All Played Out (Rusk University #3) (24 page)

I hear her feet shuffle toward me as my eyes drift close. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at a hospital getting checked out?”

“It’s mild. I’ve had these before. I know how it goes.”

And I know that I want to sleep, and now that my head is cushioned on her pillow and I’m lying flat on my back, I’m seconds away from doing just that. The bed dips slightly at my feet, and it jostles as she crawls up to kneel beside me.

I remember Dylan sitting out in the living room and add, “Don’t tell Dylan.”

“Why? Hey, look at me.” She nudges my shoulder, and I pry open my eyes.

She places both hands on my cheeks, tilting my head toward her and looking into my eyes. “I haven’t told Coach. Or the guys.”

I’m thankful when she doesn’t ask me why. Instead she moves straight into medical mode. “Your pupils appear to be the same size. So, that’s good. Any nausea? Vomiting?”

“No. I told you. It’s mild.”

She leans over me, tilting my head so that the ceiling light shines more on my eyes. “Humor me. What are your symptoms? Blurred vision?”

“Yes.”

“Sensitive to light or sound?”

“Both.”

“Headache?”

I hesitate.

“Mateo? Do you have a headache?”

“Yes, but it’s manageable. I’ll take some aspirin and be fine.”

“Has it gotten worse since you were first hit?”

“No. I swear I’m okay.”

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and it’s amazing how even with my head as foggy as it is, I can zone in precisely on that movement.

“You’ll need someone to keep an eye on you. Monitor your symptoms to make sure they don’t get any worse.”

And here comes the hard part. “I was hoping that might be you. What do you say, sweetheart? Can you play nurse for me?”

Chapter 23

Nell’s To-Do List

I
t’s remarkable how even at times like this he can make a joke. I want to ask him
why
. Why he came here. Why he doesn’t want to tell anyone about his concussion.

Why me?

Okay, so maybe that last question is less about his concussion and more about . . . everything. We haven’t slept together since last Sunday (well, Monday morning, I guess), though the few times we’ve seen each other, he was certainly very
hands-on
. But I can’t help but find myself wondering why he would choose me. This, taking care of him, feels distinctly in girlfriend territory. Or am I overreacting? Didn’t I just admit the other day that we were friends above all else? Maybe this is just what friendship with him is like. Sure, he’s taught me more about my body in a few encounters than I ever could have imagined, but I can put that aside for a friendly gesture.

Oh God, who am I kidding? If this were Matty in my bed, my heart wouldn’t be trying to rearrange my rib cage.

I don’t know how to deal with these insecurities because they’re different from the fears I feel about my future or everyday worries about tests and homework and other trivial stuff. These fears are different because . . .

Because there is no correct answer. I like solving problems. I
love
solving problems. But not like this . . . not when there’s no guarantee I can be right.

Because Mateo Torres is loud, and I’m quiet. Because he’s reckless, and I’m cautious. Because he belongs everywhere, and I don’t.

Because I think I’m in danger of falling in love with him.

So, no . . . this is much worse than fears about classes or jobs or the future. Those things might stress me out on occasion, but when push comes to shove, I’m confident enough in myself to believe that it will all work out, that
I
will figure it out.

But I don’t think I’m the kind of person who can fall in love. Or at least I didn’t think I was. And even if I’m wrong about that, and I
can
fall in love, I feel fairly certain that I’m going to be really bad at it.

Falling in love
.

I’ll be too clingy or not clingy enough. I’ll have trust issues (trusting him and being trusted
by
him . . . both are likely to be disastrous). I’ll say stupid things. Or I’ll say smart things that make him feel stupid. I’ll ignore him in favor of doing my work. Or I’ll ignore work for him.

So I can’t fall for Mateo Torres. There are limits to this little experiment, and that has to be one of them.

I won’t be cliché enough to fall for a guy just because he took my virginity. I am ruled by my head above all else.

