Page 182 of Broken Saint

I swallow again and put everything I have into attempting to form words.

“W-why?” I rasp, already exhausted.

There’s movement on my other side, and the next thing I know, my girl’s voice fills my eyes.

It is the best sound in the fucking world.

“Colt. Oh my god, Colt.”

She’s at my side in a heartbeat.

Tears stream down her cheeks, and her bottom lip trembles with emotion as she grips my hand in both of hers and stares into my eyes as if she’s watching a miracle happen right in front of her.

“You’re awake,” she whispers in disbelief.

“El—”

“Don’t,” she says, reaching out and pressing two fingers to my lips to stop me from trying to speak. “Just rest, yeah?”

I nod once, hoping that she can see in my eyes how I feel about her being here right now.

The nurse finishes whatever she needs to do before promising to come back soon and leaving us alone.

Ella reaches out and cups my cheek. My face itches with a couple of days’ worth of stubble and I close my eyes for a beat, wondering how long I’ve been here. How long I’ve made her suffer for.

“West will be here soon. He’s refused to go back to Chicago until you wake up,” she explains to me. “Your dad’s been here too. But he had to head out.”

I hold her eyes as she talks about my family.

I can’t say I’m surprised that West put me before football. It’s something Dad has never been able to do. Unless it was for a woman, of course.

“All the guys have been here, too. Luca, Kane, Brax. The girls, obviously. Even my mom is here.”

My eyes widen in surprise.

“The girls called her. Apparently, I was being stubborn and refusing to listen to them, so they called in the big guns.”

A sad laugh spills from her lips.

“It worked. It’s the only time I’ve left your side, baby. I’ve been right here fighting with you.”

As much as her words comfort me, they also terrify me.

“We’re going to get through this, Colt. It’s just a bump in the road, yeah?” she says as a hopeful expression covers her face.

A bump.

This feels bigger than a fucking bump.

The word “ventilator” floats around in my head, and I lift my free hand to touch my throat.

“Wh-what h-happened?” I whisper, my voice rough as fuck.

Ella reaches for a cup with a straw on the little table by my bed, and I take a sip—not that it does much good.

When she turns back to me, I find the hopeful expression is long gone. In its place is fear. Pure, unfiltered fear.

She wipes a tear away as soon as it drops. If she thinks that’s going to stop me from seeing her pain, then she really needs to reconsider. It’s oozing from her in waves.