I braced myself…but nothing happened. Fuck, did he walk away? My hand shot out and met with a solid wall of muscle, and then I froze as I realized I was grabbing his fucking tit.
“Um.”
“I just wanted to see if you were still here.”
“Please remove your hand.”
I snatched it back like he’d caught fire and gripped the sides of the toilet seat instead. “Maybe you should give me whatever you’re holding since you seem to be incapable of cleaning a simple cut, and?—”
“Shut up. I’m trying not to manhandle you.”
Something about the way he said manhandle made me feel…weird. Very weird. My mouth went dry, and my stomach clenched.
“I’m going to touch your face now,” he added.
I swallowed heavily. “Okay.”
With a low, rumbling hum, I felt him lean forward, and I caught a whiff of what was definitely very expensive cologne. “Burberry? Or is that Old Spice? Maybe it’s?—”
I didn’t have the chance to keep guessing.
“I—oh. Ouch! Fuck!” He dabbed at the cut on my head, and the stinging sensation traveled all the way to my fucking navel. “Oh my god, what is that? Sulfuric acid?”
“Yes,” he snarked. “I’m cleaning your cut with sulfuric acid.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and, on instinct, turned my head away when he started to wipe the spot again. A rough, calloused hand gripped my chin and turned my face back, and oh god. There was that feeling again. My neck and ears were hot.
“Stop being a baby. You get worse than this in your games.”
“Oh, fuck you. I—wait.”
His hand froze mid-swipe, letting the disinfectant soak even further into the wound. The stinging was terrible, but at least it was distracting.
“What do you mean, my games?”
“Your games? Hockey?” he said slowly, like I was a toddler.
My jaw clenched. “Your brother told you?”
“What?”
I yanked back from his grip and narrowed my eyes in a mimic of a glower. The guys taught me how to do it, but never told me if I looked normal when I tried. “Your brother. I fucking told him not to tell you I was a player?—”
“I know who you are, Jonah. We literally play in the same arena.”
I froze. Well…shit. I guess that made sense, considering we shared the arena with the NHL team, but I didn’t expect him to know my face. Fucking sighted people and their fuckingsight. “Uh. Okay then.”
His hand returned to my chin, a bit softer this time, and then I heard another ripping sound before something very cool and very soothing touched the cut. “Why didn’t you want me to know you play hockey?”
“I don’t know? Because you guys are always dicks to us?”
His fingers stilled for a moment, then disappeared entirely. Before I could attempt to stand up, I heard another ripping sound and then the telltale noise of Band-Aid tabs being peeled off. “We’re not dicks to you just because we don’t appreciate having our arena stolen?—”
“Stolen? Oh, bud.Fuckyou.”
“No, thanks.”
The moment he smoothed the bandage over my forehead, I shoved him back and stood up, gripping my cane tightly. “We didn’t steal anything. Just because you never learned to share doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole.”
