“Fine. Just… not the Pantherettes.”

“What if one of them turns out to be—”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

I could have done more teasing on the subject, but the truth was, it made me happy that Claire cared enough to criticize two girls who’d flirted with me. I wanted to keep that feeling going.

“I don’t want you to pick my next girlfriend, but you can tell me what you think about any prospective dates.”

She looked skeptical. “How would that work? Will you be sending me their resumes?”

“We’ll figure something out. Maybe you could casually stop by when they’re here or something.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “Do you have someone in mind?”

Only you, and that’s not happening.

“No. But if I find someone I’m interested in you’ll be the first to know.”

She started to smile. “All right. It’s a deal.”

“Great. Now I’m going to take this ice pack off before I freeze solid. And then we’re going down to the party. Apparently I have a flock of female admirers waiting to—”

“Admire you?”

“Exactly.”

“Just remember you have to run any serious contenders by me first.”

“I’ll remember.”

Chapter Eight

A few weeks after Will’s season opener, Milton came up to me after band practice.

“You should think about writing some solo stuff,” he said. “And performing it.”

I frowned at him. “You don’t like the stuff I’ve been writing for Sugar Lane?”

He sighed. “No, moron, that’s not it. I’ve just been noticing something new in your lyrics. Your songs are getting more thoughtful, you know? I was just wondering if you’d ever thought about doing a coffeehouse-style gig sometime.”

Milton was the least coffeehouse-style musician I knew.

“Is that an insult? Are you saying I’m not rock and roll enough?”

He mimed smacking me upside the head. “Will you cut that out? There’s no subtext here. I’m not looking for a subtle way to say you suck. I think you’re awesome. I was just noticing this other side to your style and wondered if you’d thought about exploring it. But I will never, ever bring it up again.”

Later that night I was still thinking about what he’d said, and I called Jenna to talk about it.

My stepmother was always my go-to person for musical advice. She’d left home when she was seventeen to start a rock band, and she was still going strong almost twenty years later. I’d sent her a demo of Sugar Lane that she’d really liked, and she’d brought up the possibility of us maybe opening for the Red Mollies when they played a Boston club in February.

“Do you think I’m rock and roll?” I asked her.

“As opposed to what? Country? Maybe you’re a little bit country
and
a little bit rock and roll.”

“Very funny.” I told her what Milton had said after practice that day. “I don’t want to be some kind of folk singer. I don’t see myself that way.”

“You’re nineteen,” Jenna said. “You shouldn’t see yourself any one way. You should be open to trying new things. Plus, all the great artists reinvent themselves on a regular basis. Sometimes they fail spectacularly, of course. But it helps them grow.”

I felt a qualm. “I don’t want to fail.”