Our Playbooks

Chapter 8

Ellie

I don’t realize Cammy is still awake until I hear her gasp. She whispers, keeping her voice low so she won’t wake the others, “Sorry, but you need to go home and help him.” She shifts closer, her hand finding mine in the darkness. “Tell your mom you couldn’t fall asleep here and decided to go home. I know this is hard, but he really needs your help. Come on.”

I nod, and she takes my hand. Together we slowly stand, stepping carefully around her brothers and Meg before making our way up the stairs. When we reach the top, I stop. My chest tightens, panic creeping back in like cold water filling a room.

She notices the shift in my breathing before I do. “Are you okay?” she asks softly. “If helping him is too much, I understand — I’ll get him to a hospital. You tell me what you need. I’m always here for you, Eleanor.”

“It feels different — nothing like it was with Caleb — but it still scares me to let him in.” My fingers find each other, thumb pressing into my palm. One, two, three. The rhythm usually steadies me, but tonight the numbers dissolve before they can hold. “This isn’t the first time. He was at my house this morning. I can’t keep doing this if one day the beating is so bad he can’t come back from it.” The counting stops working. My hands twist together instead, knuckles pulling white. “It makes it hard to breathe, just thinking about it. I don’t know if I can.” Each breath comes shallower than the last, the air in the stairwell suddenly too thin.

She grabs my hands, stilling the twisting, and gives them a slow, firm squeeze. The warmth of her palms seeps into my skin, and I feel some of the tightness loosen. She lifts my chin until I meet her eyes. “You are so brave,” she says quietly. “Braver than anyone I’ve ever met. You’ve been through a lot, seen a lot, but you’re still standing — stronger for it.” Her voice drops, the softness giving way to something more serious. “I know it’s scary to let him in. So don’t. Tell him you can’t — not after tonight. I don’t want to watch another person use you. You’re more than your gifts, and you’re smarter than that.”

I don’t realize we’ve drifted to the door until I feel the night air on my face — cool and sharp, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and something damp. I close my eyes and breathe it in. The tightness in my chest gives a little. I pull her into a hug, squeezing harder than I mean to, but she doesn’t complain.

“I love you, Camilla.” I squeeze her a little tighter. “You’re the best best friend a girl could ask for.”

“I know,” she says as we pull away, and we both laugh. “I love you too, Eleanor.”

She turns me toward my house, then leans close to my ear, her breath warm against my cheek. “I want all the details on those abs when you can.”

I laugh and turn my head so I can see her face. “I will, I promise.”

She nods, and I know she knows I will — when I’m able. It’ll probably be in her treehouse, the two of us cross-legged on the beanbag-covered floor, after I’ve assessed all the new damage. The thought settles in my stomach like a stone, but I push it down and pull out my phone to text my mom.

Me: I couldn’t fall asleep at Cammy’s, so I’m going home. This couch is making my back sore, and Meg is in a star pose in the spare bedroom.

Mom: Oh, I’m sorry, love. Make sure you take a hot shower and put on your heating pack for a little while. Okay?

Me: I will, Mom.

Mom: Love you, my love.

Me: Love you too, Mama.

I’m halfway down the driveway when a short brunette rushes at me from the shadows, grabbing my arm before I can even register her. Her grip is tight, desperate — like I’m the only solid thing she has left. “He needs your help,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word as she points toward the back seat of the Jeep. “Please help him.”

“Okay, I will, but first, what’s your name?” I keep my voice steady, trying to distract her enough to calm her down.

“Why does that matter?” It comes out as a low, frightened growl. She squeezes my arm harder, her other hand trembling at her side.

“Because if you’re going to help me help your brother, I need you calm. Okay?” I lay my hand over hers — the one with the death grip on my arm — the same way I used to with Caleb when fear made him rigid before treatments. The gesture comes without thinking. Muscle memory. All those nights folded into one motion.

“Right, I’m Dayton’s sister Ryley.” She still keeps her hold on my arm.

“Okay, Ryley, I’m Ellie. Do you think you can pull the Jeep into the garage for me?”

A smile flickers across her face, followed by a giggle that doesn’t match the terror still sitting in her eyes — high-pitched and unsteady, the kind that has nothing to do with anything being funny. “Are you okay?” I ask. “What’s funny?”

