Page 138 of The Clinch
“What hurts?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Leo.”
“My ribs,” I admit. “Right side.”
She lays her palm carefully against my side under the shirt. Even expecting it, I tense.
“Bruised?”
“Yeah.”
“Deep?”
“Probably.”
She lifts the hem without asking. I let her.
The skin along my lower ribs is already darkening, ugly and mottled. Her face changes when she sees it, attention narrowing to the bruise.
“That’s going to be awful tomorrow,” she says quietly.
“Something to look forward to.”
Her fingertips skim just above the bruising, clinical and careful. The touch is the exact opposite of sexual and somehow lands deeper because of that.
“We’re icing it after you eat.”
“Okay.”
“Hands.”
I give her a look.
“Leo.”
I hold them out.
She takes one gently, turning it, studying the raw skin over my knuckles, the rubbed places at the base of the thumb, the faint swelling through the back of the hand. She traces one scraped spot with the edge of her nail.
“You rewrapped?”
“At the gym.”
“Good.” She lowers that hand and takes the other. “You split anything?”
“No.”
“Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“No.”
“Vision changes?”
