The sweats pool around my ankles, and I step out of them, quickly taking a step back, hoping like hell he didn’t notice the movement in my underwear.
He grabs the pants and glances up at me. And holy fuck, are his pupils dilated? Is he… Fuck, is he turned on?”
“How’s that? Okay?” he asks, getting to his feet.
“Yeah,” I reply, still trying to process that look on his face.
He nods, then glances at the bed behind me. “You’re not gonna be able to lie flat. It’s gonna pull on your chest. Hold on.”
He crosses to the other bed and starts grabbing all the pillows, even the decorative ones, and the extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed, leaving only one for himself. He comes back to my bed, pulls back the covers, and proceeds to arrange the mountain of bedding until he’s built a ramp that’ll let me sleep half-sitting up.
“Try that,” he says.
I get into bed, letting myself sink back into the nest he’s built. The angle takes the pressure off my chest, and for the first time since the injury, I can take a breath without pain shooting through my ribs.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe in relief. “That’s… yeah. That’s good.”
His mouth quirks in a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”
He moves to the nightstand and grabs the little bottle of water the hotel left. He twists the cap off and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“I don’t care. You need to stay hydrated, or the meds will wreck your stomach.”
I take the bottle and drink, because arguing seems like a lot of work. The water is cool, and I drain half of it.
Tanner goes to his bag and grabs the pill bottles Doc Kendall must have given him for me. He sets them next to the water. “You can take another pain pill in about an hour if you need it, but you gotta take the anti-inflammatory in about an hour. I’ll set an alarm.”
I blink at him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He’s standing next to the bed, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, and I realize I’m staring at him. The pain meds have turned everything soft and hazy, and I can’t quite figure out why Tanner Sinclair, the guy who wants my job, the guy I’ve been low-key resenting for weeks, is here, taking care of me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re good at this,” I say. The words come out a little slurred. “Like… really good. Why are you so good at this?”
Something flickers across his face. For a second, I think he’s going to brush me off, give me some nonanswer and change the subject. But then he sits down on the edge of my bed, careful not to jostle me, and looks at his hands.
“My mom traveled a lot for work when I was a kid,” he says quietly. “Sales job for a paper company.” He chuckles. “Think Dunder-Mifflin, but a lot less funny. I stayed with my grandparents mostly, but when I was fourteen, my grandpa had his first heart attack. My grandma had to take care of him, so I helped. Learned how to manage his meds, set up his recliner so he could sleep sitting up, all that.”
I stare at him. I didn’t know any of that. I didn’t know anything about Tanner’s life before hockey. I assumed he was like the rest of us—some small-town kid who lived and breathed the game.
“He okay now?” I ask.
“Yeah. He’s tough. Made it through two more after that one.” His mouth curves up in a faint smile. “Stubborn old bastard. Kind of like you.”
I huff a laugh, and it pulls at my chest, making me wince. “Fuck. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry.” He stands, and the smile fades. “You should sleep. You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. But he’s right. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.
He crosses to the other bed and sits, pulling off his shoes and then getting up to put everything away neatly. His shoes are perfectly lined up, and his suit hangs neatly in the closet. He slips into the bathroom for a few minutes, and when he comes out, he pulls his e-reader out of his bag before sliding into bed. That’s weird. It’s late, and Tanner Sinclair is usually a fanatic about getting enough sleep. The mattress creaks as he stretches out.
“Sinc,” I say.
“Yeah?”
