Then he goes back to the armchair. After only a few minutes, I hear his breathing regulate, and I risk looking at him. He’s still in the same clothes—team sweatshirt, jeans, socks. His eyes are closed, head tipped to the side, arms folded, and his feet are propped up on my coffee table.
My chest tightens so suddenly, I have to close my eyes and try to stave off the overwhelming feeling.
He stayed.
I don’t think I made it easy for him, either.
But he stayed.
With my eyes closed and a smile on my lips, I curl back up and fall fast asleep.
***
Sometime later, I hear a buzz, then a soft curse, then the thud of a phone hitting the floor.
I stretch like a cat while Lucas dives for his phone, scrambling to silence the alarm.
“Sorry,” he says, swiping into a screen. “I still had my alarm set to check on you every two hours. I’m so sorry.”
I yawn, still stretching. “It’s okay. You didn’t need to stay.”
He gives me a warning look, and I snort.
“I mean, thank you for staying.” I purposefully say it in an exaggerated way, hoping he’ll know I mean it but I’m me, so I can’t say it.
“Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating,” I say, slowly sitting up.
“Easy there.” He rushes to sit across from me on the coffee table and then puts his hand to my head. It’s strong and warm, and I shiver in spite of myself. He frowns. “I don’t think you have a fever, but are you still getting chills?”
I could kick my stupid body for responding to his touch. “No, I’m fine. Honestly. I feel like I’ve been wrung out, but the aches and chills are gone.” He nods, and then there’s a buzz on his phone—not alarm style, but a text. He ignores it and goes into the kitchen, and I can’t help glancing at his phone. He has a text from the Mudflaps’ manager—my friend, Fletch.
Fletch
Morning throwing started eighteen minutes ago. Missing a mandatory training is a $500 fine.
Above the text on his lock screen, the time reads 8:48.
“What are you doing here?” I call into the kitchen, urgency pushing away every other emotion. “You have throwing today! You can’t hover over me like this. Go before you get fined!”
No part of him rushes or even reacts. He calmly puts the soup in the microwave and sets it for forty-five seconds. While it’s warming, he hands me yet another coconut water. I’m probably half coconut at this point.
“Fletch isn’t going to fine me.”
“You have a job!” I say. “You’re training for the Show, Lucas. Every practice matters.”
“I’ll call him and tell him what’s going on. I promise he’ll understand.” The microwave beeps, and Lucas walks back intothe kitchen, still talking to me. “He’s way nicer since he fell in love with Chat Girl.”
“Her name is Poppy. And you have to take this more seriously.”
“I take it seriously,” he says, coming back with the soup and a spoon. “I take my friend’s health more seriously. Now eat.”
I glare at him, but I’m also starving and take the soup too eagerly. “Aren’t I supposed to eat rice and toast and all that?” I ask, bringing the spoon up to my lips. I hold back a moan—barely. It’s easily the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever had. The broth is rich and salty and warms me from head to toe.
“No, that’s for the stomach bug, not the actual flu. For influenza, you need vitamins and nutrients, not stuff that’s easy to digest.”
I swallow another bite. “Whatever you say, Doc.” It’s one thing for him to be supporting a friend. It’s another to wear such patient worry after doting on me all day and night. “Lucas, you have to go. I feel way better, and your career is too important. Go. Now!”
