Page 163 of Broken Saint
Hours pass as we sit beside Colt with nothing but the sound of the machines he’s hooked up to whirring and doing their thing.
It’s selfish to sit here, stopping the others from visiting, but I can’t leave.
He needs me here; I know he does. And right now, I’ll do anything to make this a little easier on him.
I have no idea how he feels, if he can even feel anything, but I’m in pain.
Every single inch of my body hurts, but nowhere as much as my heart. That feels like it’s been put through the meat grinder and then spat out and reformed at the other end.
West shifts in his seat, and I look over, taking in his wrought expression.
Fuck. I hate this. I hate that those I love the most in the world are suffering.
His eyes hold mine, silently begging me to tell him that this is going to be okay, that he’s not about to lose his brother. But I can’t. I have no idea what’s happening here. Dr. Anna has been in and out, and each time she seems positive. But while he’s lyingthere with monitors attached to him via cables and tubes, I’m finding it hard to believe anything positive. So is West, it seems.
I should say something, but I have no words.
There is nothing I can say right now that will make any of this better.
So instead, my mouth closes once more and we’re plunged back into silence.
The sun has long set outside, but I can’t bring myself to look at the time for fear that barely any has passed.
We’ve got no idea how long they’re going to keep Colt unconscious, but something tells me it’s going to feel like a lifetime.
My cell buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t pull it out to look. I can’t, I’m too numb.
West glances at his a few times, but he never responds to anything. I can only imagine the number of people who are trying to get in touch with him after watching what happened.
My stomach knots thinking about how many millions would have seen Colt hit the ground. Luca told us in the family room that they cut the live footage as soon as the situation became clear, but it would have been too late. The country, the world, knows. And if that doesn’t add pressure to his recovery, then I don’t know what will.
Suddenly, I’m dragged from my morose thoughts when the door is thrown open and heavy footsteps march inside.
“Dad,” West cries, jumping from his chair, although he doesn’t move from his spot beside Colt.
Instantly, my thought goes to what I’d do if my dad walked into the room. I’d be in his arms in a heartbeat.
Tears flood my eyes all over again, my heart aching with his loss.
I’ve never met Dalton Rogers before. Sure, I’ve seen his face all over the tabloids for years now. Before he was a successfulcoach, he was a well-decorated player, still holding some records.
He was always going to be an intimidating man to meet, but I’m not sure I could have ever been prepared for just how much of the room he takes up—and I don’t just mean physically. I mean his aura, his intensity, his power.
We knew he was coming; we’d been told that he’d left his team mid-game to get on a flight here. That in itself proves just how powerful he is.
His eyes linger for a second on his youngest son before they fall to Colt.
Pain rips through his expression. I feel it right down to my toes.
But then, he turns his attention to me.
A violent shiver rips down my spine and my blood turns to ice as his expression morphs to one of fury.
“Who are you?” he spits, his eyes narrowing in accusation.
“Dad,” West says, attempting to rectify the situation. “This is Ella. Colt’s girlfriend.”
His eyes widen in disbelief before he crosses his thick arms over his wide chest.