Wes is already gone when I pry my tired eyes open the next morning. There’s a green post-it note on his pillow, and I groggily reach for it.
Wanted to say goodbye with a BJ but you were so out of it I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Call you when I land in Nashville. Blake’s on the couch if you need ’im. Jess gets in at eleven. Love you.
His familiar scrawl soothes me, but the words he’d written? Not so much. I don’t need a babysitter, let alone two of them. What Idoneed is to get out of this bed, throw some clothes on, and go to my morning practice.
I’ve got people depending on me, damn it. Braddock may have given me the week off (or rather, he gave me an indefinite amount of time off, until I “get better”) but there’s no way I’m skipping work. We have an important tournament coming up ina few weeks. The kids need to be ready for it. Mygoalieneeds to be ready. It makes me sick that another coach might be working with Dunlop just because I have a stupid cough and—
I nearly hack up a lung as I sit up in bed. Fuck. My eyes water, chest aching as I grip my side and cough so hard I fear I might’ve cracked a rib.
Heavy footsteps pound in the hallway. In a heartbeat, Blake appears at the door sporting a pair of plaid boxers and a serious case of bedhead. “Cheezus! You all right, J-Bomb?” he demands. “What can I get you? Water? Pain meds?”
I glare at him through another round of wild coughing. When he steps closer, I whip up my hand and choke out, “I’m fine.”
Disbelieving green eyes stare back at me. “You’re not fine. You sound like you’re about to drop dead any second. I’m calling Wesley!”
Luckily, my coughing fit stops at that moment. I stumble out of bed. “You don’t need to call Wes,” I say tersely. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Oh yeah? Then why you wobbling around like a…what wobbles? A little horse, right? Afoal.” He looks pleased with himself. “Why you wobbling around like a foal? Hey—where you going?”
I stop in front of the door to our private bath. “I’m taking a leak,” I say through clenched teeth. “Is that allowed?”
Blake follows me right into the bathroom. To my annoyance, he crosses his huge arms over his huge chest and says, “Wesley said I can’t let you outta my sight. In case you fall or something.”
Oh my fucking God. “You want to hold my dick for me too?” I mutter.
He chuckles. “Naw, I’ll leave the dick-holding to your man. I’ll just watch.”
There is nothing more mortifying than taking a piss while your boyfriend’s giant teammate stands there watching. He then proceeds to follow me around the bedroom as I make a very labored effort to get dressed.
“You don’t need to doll up on my account,” he remarks as I button up my shirt.
“Not for you,” I bite out. “I’ve got practice in an hour.”
“Oh no he di-in’t.” Next thing I know, Blake is in front of me again.Unbuttoningmy shirt. My weak attempts to bat his hands away are unsuccessful. “You’re not going anywhere except back to bed,” he orders. “Or on the couch, if you wanna watch some of the morning talk shows with me. You likeThe View? I do. Those broads are fun. I was on there once, d’ya know that? I hit on Whoopi. Struck out.” He pouts. “Bummer, huh?”
“Blake.”
He stops. “Yeah?”
“Stop. Fucking. Talking.” I’m being rude. I know I am. But holy hell, my head is killing me. My chest aches. My legs can barely support my own weight. Don’t my ears deserve some comfort? Can’t this behemoth shut up forfive goddamn seconds?
A hurt look crosses his face. “Ah, okay. Sorry.” Then his features harden, and in that moment I can see why he’s so formidable in the ice. His don’t-mess-with-me glare is terrifying. “But you’re not going to practice, J-Bomb. Better wrap your head around that, because it. Ain’t. Happening.”
Blakeand I watchThe View. In silence. I’ve suddenly got that Joni Mitchell song blaring in my head, about not knowing what I have ’til it’s gone. I actually miss Blake’s nonsensical chatter. The silence is excruciating. It makes me overly aware of my unsteady breathing, the wheeze in my chest every time I inhale. Whenever I hack, Blake silently reaches over and pats my back through the coughing fit. Once I’m done, he hands me a glass of water in an unspoken command to drink. Fuck. He really is a good guy.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
His head tips toward me.
“I'm sorry I told you to shut up, okay? I’m just not used to accepting help from anyone. I’m not used to being…”Helpless. I can’t even say the word. And now I feel my face getting hot, but I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment and frustration, or if my fever might be back. My sweatpants and hoodie are kinda damp, now that I think about it. I’m sweating.
“S’all good,” Blake mumbles.
I reach over and clap my hand over his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “No, it’s not. I was an ass, and I’m sorry. You’re a good friend, Blake.”
After a beat, he breaks out in a broad grin. “Damn right I am. Apology accepted, Mr. Cranky Pants. I know you’re just grumpy because—” He halts, frowning. “Your hand feels like an oven mitt. Well, if the oven mitt was in the oven getting roasted. Is your fever back?”
“No.” He gives me a wary look, but at least he doesn’t leap off the couch in search of a thermometer. I don’t think we have one, anyway.
