Page 13 of Praised By the Cornerback

“Brooks’ room. I left it there.”

I frown. “What were you doing in Brooks’ room?”

“We met some girls at the bar.” He grins, loose and uncontrolled again. “Continued the party at the Hilton. It was fun.”

I let that sit for a second longer than I should, then set it aside. Not my business who he parties with.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s go get it.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Can’t. Brooks has company now. We can’t go in there.”

I sigh. “Then let’s go to the front desk and get another key.”

“Yes.” He nods enthusiastically, then immediately wobbles on his feet.

I steady him with a hand on his arm. He’s not going to make it to the lobby. Not like this. He’ll probably trip down the stairs or say something stupid to the front desk clerk, or worse, make a scene. We’re back to the same problem of people watching and filming.

I make a decision I already don’t like.

“Let’s go to my room,” I say.

He stares at me. “What?”

“My room. I’ll make you coffee. Once you feel better, we can go get the key.”

“Coffee,” he repeats, as if he’s testing the word.

“Yes.”

He considers this, weight shifting, and then nods. “Okay.”

We take the elevator back down to the fourth floor. I unlock my door with one hand, the other hovering near him in case he stumbles. He follows me inside, the loud energy gone out of him now.

The room is standard. Queen bed with white sheets, desk by the window, bathroom to the left.

Knox stops just inside the doorway, swaying as he gets his bearings. He takes in the bed, the desk, the curtains pulled shut against the night. He says nothing, standing there like he’s trying to remember why he’s here.

“Sit,” I tell him, gesturing toward the bed.

He hesitates, then moves. His steps are careful, as if he’s concentrating on each one. When he reaches the bed, he sits heavily on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight.

I turn away and head to the coffee maker on the desk. It’s one of those small single-serve machines hotels always have. There are coffee capsules next to it, along with sugar and creamer. I grab one of the capsules and pop it in, pressing the button.

The machine makes a hissing sound, then starts pouring coffee.

I stand there watching it, arms crossed, waiting. The coffee streams into the glass espresso cup, and the refreshing smell fills the space.

Behind me, Knox is quiet. I glance over my shoulder and find him lying sideways on my bed, fast asleep.

He’s on top of the covers, curled on his side, one arm tucked under his head like a pillow. His face is turned toward the wall, profile soft in the dim light from the desk lamp. His chest rises and falls in the slow, even rhythm of deep sleep.

He was sitting up thirty seconds ago, awake, coherent enough to follow instructions. And now he’s out cold.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say into the silent room.

4

Connor