Thirty Reasons Not to Date a Player

16. He Makes it Hard to Breathe

I don't know what possessed me into agreeing to go to Ryder's house.

It must have been a combination of the fact that he just saved my life—and because I've known him for a while, even though we're been enemies way longer than we've been friends.

But if being around him really is dangerous, I think I'd have figured that out by now. 

The house is dark when we walk in, and Ryder explains to me that his mom and stepdad are probably working late. 

"Where's Rachel?" I ask, following him into what I assume is the kitchen. My voice comes out unusually coarse, but considering the circumstances I was in less than an hour ago, I'm not surprised. He flicks on the light, instantly making the scene look more welcoming and less like something out of a horror movie. 

"Out with friends, I think. She isn't one to follow the curfew." 

Sounds just like her. 

The last time I'd been in Ryder's house was before that sweet sixteen party he'd forced me to go to. The atmosphere had been so different, even though only a few short weeks have passed since then. I carefully take of my coat and scarf, placing them on a nearby chair. 

"Let's have a look at you," Ryder says, gesturing for me to come closer. When he takes off his black leather jacket, I notice a rather large, red stain near the hemline of his white T-shirt. 

"You're bleeding," I gasp. He looks down at his torso, wincing slightly as he peels back the fabric of his shirt to reveal his injury. The bloody gash is about four inches across, and I have no idea how he didn't think to treat it right away.   

I bite my bottom lip, guiltily.

"It looks worse than it is," Ryder tells me, obviously trying his best to suck up the pain, "I'll live." 

"Not if you don't take care of that," I say firmly. "Do you have a first-aid kit?"

"Under the sink," he instructs me. I pull it out, and wash my hands with soap before opening a fresh pack of gauze pads. I dampen them with warm water, and head back over to Ryder. Helping him out is the least I can do. 

"You might want to take your shirt off," I suggest, earning me a sadistic smirk from Ryder. "I mean, y-you should wash the stain out before it dries," I add, nervously. 

Smooth, AJ. Smooth. 

"Alright," Ryder says, pulling the shirt over his head in one swift movement. To avoid any more embarrassment, I pretend that he's like the Greek myth, Medusa, and one look at his body will turn me to stone. I grab the bloody shirt off the counter, mostly to distract myself, and carry it over to the sink. I'm thankful to see that it isn't full of dirty dishes, which makes it easy for me to run the shirt under warm water without making the kitchen look like a crime scene. I leave it there to soak for a while. 

I pull a wooden chair out from underneath the kitchen table and position it in front of Ryder. I take a seat as he leans against the counter, which knocks a few inches off his height. This makes it easier for me to reach his stomach without having to bend at an awkward angle. 

"This might sting a little," I warn him, looking up for a split second. He watches me with curiosity as I begin to pat around the wound, carefully removing some of the blood. 

I don't even want to think about all the thoughts that could be going through his head. 

Less than hour ago, I was sure that I was going to die. Fear consumed my mind to the point where I couldn't focus on anything else.