“It’s nothing. Just old stuff,” he grumbled, already heading back up the stairs. I ran right to the fallen jerseys and picked a couple up.
“You should totally save these for when you have kids! I can totally picture little Brocks running around playing with these. Brock, you have to keep them!” I held up an old jersey, the sheer size of it looking silly on me. “This is so cool. All of your old jerseys? Why would you ever want to get rid of them?”
His eyes widened, staring straight at me burning a hole through my chest. I froze, unsure what I said wrong. “Brock?”
“Sorry. You mentioned kids. I hadn’t—I don’t—”
“Brock, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.” I blushed so hard even my insides heated. Then, I quickly put the old jersey back in the box with shaking hands. “Ignore me.”
“No, it’s…I always assumed I wouldn’t have any after what happened to Dina. I don’t know. I couldn’t survive if something like that happened again.” He gulped, avoiding my eyes. “Let’s go get the rest of the stuff.”
I followed him up the stairs to the car to get the final, heavy box he shouldn’t have lifted. He bent low, wrapping his arms around it, but I beat him to the other side to help. “Stubborn. Let me help.”
“No, I got it.” He grunted, carrying the way-too-heavy box to the basement. I was pissed, knowing he hurt himself, so when he came up the stairs with a pained expression, I snapped.
“Take care of yourself. I could’ve helped you.” I hit his chest. “God.”
Instead of yelling back, he grinned at me. “I like seeing you fret over me.”
“You’re the worst. Seriously.” I shoved him again without real force and went to plop down on his kitchen island. “I’m ready for my late dinner now. I like breakfast for dinner, don’t you?”
He laughed again, cringing when he moved his arm to the side. His face transformed. The laugh lines disappeared, the strong set of his jaw tensed, and he slammed his eyes shut.
“Damn it, Brock. Go sit on the couch.”
“What?” He opened his eyes, confusion dancing in them.
“You always help me out or take care of me. Now, it’s my turn. Go. Sit. Down.” I found an old bag and put some ice in it. He still stood there, watching me with an unnamed expression. “If you don’t go sit your ass down, I’ll throw knives at you.”
“Damn. Okay.” He laughed, finally heading into the living room. I made an ice pack, found some Advil and water for him, and snatched a damp kitchen towel from the side of his sink. He sat on the couch, looking relaxed and amused as I approached him. “Take off your shirt.”
“Excuse me?” Amusement was gone, now something else was there.
“Did I stutter, Anderson? No. Follow directions,” I barked and bent over his large knee to look at his shoulder. He took his sweet time sliding the pullover off his chest. I watched, with an open mouth I’m sure, as his chest came into view. It was the mac-daddy of chests. Toned, sculpted into perfection by years of hard work. I gulped. His skin was the perfect golden tan andshit.My fingers trembled.
His wicked, protruding, awful, twisted scar caught my attention. It began above his right shoulder, swirling almost like an “s” all the way down past his armpit and almost to his ribs. It was nasty, angry, red, and irritated.
I touched it without permission. I dragged my finger from the start to the finish, my heart physically hurting at the brutality of it. Millions of emotions traveled through my brain fighting for dominance, and I almost missed the way he brought his hands to rest on my hips. I was amazed, no,flabbergastedat how Brock survived the gruesome injury. His skin broke out into goosebumps as I trailed my fingers down the scar, and his quick intake of breath was the only clue I had at how he was feeling. “Brock,” my voice broke a little as I finally looked into his eyes. They were tortured. “I’m going to put the ice on it, okay?”
He nodded. I knew him well enough to know he would lash out if I showed any signs of pity. So, I masked my face and focused on his shoulder.Treat him like a player.And I did for a full minute without wanting to wrap myself around him and protect him.
“You need some medicine,” I said in a rough voice.
He nodded then put his hands back on my hips. It wasn’t sexual, not at all. But it felt like something more.
I attempted to reposition my body, but he tightened his grip, keeping me straddling his legs. I used one hand to hold the ice and grabbed the bottle to dump out a couple pills. “Here.”
He swallowed them without needing water, and I tilted my head. “I’m used to taking pills.” His voice was hoarse, and his nostrils flared the longer I looked at him.
“I see,” I whispered, looking away from his eyes before I said something stupid. I focused on the scar again. “Your scar isbeautiful.”
“Beautiful?” his voice came out in a whisper.
“I know that’s an odd thing to say, but look at it. You’ve survived so much. It shows your strength, not your weakness.” I released the ice bag and let my fingers hover over it. “Can I?”
He nodded with hooded eyes. I ran my hand over it, not just my fingers. It was raised and wicked. I wanted to cry for what he’d gone though. Never in my life had I ever felt so much compassion for another person. He trembled beneath my fingers, and when I opened my eyes again, his blue orbs were swirling with emotion. My heart hammered in my chest, so much it went up my throat to the point of pain.
I wanted to tell him everything.
