“Where is Zephyr and Cal?” I ask, looking down the hall.
“Coach called them in.”
He follows me to the bathroom, turns on the water, and tests the temperature with his hand.
“Hot enough?” he asks.
“Hotter.”
He adjusts the knob and steam starts filling the small bathroom.
Then he turns to me and waits.
I reach for the hem of my shirt with my good hand, try to pull it up, and wince when my injured arm can’t cooperate.
“Here,” he says softly.
He helps me. He lifts the fabric slowly over my head, mindful of the bandage. Then my sweatpants. I have to lean on him for balance while he slides them down my legs.
I’m standing in my underwear and bra, feeling exposed and vulnerable and somehow not ashamed.
His eyes stay on my face. Respectful. Not leering. Not taking advantage. I respect him for it.
“The bandage,” he says, looking at my shoulder. “Do you want it off?”
I shake my head. “It’s good for… another day, I think.”
He nods.
I reach back with my good hand, unhook my bra, and let it fall.
Then I slide my underwear down and step out of them.
Now I’m fully naked in front of him, and he’s still looking at my face. He only glances down to make sure I don’t fall, to make sure I’m steady.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
I step into the shower. The hot water hits my skin and I almost cry from relief. It burns in the best way, washing away the hospital smell, the fear, and the feeling of being trapped in my own skin.
“Can you make it hotter?” I ask.
He turns the knob again. The water gets almost scalding.
Perfect.
He grabs the soap and lathers his hands. Then he washes my back carefully. His large hands move in slow circles, avoiding the bandage, avoiding anything that might hurt.
I close my eyes and let myself feel cared for.
His hands move to my sides. My stomach. Each touch is delicate and gentle.
When his fingers brush across my ribs, I inhale sharply.
He pauses. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I exhale.
