I stepped in front of him and pressed the ice against his jaw. I should’ve grabbed some napkins while I was at it, but I hadn’t. “Tell me if it’s too cold.”
“Okay.” He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground. The top of his head was nearly brushing my stomach. One of his handswasbrushing the side of my leg, resting there. His skin on mine created a heat I wasn’t expecting. I stared at the back of his neck and had a strong desire to dig my fingers into his hair—something else I wasn’t expecting. I swallowed.
“I could help you figure out how to put the score sheets in Excel,” I blurted out. I really did feel bad about punching him. “It would do all the adding and grouping for you.”
“What?” he asked.
“For the tournament. To save your ass all that pain. I’m really good at Excel.”
He let out a chuckle. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but let me know if you want me to.”
He nodded. “What did you think about today?” he asked. “About hitting things. Not me, but the other things.”
“Surprisingly therapeutic.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Who needs therapy when they have some gloves and a bag?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Close enough.”
“Does Tara come here to punch things?”
“Of course. You know Tara.”
It did seem like her.
“She didn’t thinkyouwould come here,” he said. His voice made it seem like he won some side bet about that. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
“Yeah, well, that was high school me.”
“You’re different now?”
“Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure if I was. My mom was still dictating my schedule, after all.
“How long do I have to do this to make you feel better?” He gestured to the ice and smiled up at me.
“A little longer,” I said.
“You make a good nurse,” he said.
“No, I, I really don’t…” I took a step back, bringing the ice with me. “You’re probably good now.” It was hard to tell. The ice had made his jaw even more red. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“Possibly.”
My hand was cold and water dripped from the bag, through my fingers and onto the floor. “I should go.”
He remained seated, leaning back in the chair. “When can I do my homework?”
“What?”
“Your mom.”
I shook my head. “No, never.”
“So I get to look bad at our next session, and you get to look like the supportive fiancée?”
