42

Marianna

"Fuck," Duane says.

It's the first time I've heard him swear. Actually swear.

He crosses the distance between us in three strides. His hands go to my face—gentle, so fucking gentle it makes me cry harder—tilting my head to look at the wound.

"How long have you been bleeding?"

"I don't know. Ten minutes? Twenty? "

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. I fell and then I was on the floor and I don't remember the middle part."

"Fuck," he says again.

He pulls his phone from his pocket. I think he's going to call 911—which I can't afford, ambulances cost like $3,000 in Miami—but instead he's scrolling through contacts.

"What are you—"

"Calling the team doctor." He puts the phone to his ear. "He owes me a favor."

"Duane—"

His eyes are still on my forehead. Dark. Unreadable. But his jaw is tight. "You're getting in the car. Now."

"I don't—"

"Marianna." He says my name like a command. "Get. In. The. Car."

---

The Bugatti goes from zero to "definitely breaking multiple traffic laws" in approximately 2.3 seconds.

I'm pressed back against the leather seats—the ones I got wet that first night, the ones that probably cost more than my college education—watching Miami blur past the windows like we're in a video game where the physics engine has malfunctioned.

Duane's hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

We haven't spoken since we got in the car. Haven't looked at each other.

The tears won't stay out of the wound. They keep sliding down my forehead, stinging, mixing with blood and whatever remains of my dignity.

I'm holding more gauze against my head—Duane grabbed the whole first aid kit on our way out—but it's already soaked through. The blood is warm. Sticky. I can feel it dripping down the side of my face, following the curve of my jaw like it's mapping escape routes.

The edges of my vision are doing that thing. That fuzzy, grey-static thing.

I blink. It doesn't help. The world keeps tilting.

And there's a taste.Copper and salt. The blood has mixed with my tears

I swallow. The taste coats my throat. Clings there.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Stop apologizing."

His voice is hard. Flat. The mask firmly back in place.

But his hand moves. Just for a second. Leaving the steering wheel to grab something from the center console.

A box of tissues.

He shoves it at me without looking. "Don't let the tears get in the wound. It'll increase infection risk."

I take the tissues. Wipe my face. Try to hold back the sobs that keep threatening to escape.

I can't tell him. Can't explain why I'm falling apart. Can't say *I lied to Dr. Lindholm and I feel like I'm drowning and I think something's wrong with me, something deep and fundamental and maybe unfixable.*

I just sit there. Bleeding into designer leather.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again.

"Marianna—"

"No, I—" My voice breaks. "I fucked up. I keep fucking up. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Silence.

The engine roars. The city streams past. A traffic light turns red ahead and Duane doesn't even slow down—just blows through it like traffic laws are suggestions for other people.

I'm crying harder now. Full-body sobs that make my shoulders shake and my head throb and the blood flow faster.

"Stop crying," he says. But his voice is gentler now. "You're making it worse."

"I can't—I can't stop—"

His hand leaves the steering wheel again. This time it lands on my knee. Just rests there. Heavy. Warm. Real.

"Breathe," he says. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Like I showed you."

When did he show me breathing exercises? Was that during one of the 3 AM tea sessions?

I try anyway. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

It doesn't stop the tears. But it slows them.

"Good," Duane says. "Keep doing that."

His hand stays on my knee. Anchoring me. Keeping me tethered to something real while everything else dissolves into blood and tears and the specific shame of being a burden.

We pull into a parking garage. Private. Expensive-looking. The kind with a security gate and valet service and probably a membership f*e.

Duane doesn't slow down for the gate—just flashes something at the sensor and it opens immediately. Like he owns the place. Like he owns everything.

We park. He's out of the car before I can process what's happening. My door opens. His hand is there, helping me out like I'm made of glass.

"Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Then walk."

We walk. Through the garage, into an elevator, up forty-something floors. The elevator is all mirrors and I make the mistake of looking at myself.

I look like death. Blood-soaked gauze wrapped around my head at an angle that suggests I did it myself while having a seizure.

"Don't look," Duane says. He turns my face away from the mirror. His hand cups my chin—gentle, so fucking gentle—and keeps me looking at him instead. "Look at me."

I look at him.

Dark eyes. Unreadable but also somehow... not. I can see something there. Something that looks like worry.

"You're going to be fine," he says. "Dr. Morrison is one of the best sports medicine doctors in the country. He works with the team. He'll stitch you up and you'll be fine."

"How much will it cost?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Duane—"

"It. Doesn't. Matter." Each word is clipped. Final. "You're not paying for this."

"I can't let you—"

"You can. You will." The elevator dings. Doors open. "Now shut up and let someone help you for once in your goddamn life."

He pulls me out of the elevator. Down a hallway. Through glass doors that say MORRISON SPORTS MEDICINE in elegant letters.

I stop fighting.

And let Duane Richter save me.

Again.