I blinked up at him, my brain still cotton-wrapped and slow. He was beautiful in the early afternoon light streamingthrough the windows—hair slightly damp from a post-practice shower, dressed down in joggers and a T-shirt, looking at me with concern creasing his forehead.
“You’re beautiful,” I heard myself say.
His hand stilled on my shoulder. “What?”
Oh God. Oh God, I’d said that out loud.
“The weather,” I said quickly, desperately. “Beautiful weather. Out there. Looked beautiful when I was—before. Earlier.”
It was possibly the least convincing save in the history of saves.
Étienne gave me a smirk that I couldn’t read. “Right. The weather.”
“How was practice?”
“Fine.” He was still watching me too carefully. “Did you take your pain med?”
“Yeah.”
“How long ago?”
I tried to think. Time had gone weird. “Few hours? I don’t know, right before Mama called.”
“Another call from her? I’ve been letting them go to voicemail until you felt better. Didn’t know if you were ready to talk.”
“Thanks for that.” The words came out slurred.
“You’re definitely still feeling your pain meds.” He checked his phone. “Not due for more until three. You want some water? Food?”
“I’m good.”
I wasn’t good. I was terrified. Because even knowing I’d nearly blown everything, even seeing the wariness in Étienne’s expression, I still wanted to say more. Wanted to tell him he was the best thing in my life, that having him here made everything bearable.
The medication was making me honest, and honesty was the most dangerous thing I could be.
“I’m not taking any more,” I said.
“What?”
“The pain med. I’m done. I’ll take Tylenol instead of the prescription stuff.”
Étienne stared at me. “Marco, you were just hit by a slapshot that broke your foot. You need the prescription.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You’ll be in agony.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“This is stupid. You’re being stupid.”
Maybe. Probably. But being in pain was safer than being medicated and loose-lipped and one wrong word away from destroying everything.
“My decision,” I said.
His jaw clenched. I could see him fighting with himself, wanting to argue, to make me see reason.
“Fine,” he said finally. “But when you’re crying from pain later, I’m going to say I told you so.”
