Orlando chuckles. “A few.”
It is nice of him to be thinking about me, especially at a time like this.
I help him eat for a while, appreciating the silence. When he finishes, he looks up at me. “What was it like after your injury? I know the story of how it happened, but I don’t know what your experience was.”
I shrug. “It hurt. It sucked. And nothing was the same after.”
“How long did it take you to accept it?”
I frown. “You’re not injured like I was,” I tell him.
“I know.” Orlando adjusts his sling. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking because I’m curious about you.”
Knowing he’s not going to drop it, I relent. “There was a minute right after my injury where things got rough.”
Orlando arches an eyebrow. “What does rough mean?”
“I let myself mope. I got drunk one night, and then the next night. And then it was really, really easy for me to get drunk the night after that, too. Went on for a little while. Felt bad for myself. Felt like there was no point in trying, so I stopped really trying.”
“What happened?” he asks. “How did you straighten out again?”
I shake my head. I didn’t talk about this with anyone at the time, and there doesn’t seem much point in talking about it now. “I don’t know. I decided I didn’t want to waste any more time feeling bad.” I crack my knuckles, remembering. “You can only put up with your own bullshit for so long before it gets boring. I went to law school and started the agency instead.”
“I’m glad you did.”
I’m tempted to hear more in those words. He’s glad I did because otherwise, we wouldn’t have met. Because he’s glad I’m good, just like I need him to be good.
I glance at my phone and see the time. “I’ve got another meeting.”
“That business of yours here in DC?” he asks, teasing me again because he sees through my cover story.
“Don’t be a smartass. It’s bad for your concussion.”
He chuckles, and I stop myself from fussing him. There’s a great medical team looking over Orlando, and he knows how to take care of himself, too.
I’m his agent, and outside of our hotel room, nothing more. Now I need to remember how to act like it.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
ORLANDO
“I’m going to turn here,” Troy says evenly, and I feel the car gently decelerate.
He’s got me sitting in the passenger seat with a sleeping mask on, a bike helmet, and an airplane pillow steadying my neck while he inches his way back to Philly along quiet back roads. My head has cleared back to normal, and I nearly objected to the extra equipment, but then I realized he was probably right. Concussions are no joke.
Still, though. “Are you even using the brake?” I ask. “Or do you just let off the gas a mile before the intersection?”
“You think I want to deal with the fallout of damaging you in a car wreck? Because that would be a royal pain in the ass.”
Troy grumbles under his breath, and I sit there, blindfolded and smiling to myself, my arm in a sling. We keep joking around like this, but the truth is he’s saving my ass right now. Troy is showing up for me in a massive way, and fuck, does it ever feel nice.
It’s like having an amazing agent deliver for you, and he also happens to lowkey be your grumpy boyfriend.
Although he’s not actually my boyfriend, obviously.
I sigh and ease into the seat. My thoughts quickly return to my injury. I’m sore and tired all the time, and I won’t be able to return to even moderate exercise for a while. That means I’m guaranteed to miss most of the remaining season, although I should be able to jump back in for the last games and any championships we make.
Hopefully.