As I ignore my own issues and focus on him, the pinch of pain at the back of my throat that comes from seeing him like this tells me that the danger is very real. I have to fight a tide of rising panic even though I know he’s right. His symptoms are mild, and with bed rest, he should recover just fine. But it’s just . . . I’ve never seen him this vulnerable. And I want . . .

I am ruled by my head. Nothing else.

He has this glazed look in his eyes, and even though he seems coherent enough and is making an effort to appear as normal as possible, I can tell how tired he is. My freak-out will have to wait until tomorrow. For now, I need to be practical. For his health’s sake. My brain quickly cycles through the necessary information. He needs to rest, but I’ll also need to wake him up periodically to make sure he’s still coherent, still able to be woken up. Which means he’ll be spending the night here. In room.
In my bed
.

Only this time, Dylan’s here. And I’ll have to tell her something.

“Okay,” I say. “Let me get you that aspirin.”

As I make my way to the door, he says, “Thank you. You’re amazing.”

“Don’t thank me yet. If I think you’re getting worse, I’m taking you to the hospital. I don’t care how ‘fine’ you are.”

His mouth twitches, an almost smile. “You think I’m fine?”

I roll my eyes, even though a part of me finds it adorable that he’s still flirting with me even after we’ve already slept together.

Ruled by your mind, Nell. Focus.

I leave to retrieve the medicine and some water. On my way to the kitchen, Dylan catches me, “Is he okay?”

“Hmm?” Crap. What do I tell her? “Oh yeah. He’s just tired from practice, I think. And . . .” Here goes nothing. “Well, I know you told me to stay away from him, but I like him. We’re . . .
seeing
each other.”

There. Neither of us has really talked yet about telling other people that we’re sleeping together. We’re both so busy with my classes and his football stuff that we didn’t want to have to split our limited free time by answering questions about ourselves. But this is the only explanation, besides the truth, that I have for why he’d show up here and want to go straight to my room. It will justify why we’re spending hours cooped up in my room, and keep people from disturbing us.

“That little bugger, he pulled it off.”

“What?”

“He asked me about you. Wanted to know how to talk to you. I honestly didn’t think he had a chance, or that he was serious enough to wear you down, but he did it.”

Oh, he was
plenty
good at wearing me down.

She asks, “And you like him? For
real
like him?”

I have to fight the urge to drag her onto the couch and spill everything I’m feeling, to ask her what love feels like, just so I’ll know that what I’m feeling isn’t it. And if it is . . . damn it, now is not the time.

“Yeah. I like him. Listen, he needs my help with something, can we talk about this later?”

She gives me a smirk, and I’m sure she’s thinking of a very different something that I might help him with, but she says, “Sure. I think I’ll go over to Silas’s. Spend the night there.”

I’m stunned for a moment at how supportive she is of all this. From the way she’d first talked about Mateo, I figured she would think I was crazy. That was a big part of why I hadn’t told her before even though I was dying to talk to someone. But now she’s practically throwing me into his arms, leaving us the apartment all to ourselves.

With a glass of water in hand, I make my way back to my room to find him struggling to stay awake. I close the door behind me and move to his side.

“Hey.” His smile is sleepy and soft, and it makes him look sweeter. Less intimidating. I might want to be ruled by my mind, but there’s a fist around my heart, and the poor little organ seems to struggle to beat against it, to beat against how terrifying it is to want a person this much. I shake out a few pills and hand them to him along with the water. He pops the aspirin into his mouth and then leans his head up far enough to swallow a mouthful of water.

Then I reach down to pull off his sneakers. They’re longer than the length of my forearm, and they look even bigger when I place them on the floor beside my bed.

“Nurse Nell,” he murmurs in his deep, gravelly voice.

“Do you want to be under the covers?” I ask.

“Depends. Will you be under there, too?”

I roll my eyes. “You need to rest.”

“I can multitask.”

And
oh,
I want him to. But we can’t. He’s ill, and I’m . . . me.

