His intense gaze ignored the gaping mouths surrounding us. He said in a crisp tone, hands wrapping around my elbows, “We’re done here. I’ll get your keys.”

All I could do was nod. I might have even forgotten to breathe from the shock and excitement as he continued holding me, helping me up to my feet. My ribs sang a sorrowful song as I stood up with a groan. The skin over my stomach hurt, but I managed to make eye contact with Simon and Marc.

“I’m fine,” I said, for once in my life not caring that all these people I didn’t know well, were staring at the sideshow known as Kulti Kicking Ass.

“You sure?” Marc asked, his face creased with worry. I nodded. “Call me later, okay?”

I swallowed and waved at my two longtime friends, breathing through the pain as I turned to walk off the field. Kulti was ahead of me. He’d already reached down and grabbed my glove, his own tucked under his armpit, one arm extended out in my direction in a gesture for me to come toward him.

I did.

My abs and sides ached with every step, but I managed to keep it together as we walked nearly side by side, the German ending up just slightly behind me. He veered off for a second to grab both of our bags, snatching them up off the floor. The anger coming off of him was suffocating, but I took it all in, okay with it. He’d been about to beat the crap out of that guy in my honor.

I’d seen Kulti lose his shit for much less, but for someone else? Never. Marc was going to scream over the phone later, I just knew it.

I eyed him as we walked toward the parking lot, going through a million different ideas of how to thank him for what he’d done. From the way his body was strung, tight at the shoulders and down through his chest, I figured it’d be best to give him a minute. So I kept my mouth shut and kept walking.

My car was so close I could almost touch it. All I wanted was to get home, maybe throw some Epsom salt into the bathtub and soak for a while as I drowned my pain in over-the-counter painkillers.

“Jesus Christ,” I groaned when my ribs gave a strong throb, as we stopped right by the hood of my car.

The big man dropped both of our bags on the ground, and I couldn’t help but notice the big vein in his neck pulsing. His fingers were curled at his sides. “Let me see.”

“I’m all right,” I insisted, debating whether or not to bend over and grab my bag.

“You are the worst liar I have ever met,” he said. “Pull up your shirt or I’ll do it for you.”

“Uh…”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

When I didn’t immediately pull up my T-shirt, he did it for me. One hand fisted the worn cotton material at the hem, and the next thing I knew, he was jerking it up. Way up. My shirt went high over my breasts, my black sports bra and all.

I tried to smack his hand away. “What the hell are you doing?”

It was useless. He had a death grip on the material, and his eyes were laser-focused on the middle section of my body.

Maybe I should have been self-conscious, but I wasn’t. Not really at least. I ate well, I exercised a lot, and frankly, I just didn’t give a crap if he found me lacking or thought I was too much. Because I was in pain. The skin covering my abs was inflamed and red; right down the middle, tiny beads of blood dotted my poor stomach. Luckily, my ribs weren’t swollen or blue.

But tomorrow… I cringed.

As I shuddered at the thought of how much I’d be hurting tomorrow, Kulti yanked down on the elastic hem of my royal blue running shorts two inches. It was low enough for the elastic band of my pastel blue cotton panties to make an appearance.

“All right,” I muttered and pulled them back up, out of his grip.