Page 31 of Tainted Love

“What’s going on?” I ask tentatively, trying to keep the panic from seeping into my voice. His response is filled with a coldness that is foreign and unsettling.

“You need to leave, Sascha,” he says, his words cutting through me like shards of ice.

“I’m not leaving without you, Michael. Come with me,” I plead, desperate for him to snap out of whatever trance he’s in. But it’s useless—his mind seems clouded by something dark and dangerous.

“Yeah, Mikey,” taunts the man across the room as he spits out blood onto the carpet, reveling in the chaos that surrounds him. His pupils are blown, and it’s obvious he’s on some rough shit. “Listen to your whore. Unless you wanna stay and party with us, baby,” he leers at me maliciously.

Before I can register what’s happening, Michael launches himself at the doucheface with a primal roar. It’s a flurry of frenzied fists and violent shouts as they grapple on the floor, each determined to emerge victorious. My heart races as the fight unfolds before me—Michael’s fury knows no bounds as he mercilessly pummels his fists into the other guy’s face and body.

“Don’t you ever talk to her again,” he growls through gritted teeth, his face contorted with rage. “I will fucking end you.”

The guy is unconscious at this point, a bloody snot bubble being blown out of his nostril as he breathes.

“Stop!” I yell.

And just like that, it’s over—Michael stands triumphant over the beaten man, his fists still clenched and ready for more if needed. As relieved as I am to see him safe and in control once again, a part of me is a little scared of the sheer violence and intensity he just displayed.

“Michael!” I scream. “Look at me!”

His slow movements catch my attention as he turns to look at me. His hands are cut and bleeding, hanging limply at his sides. I can see the pain and exhaustion etched on his face. Without thinking, I move toward him, drawn by some instinct to help him in any way I can. Wherever he is right now, he’s not present.

My hands reach out and cradle his face, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. His chest rises and falls rapidly as our eyes meet. In a low voice, I try to comfort him. “Hey,” I whisper softly, “it’s okay. Let’s just go.”

I watch as the reality of the situation slowly dawns on him. His gaze flickers around at the destruction surrounding us.

“Do you need to grab anything?”

He shakes his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “No,” he says. “I want to leave.” The air is filled with pain and sadness. It breaks my heart to see him like this, but I know that we need to get out of here before it gets worse.

I gently interlace my fingers with his and guide him out of the house, a slight breeze carrying the smell of alcohol and confusion. As we make our way to my car, I realize I don’t have a destination in mind. “We should take you to the hospital,” I suggest, concerned for his well-being.

His response is immediate and resolute. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Take me to the game.”

“But you’re in no condition to play,” I state firmly.

“I know,” he admits with a sigh. “But the trainers can check on me, and I can still support my teammates.”

My worry only grows stronger as I consider the risks. “But what about the hospital—“

He cuts me off. His tone is serious and determined. “No hospital, Sascha,” he insists. “I don’t have insurance and can’t afford it.”

Nodding in understanding, I turn right toward Donnelley Ice Center, hoping he will be okay until we figure out a better solution.

“What about the guy you fought? Will he call the cops?”

“My brother,” he scoffs bitterly. “He won’t do a damn thing. Unless he wants the cops to find his stash of drugs.”

His brother? Drugs? The pieces of Michael’s life start to come together in my mind, painting a darker picture than I had imagined. We pull into the parking lot and immediately spot Ivy, her blonde hair standing out against the dull backdrop. She says something to her family and then starts to make her way toward us.

As we get closer, I notice Michael’s unsteady gait and move closer to him, offering my arm for support. He leans on me heavily as we walk toward the entrance.

“Well, I found him. And he’s still breathing,” I tell Ivy with a slight hint of relief in my voice.

She stops in her tracks and takes in Michael’s appearance. His face is marred with bruises, blood dripping from a cut on his lip. His clothes are stained with dirt and sweat, giving off a musty smell.

“He doesn’t look too good,” she comments with concern etched on her face. Her gaze shifts between me and Michael, silently asking for an explanation for his current state.

“Thanks, Ivy. I appreciate that,” Taz retorts with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.