Page 32 of Tainted Love

“What happened?” she asks, genuine concern etched on her face.

“I’m not entirely sure. But he’s refusing to go to the doctor,” I explain.

“Can you take him to the locker room and have the trainers check him out?” she suggests, her brows furrowing with worry.

“That’s the plan,” I reply, my mind racing with potential injuries and outcomes. “If you get Corey’s attention, signal him that Taz is fine, and we’ll deal with everything after, okay?”

As we approach the locker room, a burly trainer from the Mavericks emerges and spots us. His eyes widen in shock as he takes in Michael’s battered appearance. “What the hell happened?” he demands.

Michael tries to crack a joke, but his voice comes out hoarse and strained. Sitting on the training table, he winces as the trainer assesses his injuries. Michael is slumped over, barely able to lift his head. The adrenaline that fueled him earlier has now drained away, leaving him exhausted and in pain. His normally bright cyan eyes are bloodshot, and the right one is turning an ominous shade of purple. Dried blood cakes his split lip as he struggles to catch his breath.

Suddenly, Corey bursts through the door with a loud exclamation of shock and anger. “What the fuck happened?” he bellows as he takes in the scene before him.

I raise a calming hand, trying to halt the rising tension. The last thing we need is more yelling and chaos right now.

“We don’t have time to discuss this,” Michael’s voice is strained but determined. “You need to focus on the game and win. Your mom’s in the stands. Your girl is here. You can do this without me.”

Corey speaks up, concern etched on his face as he turns to me. “Will you stay with him?”

I nod, not wanting to be involved but knowing Michael needs help. I would never turn my back on someone in need. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” I assure them both.

As the rest of the team filters in, the coach barks orders, reminding them of the ultimate goal—victory. “Alright, boys, let’s play like champions. Taz is here, and he’s not dead,” the coach looks at Michael with a fierce glare, “at least not yet.”

“Taz, I’ll catch you after the game,” Corey calls out to him with a grin before grabbing his stick and exiting the locker room. The sound of skates on ice echoes through the hallway as he makes his way out.

The trainer tells us that Michael likely has bruised ribs, a concussion, and several contusions. Neither he nor Michael are too concerned, though. It’s just another day in the life of hockey players. After quickly dressing the wounds and giving Michael some advice for recovery, the trainer sends him on his way.

He’s moving a bit better by the time we leave, thanks to some ice and Tylenol. I start the car and make the sharp turn to head home, which is in the opposite direction of Michael’s house.

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, still dazed by his injuries.

“To my house,” I reply with a smirk. “You can’t go back home. A crazy maniac lives there.”

“Yeah,” Michael chuckles weakly in agreement. “Brian sucks.”

“I was talking about you,” I say with a wide smile. His face is lined with exhaustion and pain, but his eyes still twinkle mischievously. He chuckles at my words but winces in discomfort.

“Seriously, Michael,” I continue, concern lacing my voice. “You need a safe place to stay. My parents will know what to do.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with me and instead gives a tired nod. It’s clear he must really need a place to rest.

As we walk through the door of my house, I immediately call out for my mom. She appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron and pausing when she sees us. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of Michael, and she rushes over to him.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaims, gently touching his shoulder. “Sit down.”

“Mom, this is Michael Tazman. He’s a friend from school,” I say before correcting myself. “That’s not true. He was a friend in kindergarten. Now he’s more of an annoyance.”

“Thanks, Sash,” he says, with a wink of his swollen left eye, causing a small smile to break across my lips.

“Michael,” my mom says. “Of course, I remember you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Bell,” he says.

“So here’s the deal-io, Mama. Michael’s brother is a giant douche-faced druggie, and he can’t go home.”

My mom’s gaze sweeps from me to Michael; her expression etched with concern. She hesitates before asking, “Is your father expecting you home?”

A shadow passes over Michael’s face, casting a veil of hurt and sadness.