“Yeah, it’s just — he has you in his phone as Ellie-Bear.” She lets out another giggle, her shoulders shaking with it. “I felt stupid t texting that, but it got your attention, so maybe that’s okay.” The laughter is all nerves. I can see it in the way her jaw is tight even as she laughs, the way she’s barely keeping the pieces of herself in one place.

I let myself smile for a second before reiterating my question from earlier. “Ryley, I need you to pull the Jeep into the garage. Can you do that? I’ll open it for you.”

“Oh god, right. I’m sorry.” She releases my arm, her grip finally loosening.

I cross to the garage keypad and press the button, the mechanical groan of the door filling the quiet street.

“I need to get inside and turn off the alarm, but I’ll meet you in the garage, okay?”

She nods and climbs back into the Jeep while I head to the front door, unlocking it and punching in the code to disarm the alarm. Then I enter a second code with a time delay — long enough to close the garage door before it reactivates.

It’s one of the first things my parents check after I say I’m off to bed. No cameras, but the alarm app tracks every time I come or go — just another way they try to keep me safe, wrapped up tight where nothing can reach me. I cut through the living room, past the dark fireplace, and open the garage door just as she pulls in. I close it behind her and move straight to the back seat.

I pull open the door. He’s slumped against the seat, blood soaked through his sweatshirt in dark, spreading patches. My hands move before my brain catches up — fingers to his neck, checking his pulse. It’s there. Steady enough. He’s breathing. Unconscious, not dead. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look toward Ryley. “What happened?”

“I can’t, please just help him.” Ryley’s voice breaks completely.

I turn back to him and squeeze his shoulder gently, trying to rouse him. It takes a moment, but his eyes open — unfocused at first, drifting, then slowly finding mine. “I’m sorry, Eleanor,” he whispers.

“It’s okay.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse is loud in my ears. “But we’re going to need your help to get you upstairs. Do you think you can do that?”

He nods, so I climb in beside him and ease him upright, positioning him on the seat closest to the open door. I take his face in both hands, turning it gently toward the light to assess the new damage — the cuts, the bruises already deepening to purple. His hands find my waist, steadying himself against me.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His voice is rough, scraped raw. He rests his bloodied forehead against mine, and I go still — can’t move, can’t speak, the warmth of his skin against mine pulling the air out of the moment. “Please,” he adds quietly.

I shake my head, breaking the moment, and let him go. I step out of the car, reach back in, and carefully swing his legs out until his feet are on the car lip.

“Slide down as slowly as you possibly can, okay?” I place both hands on his shoulders, grounding him. “But hold on. Ryley, I need you to grab his right arm while I grab his left arm. You’ll put it over your shoulder as he slides out of the car, then we’ll carry him inside.”

She nods, and I mutter under my breath, “Great. A family of no words.”

I hear Dayton let out a gruff laugh as I speak louder this time. “Okay, whenever you’re ready, Dayton.”

He nods. I bite back a smile. When he slides down, Ryley and I take most of his weight between us, and the three of us move slowly toward the door into the house. I nudge the car door shut with my hip on the way through. We take him upstairs, and I steer them to the spare bedroom, where we ease him down onto the bed.

I sit down on the bed close to Dayton’s face and ask, “What happened? I need to know so I can help.”

He shakes his head. I lean in closer, dropping my voice low enough that Ryley can’t hear. “I’m on your side. I won’t say anything.” I wait until his eyes find mine. “But I need to know so I can help you. Please.”

“I was protecting Ryley from my father.” He pauses, a shallow breath between each phrase. “He looks just as bad, trust me. Most of the hits were to my face and ribs — same spots as before, so the old wounds reopened. It looks worse than it is. It’s just the blood.” Another pause. “Please don’t tell anyone. It doesn’t happen often, I swear. This is the last time you’ll have to do this.” His eyes find mine. “Can you help me?” Every word sounds like it costs him something — like talking and breathing at the same time is already too much to ask.

“Yes, I’ll help.” I’m already moving, gathering supplies. “Now go back to being monosyllabic.”

“But-” he starts.

“Your breathing is too labored. You need to rest — try not to talk right now, okay?” He studies my face for a long second, and I can see him trying to read me, searching for something I’m not ready to give.

The curiosity in his eyes dims a little before he asks, “Ryley?” It comes out like a question — less a name and more a worry, and he tries to turn toward her, letting out a sharp groan at even that small movement.

