Why are they talking like that? It’s not like I’m an eighty-year-old who has fallen and can’t get up.
“Girls, I’m fine.” I grab Callie’s outstretched hand and attempt to stand. The pain in my ankle intensifies, and I screech, collapsing back to the floor.
“I’m going to go find someone,” Megan says.
“No, no.” I stop her. “It’s just a sprain. I’ll be fine.”
Diedre peeks at my ankle, and a horrified expression fills her face. I glance down. Yup. There’s the swelling. “It looks awful, but it’s fine, really. I used to sprain my ankle all the time. I’ll bring my ankle braces next time.”
“You need to elevate it,” Callie says, and within moments, the girls have gotten their textbooks out of their bags. I forgot how bad a swollen ankle hurts, and I grimace with each inch of math they add under my foot. Numbers are hard.
“Thank you.” I swallow the pain and lie down on the floor to find a comfortable position. “I’m going to rest for a second.” Or forever.
“We’ll clean up,” one of the girls says from somewhere near my foot.
“I should have done this weeks ago,” I chuckle. Way better than getting locked in a closet and only slightly more painful.
Shoes squeak around me, and I close my eyes, focusing on my breath and not the agony seizing my ankle. I need to get ice on it ASAP if I want to wear normal shoes again this week, but this is all I can do for now.
A door slams shut, and I peel my upper half off the floor.
“Sleeping on the job, huh? Was the closet taken?” The voice is unmistakably deep and unmistakably Connor’s.
I close my eyes and groan. “It’s called horizontal coaching.”
“Ah.” I turn my head as his giant shoes stop in front of me. “And how is it working for you?”
I ignore him and face the bleachers where the girls are busy changing their shoes.
“Girls, who did this? Who lethimin here?”
Riley, a freshman, slowly raises her hand. They sent the innocent one. Smart. “You needed help,” she says.
I shake my head. “This man cannot help me. In fact, let this be a lesson for you girls. You don’t need a man. Ever.”
Callie snickers. “That’s not what our health teacher said.”
Connor chuckles behind me.
I turn my glare on him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, but I don’t need a knight in dingy armor.”
His grin grows, the left side of his lips creeping slightly higher than the right. It’s asymmetrical, which should be a turnoff, but it’s annoyingly adorable instead.
“Dingy?” He pretends to dust off his white shirt, which of course is rolled to his elbows to showcase his weirdly veiny forearms. A triangle of tan skin peeks out from where he’s unbuttoned his shirt. He might as well be naked in a room full of teenage hormones with the way they are all staring…scratch that.I’mthe only one staring. I need help. Of the mental variety.
“So, you don’t require assistance?” Connor asks.
“You’re still here?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and walks over to the bleachers. He sits and cocks his head toward me.
“Well, go ahead, princess. Save yourself.”
The girls look between the two of us, probably unsure of what side they should take here.
I grit my teeth. I work out six days a week. I have the strength to stand on one leg while the other swells like a balloon. I lean against the hip on my good side then roll onto my knee. My ankle throbs, but I push on. I place my hands on the floor in front of me to stabilize myself then send my bad leg out behind me. After an awkward moment with my butt straight in the air, I use my core to pull myself up.
Applause congratulates me. I raise a hand in the air and give the girls a little bow.
