I tear my lips from hers on an agonized groan and she winces as I sink back into the couch, trying to breathe through the bursts of red-hot hurt.
“Rest,” she murmurs. “I’ll get your pain meds and antibiotics.”
“I don’t need?—”
“And food. You want a sandwich and soup or something more substantial?”
“I don’t need?—”
“Cool. Sandwich and soup it is.”
“You know,” I mutter as she gently pushes back the hair that’s fallen into my face, “I always thought you were quiet and shy, not as stubborn as a dog to a bone.”
Her mouth hitches up. “Good thing you’re learning the real me then, huh?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, knowing it’s better than good.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
More.
“Now text your brother.” Her smile widens, her voice in a stage-whisper. “And just FYI, I’ve got bossy down pat too.”
“You sure that you’re going to be okay?” she asks two days later.
I’m holding her backpack in my free hand and she’s worrying herself silly.
I wish I could say I’ve had a miraculous recovery and I’m ready to hit the ice, but I spent most of the weekend laying on the couch, watching Kylie’s crappy—but yes, I’ve become addicted to it—reality TV shows, and sleeping.
And Ky has barely left my side.
She has gotten through a lot of her students’ papers, however.
She’s told me she’s caught up for the first time ever.
One thing I could give her—forced confinement to finish her grading.
Go, me.
“I promise I’m okay. The guys are coming over in a bit and then Doc’s going to get me started on some simple PT later this afternoon.”
Her brows drag together. “So soon? You’ve barely begun to heal.”
“Doc and Ivy have me covered, plus you know Sam would never let one of her players”—because our head trainer is a pit bull when it comes to protecting us—“rush through their recovery.”
That calms her.
Because she knows Sam.
“Right.”
“Baby?”
She nibbles at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
She frowns, the vee between her brows deepening. “For what?”