I glance back to find her pacing so hard that her long, honey-chestnut hair swings with every turn, her fingers twisted so tight that her normally warm, sandy skin has gone red. I know those signs. I’ve lived them. “I’ve got her,” I tell him. “You relax.”

He fights me for a second, but I hold his gaze until he settles. I pull my phone from the side pocket of my leggings, open the app Dayton showed me earlier today, and hand it to Ryley. Her fingers start moving across the screen almost immediately, and the pacing stops. Her shoulders drop an inch. I guide her gently through the open door and into my room, settling her into the bean bag chair tucked on the other side of my bed and the nightstand.

I squat down next to her. “Don’t worry about your brother, I’ve got him, I promise.”

She grabs my hands before I can stand up. “Thank you, Ellie.”

I give her a nod and a quiet smile before standing. Downstairs, I fill a bowl with warm water, then gather washcloths and a towel. By the time I’m back in the spare room, the house feels very still.

I ease off his shoes, then carefully work up the hem of his sweatshirt. He’s wearing the same T-shirt underneath — the one he left my house in this morning. I lift both layers together, feeding each arm free before lifting his head to pull them off completely. His eyes stay closed through all of it, so I recheck his pulse. Slow, but steady — concussion, maybe, or just exhaustion. I rest both hands on either side of his chest, monitoring his breathing, then gently palpate around the bruising.

When he jerks his head up and swears sharply, I stop.

“Where does it hurt worse?” I slowly retrace my movements, watching his face.

He lets out another string of curse words before gasping, “Right there.”

“How long ago did this beating happen?” I ask.

“Shortly after the first message my sister sent to you, so maybe fifteen minutes ago.” His breathing is labored again.

“Relax.” I keep my voice level, even though something cold is spreading through my chest. “Your breathing is too labored. Slow, even breaths — and stay awake. Especially with what I’m seeing.”

He nods. “What are you seeing? Will I be ready for the scrimmage this Friday?”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “Why is that what you’re worried about right now?”

He shrugs, even though the movement costs him, and I have to press my lips together to keep the anger off my face. “No,” I say flatly. “You won’t be. You shouldn’t even be practicing if you’re in this much pain. You’ve got two newly broken ribs and several bruised ones — those will ache for at least a week.” I stand. “I’m going to grab something for the pain. I’ll be right back.”

I get up and head to my room for ibuprofen and water bottles. I grab two and hand one to a much calmer Ryley.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” I say as I head back to Dayton.

I have him sit up long enough to take the medicine, then he sinks back against the pillow and his eyes close almost immediately. I set the bowl of water on the bed beside him, along with the washcloths and the towel. Within a minute, he’s snoring softly. I know it isn’t ideal with a possible concussion, but it’ll make this easier. I straddle his waist, keeping my weight carefully off him, and wring out the first washcloth. I start with his face, working through the dried blood in slow, careful strokes. Somewhere in the middle of it, the snoring stops. His hands drift up and settle on my hips, warm and heavy. I don’t acknowledge it. I just keep working.

Once I’ve finished cleaning all the blood, I grab the dry towel and dab his face until there’s no more water. I grab the bowl and pry his hands off my hip so I can take it back downstairs to the kitchen and empty it. I head back upstairs, taking the wet washcloths and towel to the washer along with his blood-drenched clothes, and start the cycle.

Back in the room, I gather steri-strips, lidocaine cream, and gloves, then settle over him again. I work through each open cut methodically, pressing the strips into place with steady hands. His hands rest on my upper thighs this time, and I notice them the way you notice something you’re trying not to notice.

I glove my right hand and squeeze a generous amount of lidocaine onto my palm, then start with the older bruising, working the cream in with slow, careful pressure. When I reach the new breaks, he jerks — a sound tearing out of him that’s somewhere between a yell and a scream.

His hips buck instinctively, making it worse. Without thinking, I drop my weight onto him, pinning him still.

The pressure stops him. I finish applying the cream without looking up, even though I can feel his gaze on me — steady and warm despite the pain. I focus on the work: every red, angry inch of skin, every place where his body has been broken and is trying to hold itself together.

When I’m done, I close the tube and peel off my glove.

I peel off the glove and turn to face him. “The lidocaine and ibuprofen should start working soon.” I let myself look at his face — really look — at the swelling already setting in, the colors blooming under his skin. “I’m out of frozen peas, but this will help. Does anything else hurt?”