I maneuver around the milk and crouch down, placing a hand on his shoulder, featherlight. “Zach,” I whisper.
He grunts something that resemblesdizzy.
I remember the powerlessness of a concussion. I didn’t know I could sustain that injury, but gymnastics is a never-ending education on how a person can hurt their body. It’s been several years since I landed short out of a tumbling pass, the impact traveling from my feet to my brain stem.
“Okay.” I ease down beside him and lean against the cabinets. I ignore the wetness on my legs. “Keep your eyes closed. We’ll stay here until it subsides.”
He leans into me, his shoulder pressing mine. He wears a Princeton University shirt, the sleeves roughly cut. I’m in a sweatshirt, so his skin doesn’t touch mine, but still, I’m aware of every point our bodies connect. We stay quiet, huddled together for a few minutes.
Zach’s breathing eventually finds a steady rhythm. I follow its cadence, my limbs becoming weightless, my mind soothingly quiet. I struggle with falling asleep every night, but here on the floor of the kitchen, partially wet with spilled milk, next to this virtual stranger, my eyes flutter shut.
“So I didn’t dream you?”
Zach’s words jolt me awake. Does he remember telling me I’m prettier than he remembered?
“Afraid not,” I reply.
His head slumps against the cabinet, but at least his eyes remain open. They’re a pretty brown, like tree bark in colorful autumn leaves. The two years since we met have muddled my memory of him to the point I couldn’t recall his face, but I never forgot the thrill of drawing groans from the back of his throat. My first spark of feeling after my diagnosis.
“Matt Harris’s sister… what are the odds?” he murmurs, probably to himself.
I answer anyway. “You met me at his wedding. I’d say the odds weren’t terrible.” I pause. “Don’t tell my brother, please.”
“You mean my captain whose house I’m squatting in?” His head swings my way as he laughs, and the movement causes him to grimace. He closes his eyes again. “You don’t need to worry. As if anyone would believe me.”
Before I can pick at that thread, Zach cracks one eye open. “Did you know who I was?”
I shake my head and swear I see relief cross his features. “If I’d known, I definitely would’ve told you to go away when you found me.”
“Way to kick me while I’m down.” But he recovers, one side of his mouth tugging up. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”
I glare at him. We’re close enough he can’tnotsee me, but he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. I ignore his teasing comment like he avoids acknowledging my annoyed expression.
“It’s not you. I avoid my brother’s friends as a rule.”
“Yeah? What bastard made you do that?” His Canadian accent adorably emphasizes the A. I could listen to him stress that A all day long.
Okay.No.
Absolutely not.
I do not want to listen toanyhockey player talk all day.
But he’s not like other hockey players. The stupid voice in the back of my mind pushes to the surface.
I’m about to say it’s none of his business, but then he flashes his butterflies-in-my-stomach–inducing smile. His light is contagious, and my defenses drop a notch.
I bump his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. “Not everything is about a man, Zachary.”
A singular chuckle bursts from his mouth. “Not even you can get away with calling me Zachary.”
Not even me. Like Imatterto him.
He grins in the same boyish way as two years ago, except now it doesn’t match the rest of him. Something I’m definitely not taking notice of. Not at all.
I turn away from him. I’m not dating this year. And I’d never date a hockey player. Especially not my brother’s teammate and friend.Zach’s like a little brother to him, Gemma said, and I refuse to mess with their relationship. My brother can be a pain in the ass, and he’s a coworker Zach can’t escape.
Zach and I temporarily live in the same house. I don’t need to layer on complications.
