* * *
Ian
Spectacular. Not only do I faceplant twenty minutes into my first run in about three years, but I manage to do it with an audience.
To be fair, I’m pretty certain my spill was the audience’s fault.
That is to say, if I hadn’t been distracted by the sight of a shirtless Booker Zabek, I’d have been watching where I was going and would have easily sidestepped the patch of tree roots I managed to stumble on.
He squats down in front of me and…Lord. Yeah, no. Brain, do not go there. Do not look, do not stare.
“Ian?”
“Hmm? Sorry, what did you say?”
He smiles kindly. “I asked if you’re ok.”
“No,” I mutter. “Everything hurts. Don’t get old, Booker.”
He laughs. “What are you, twenty-three?”
“Nah, those were the good old days. I’m twenty-four.”
He winces. “Good to know I’m dealing with a geriatric patient. Seriously, though, anything sore? Tender?”
“My ego,” I deadpan, scrambling to stand up. “Oh—Fuck!” I slump back down to the ground. “Yeah, my ego and my ankle.”
“Mind if I look?”
Oh, honey…I think to myself.That is such a loaded question.But I school my features because I am this man’s friend and his TA. And even though he’s still shirtless, I will remain professional.
“No, go ahead. I don’t think it’s broken or anything, but it hurts like hell.”
His fingers are gentle as he checks out my leg. I look down to see a bruise already forming.
“Yea, it looks a little swollen. I’m guessing it’s a mild sprain, but don’t let that fool you. Those hurt like heck.”
“Like heck?” I can’t help but tease.
His cheeks turn pink. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. I don’t know, it’s just so ingrained into me not to use cusswords, you know?”
“Fuck, no, I don’t,” I quip. “I’m just teasing, honest. I think it’s sweet that you don’t. There’s something pure about you, Booker.”
He pales for a second, then asks, “Let’s see, did you drive to campus?”
“Nope. I had the brilliant idea that on my only free afternoon for the foreseeable future, I’d go for a run.”
“Hmmm. Well, I actually did, for once. Let’s get you down the hill to my car, and I’ll take you to The Chapel, if that’s ok? The sooner we get some ice on this, the better. Sound good?”
“Yea, that’d be great. Thanks.”
With Booker’s help, I manage to stand, but getting down the hill is a whole other issue. Part of the problem is our obvious height difference. He’s tall, and I’m not. I’m doing my best to lean on him, but it’s awkward as hell. We take about two steps before I start to lose my balance. Booker reaches out to steady me.
“Look, this will be easier, and faster, if I carry you.”
My face must betray my suspicion because Booker just laughs.
“Dude, I could bench press you. Scooping you up and carrying you downhill? I won’t even break a sweat.”