He shifts up to a sitting position, and though he could probably do it by himself, I pull back the covers when he stands. I wait for him to climb back into the bed, but instead he steps closer to me and lifts a hand to my cheek. He leans down at the same time I tip my head up, and he rests his forehead against mine. His eyes are closed, and mine are open. And this close I can see his dark long lashes, and I can see the slightest hint of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He doesn’t say anything. Nor does he move to do anything more than touch me. He takes a deep breath, and I place a hand on his chest to feel the way it expands and then falls. He breathes again, and it feels like he’s taking a piece of me into his lungs with him, and just when I’m about to close my eyes, he pulls away and crawls into my bed.

That fist squeezes. As if it’s trying to get me to admit it. To think the words that scare me far too much to say.

Something tugs low in my belly at the sight of him there, and somehow those few seconds of being close to him, of breathing with him, feel just as intimate and huge as it felt to have him inside me for the first time.

How is that? In what universe does that make
any
sense?

In this one,
my mind says as I watch his eyes fall closed.

And even though I should let him rest, even though I should use this time to study or read or make one epic pros and cons list, I set an alarm on my phone for two hours from now, and I round the bed to crawl in beside him.

He takes up over half of my full-size bed, so that even if I didn’t want to be touching him, it would be hard to avoid. Not that I try.

He lifts his arm, and I immediately crawl under it, to lean against him. I lay my head on his chest and press my body close to his side. His arm settles down around me, his fingertips brushing along my spine.

We’ve lain like this once before, that first night after we had sex. That was the only time he stayed the night, and it feels different now, to have him hold me like this when it’s still light outside and when we’re both fully clothed, and my mind isn’t numb from pleasure. I’d been so exhausted that night that I fell asleep almost immediately, no time to think or analyze.

“Now,
this
is what I call full-service medicine.”

“This is the part where I would hit you. If you weren’t already hurt.”

“Go ahead. I can take it. I like a little pain with my pleasure.”

I don’t even think before I ask, “Do you really?”

He sucks in a breath, and his chest lifts beneath my cheek.

“We can talk about what turns me on another time. When I can do something about it.”

“You could make me a list.”

He groans, and pulls me tighter against him, and my heartbeat kicks into high gear. I know nothing is going to happen. Nothing
can
happen. But my body recognizes his, remembers how good we were together.

“Damn, woman. You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Sorry,” I answer sheepishly. “Go to sleep. I’ll shut up.”

Please, dear Lord, let me shut up.

“We’re having this conversation again later. I like this list idea a lot. But only if we make one for you, too.”

“You already know the things that turn me on. Better than I do probably.”

“No, I don’t. Not yet. But I will. We both will. You can count on that.”

Another squeeze from that fist.

I nod against his chest, embarrassed and pleased and eager all at once.

And as he falls asleep beneath me, I get to know him in a way that friendship and flirting and sex haven’t allowed, completely undone and made honest by sleep. I learn the rhythm of his breaths, the unhurried beat of his heart when he’s completely at rest. I discover what his face looks like when it’s free of his usual charm and bravado. I study how he looks when he is entirely his own, not the entertainer, not the athlete, not the flirt. And like music stripped of its enhancements and frills, he’s somehow better in this simple form.

I’m still awake when my alarm goes off for the first time. I prop myself up on my elbow and gently but firmly shake his shoulder.

“Mateo.”

He groans and mumbles something, and I shake him a little harder. His eyelids lift, and he regards me a moment, before smiling in this brilliantly sexy, sleepy way. I lean across him to flip on the bedside lamp. He winces at the light and clamps an arm around my waist, trapping me in my prone position. With his eyes squeezed shut he says, “Turn it off.”

“Let me see your eyes first.”

He complies, but doesn’t release his grip on my waist, so I’m practically on top of him as I study his pupils. They’re still not reacting to light as much as they should, but they’re the same size, which is good.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Nineteen.”

I blink. I hadn’t known that he was younger than me. He’s so much more experienced and confident that I assumed he was older.