I jerk awake whenthe doorbell rings and lift to a sitting position with one sharp movement.
“Who's that?” Finley groans beside me. Her head lays perpendicular to where mine had been. She clutches her book in one hand, having drifted to sleep midsentence. She fumbles around the couch, searching for her phone. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, about to go to the front door when it clicks open.
Finley springs to a sitting position, her gaze locking with mine.
“Hello?” Kennedy’s voice echoes through the quiet space. “Anyone home?”
“We’re in here,” I answer.
In the doorway, Kennedy halts at the sight of us on the couch and raises one dark eyebrow. Her arms cross over her chest, a stance I recognize from our time as roommates—when I accidentally left a spatula on a hot pan, burning the plastic and releasing rank fumes in our apartment. Or when I tosseda half-full can of soda into the recycling bin, which spilled everywhere—including over her pants—when she emptied it into the dumpster.
Her eyes narrow on Finley finger-combing her hair into submission. “Whatcha up to?”
I’m well-accustomed to this tone, but it usually comes from Gemma. She likes to insinuate scenarios that don’t exist, speaking words to the universe to make them happen. Kennedy’s suspicious gaze flicks to me in a scary-good imitation of Gem.
I’m deeply invested in manifesting one of their scenarios into being.
Earlier, when I walked in from my session with a team physical therapist, my rapidly beating heart settled after I spotted Finley on the couch. It quickly shifted into high gear again when she flashed the smile that always steals my breath.
She’s so fucking pretty, it hurts to stare too long at her. Hurts in a way I like. I can’t act on this crush; I also can’t help but nurse it.
“Finley was reading to me, and we fell asleep.”
Kennedy tilts her head. “I didn’t know you like reading, Briggsy.”
Because I prefer audio, so I don’t have to fight my brain.
She strides into the room, beelining to Finley, and plucks the book from her hand. Her eyes devour the description on the back cover.
There’snothingwrong with romance novels, even the ones with smutty covers. My mom’s a librarian with an entire bookcase of love stories. She passed her love of romance to my sister, so every family gathering includes an in-depth breakdown of their latest reads—book boyfriends and tropes included.
“You read himthis?” Kennedy asks, fanning the pages as she waves the book in the air.
“I like it,” I say. It’s not a lie. I’d enjoy listening to Finley read the side effects off a pill bottle.
Finley’s head tips back, laughing. “So much you fell asleep.”
“So did you,” I retort, then sigh. “It’s been a long day.”
Those words stun both Kennedy and Finley into silence. I don’t want to worry them—there’s nothing to worry about, at least not yet. There’s more than one path to recovery from a concussion, so the doctor can’t say when my symptoms will subside or whether I’m healing as expected.
“How did the doctor’s appointment go?” Kennedy asks.
At the same time, Finley says, “We can leave if you need rest.”
Once Finley processes Kennedy’s words, she adds, “Wait—what doctor’s appointment?”
I stand up and shrug. “A check-in with the team doctor, who says I’m fine. I just want to play, and they can’t tell me when I’ll be ready. Two to six weeks is a long-ass range.”
“You should take all the time you need.” Kennedy might like watching Volk slam guys into the boards and beat them bloody, but she treats me like a bubble boy, a child needing protection. When we roomed together, she doted on me after games. I liked the attention, liked knowing someone cared about my well-being, but sometimes I question my capability. “The team’s off to a good start.”
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t know? Didn’t Finley tell you?” She’s fishing for information, and I’m too tired to fend her off.
“I never asked.” I’ve also purposefully not called any of the guys. I don’t want them to worry, and it’d hurt too much to hear about every little detail I’ve missed.
