Weight

Part Eleven

It was nearing the beginning of November. The football season should've been wrapping up, but the team had an amazing season so far and made it to the playoffs. Nate was always at practice, and so was I. Our competition season was about to start and I wanted to soak up every minute possible. I wouldn't be cheering in college next year, so I didn't mind the extra football games or extended practices.

Our running routine halted, both exhausted from the stress of school and sports and just life in general.

I felt like I hadn't seen Nate in weeks, even though we'd been living in the same house and drove to school together. We were always busy; we never talked. The upside of our distance was that nobody else found out about our arrangement. Paisley kept her mouth shut, at least to the public. She had a new question for me everyday.

It was a late Thursday night. I had just trudged into the house after cheer practice, miserable. I should've been home hours before, but a few of the girls were having problems with the routine and asked me to stay to help them out. Of course I had to.

I plopped my cheer bag by the front door and called out into the house, "Nate?" I didn't hear a response. Checking my watch, I saw that I had probably half an hour before Nate got home from practice. I bet myself it was enough time to steal a shower in his master bath.

I giddily stripped down and turned the water on hot. The large tiled shower had pristine glass walls and a shower head on either end. I had been stealing showers in Nate's bathroom whenever he wasn't home. The experience was heavenly.

I scrubbed all of the sweat and dirt and oil off of my skin and out of my hair before quickly shaving and rising off. I begrudgingly turned off the steamy water and reached out to grabbed a towel. I wrapped one around my head, restricting my sopping wet hair from hanging loose on my shoulders, and used the other one to dry of my body before securing it around myself like a dress.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, I heard the front door open and shut. "Nate?" I called out into the house.

"Yeah, it's me," a straggly voice grunted back. I padded down the hallway, concern taking over me. Nate was still standing just inside the front doorway, dropping his bag next to the coat hanger by the door. His actions were slow, labored.

My brows furrowed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he managed, "I'm fine." The look in his eyes as he turned told me he wasn't. Pain flashed when his body twisted. He grimaced, and I approached him quickly.

"Did you get hurt at practice?"

"No," he denied automatically. But I saw a suspicious red spot permeating his grey T-shirt.

Before he could stop me, I lifted the bottom of his shirt up to reveal his stomach. He flinched as I stared at the bruises already forming. The entire side of his body was turning nasty shades of purple and blue. I gasped at the long cut slashed under his rib cage. It was open, covered in dried blood.

"How did this happen?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Just took a bad hit."

I tilted my eyes, knowing that wasn't the whole story. "Nate, please," I practically begged.

"It was a hit. Just not on the field." I waited for him to continue. "Okay, I got in a fight with Evans. He shoved me into our water table, and the corner just scratched me a little bit."

Scratch my ass, I thought coldly, making a mental note to make life hell for Danny Evans. I was never a fan of him, but he dropped even lower in my book after this.

"Did Travis check you out?" I asked, referring to our athletic trainer at school who was in charge of all sports related injuries.

"Nah, I'm fine. Really, Evie, there's no need to worry about me," he insisted.

"Can you at least let me clean the cut for you? I think I have wound wash in my bathroom." I was up the stairs before he could give or deny me permission. In a flash, I was back down the steps and ushering Nate into his bedroom.

I pushed him to his bed, forcing him to sit while I grabbed a wash cloth from the linen closet. Wetting it in the bathroom sink, I called out to Nate, "Take ur shirt off."

I walked back into his bedroom and saw him sitting in the edge of his bed. His shoulders were hunched over and I could see his pain, but that didn't stop his endless flirting. "Only if you take off your towel." He winked and my eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

Then, I realized. Looking down at myself, I finally took note of the fact that I was only in a towel. After my shower, I never had the time to put on my pajamas because I got caught up in my concern of Nate. I gasped, suddenly feeling naked. Nate laughed at me, causing me to blush a deep red.

"Just grab a T-shirt from that drawer over there," Nate said, still laughing as he gestured to the top left corner of his dark wooden dresser. It felt weird borrowing his T-shirt, but I felt like declining would make the situation even more awkward. It was just a T-shirt? Why should I care?

I grabbed the whatever one was on top. It was from an old basketball tournament, and looked big enough to cover anything on me. Ducking into his closet so he couldn't see me, I untwisted the towel from my head and drop the one wrapped around my body. Pulling the T-shirt over my head, I whiffed a scent that was strictly Nate. I couldn't say I minded. A small smile etched on my face as I felt the worn cotton fabric. It was huge on me, hanging long like a dress, which was good since I didn't have any sort of bottoms on.

I returned to the room. Nate's eyes trailed up and down my body in his T-shirt, and the look in his eyes made something flutter low in my belly. It was a few seconds before I collected myself. Clearing my throat, I cut into the awkward tension like a knife cuts through meat. "Alright, let's get you all patched up."

I picked the wet wash cloth back up and approached Nate slowly. He watched me with careful eyes, taking every step in. He must've taken off his shirt while I was in the closet, because all of his wounds were being bared to me now. I tentatively inched forward. His body tensed as I sat down on the bed next to him and reached out with the wash cloth.

He hissed as the cotton brushed the skin and I apologized quietly before continuing to gently wipe at the cut. I felt his stomach muscles clench, fighting back every instinct to groan. The dried blood crusted to his skin turned my insides out; I couldn't bare to think of how much the gash hurt. The longer I cleaned, the better I could see the wound.

"Nate, this looks pretty deep," I commented. "Maybe you should go to the hospital."

"No," he rejected.

"Nate," I warned, my voice dropping low.

"No," he refused again. I pleaded with my eyes. I was concerned for him. He stayed firm, making me wonder. Why was he so adamant about not going to the hospital?

I sighed, and finished wiping the blood from his wound. After spraying it with an antiseptic spray, I opened up a bandage. Spreading it across the gash, I was forced to run my fingertips over his ribcage. Skin to skin, in Nate' bed, and wearing nothing but a T-shirt, I felt vulnerable in ways I had never experienced. I felt exposed and open, like Nate could stare into my eyes and read my every thought.

Startled by this awareness we suddenly had of each other, I muttered to break up the intense silence, "I should go up to bed. We both need sleep."

Nate nodded soberly. But nobody moved. Until Nate slowly leaned forward. My mind raced, wondering what move he was going in for. I couldn't prepare myself fast enough.

But his lips didn't land on mine. Instead, Nate pressed a tender kiss to my forehead, whispering, "Thank you."

The moment was sensitive and raw, and I could've cried. But once the moment was over, when his lips pulled from my forehead and his eyes casted across the room, I knew it was time for me to leave.

I stood up from his bed without another word, and went upstairs to my own. I didn't change out of Nate's T-shirt before crawling into my bed and falling into a warm, peaceful sleep.

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Was this too much? I don't know. Anyway, enjoy :)