"Please stop," I groan, covering my face with my hand.
"Why would I stop?" he teases, voice dropping a little—playful, warm, dangerous. "You breaking down my plays with that serious little voice? Do you know what that does to me?"
"Zachary Westbrook," I warn.
"Yes, Pennington?" he replies, sweet and sinful.
I drop my hand and glare at him—except I'm smiling too hard for it to land properly.
He laughs softly, eyes warm and mischievous. "Don't pretend you don't like it."
And unfortunately... he's right.
We talk a little longer about the game and then he shifts the phone slightly, lying back against the headboard, his messy hair falling over his forehead.
"Anyway," His eyes soften. "How are you feeling? How was your day, your rehearsal?"
"Dead," I say. "Absolutely dead. I think I lost three of my nine lives during rehearsal."
His laugh is so warm it practically crawls under my skin. "Yeah, you sound tired. You're probably so sore. I just want to give you the best massage of your life. Work out every knot in your shoulders, your neck... all of it."
I giggle, hiding my face. "You're the one who got slammed into the boards tonight. You're probably more bruised than I am."
"I'm fine," he says, smirking. "I run on spite and muscle memory."
"Oh my God."
"I'm serious," he replies. "I could barely breathe after that hit, but then I saw you in the stands—"
"You did not see me in the stands."
He grins. "Okay, fine, in my imagination. But still."
I laugh, warmth in my chest. "You're such a dork."
"And you love it."
...Yeah. I do.
He shifts a little on his pillow, his voice softening in that way it always does when he slips into Caretaking Boyfriend Mode.
"Hey," he murmurs, "don't forget to soak your feet in cold water, okay? Ten minutes. You always pretend you're fine and then I find you limping the next morning."
I roll my eyes, smiling. "I'm not limping."
"Yet," he says, raising a brow. "Do it before bed. And put something warm on your lower back. I know it's killing you after all that work."
My heart squeezes.
He's not done.
"And stretch your shoulders," he adds, lifting his hand like he's physically ticking a list in the air. "Especially the right one. You always tense that one without realizing."
"Zach—"
"And drink water," he finishes, giving me that soft, bossy glare he thinks is intimidating but is actually adorable.
"Stop fussing over me," I try to tease, even though my heart is melting.
