"You didn't text me back."
"My phone died. Charger's in the kitchen and I can't—" He gestures at his knee.
I grab his charger from the counter, plug in his phone, and set it on the ottoman beside a glass of water that looks like it's been sitting there for hours. Then I crouch beside the couch and start unwrapping his knee.
"Ella, what the?—”
"This ice pack is room temperature. When did you last swap it?"
"I don't know. Trainer set me up after PT and then?—"
“Hours ago?” I peel back the compression sleeve and examine his knee. Swollen, warm to the touch, bruised along the medial side. I palpate gently, and he hisses. "Sorry. Can you bend it?"
"Some." He mumbles something about NSAIDs and grade one sprains while I poke around his knee.
I rewrap it properly, snug but not tight, the way I'd do it for a patient. I go to the freezer and grab a fresh gel pack, slide it carefully inside the wrap, and press it against the swollen joint. My hands know what they're doing. This is my language: injury, care, competence.
Bernard watches me work as if nobody has ever fussed over him like this.
I look at this enormous man on the couch — rumpled, grateful, soft-eyed, watching me with his busted knee elevated. His curls are a disaster. A thought arrives fully formed: St. Bernard. The rescue dog. Huge, gentle, bred to find people lost in the snow and carry them somewhere warm. He's been doing search and rescue on me since the airport, hauling me out of snowdrifts I didn't even know I was buried in.
His voice croaks as he says, “My dad is irate. Says I’m throwing away my career by skipping ice time.”
I hum a response. The Housers have always been hard on him. Even Jason, who has the emotional intelligence of a helmet, has mentioned that a few times through the years. Bernard’s dad played in the pros, too, but his career was cut short after some sort of scandal. Bernard doesn’t talk about it.
"Have you eaten?" I ask.
"I had a protein bar a while ago.”
"Bernard, you are a finely tuned machine. You need fuel.”
"I can't really get to the kitchen."
I stand and smirk. “Want me to heat up some bison balls for us to share?”
He guffaws. “I don’t know if that sounds appetizing, but there’s takeout from Gianna’s if you don’t mind getting that for me?”
I pop the food in the oven and rush through a shower before bringing my patient a bowl with a fork and a fresh glass of water. He eats sitting up, his leg still elevated, and I perch on the edge of the ottoman, facing him, because all the chairs are too far away and I want to be close.
"Thank you," he says between bites. "You didn't have to do all this."
"You drove me to work every day for two weeks. I think I can manage an ice pack."
He smiles. Eats another meatball. Then, with the careful tone of a man navigating a field of landmines: "So. Jason's gone."
"I noticed."
"For at least five days."
"I'm aware."
He sets the bowl down. "Ella, I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"About the whole … tutoring situation." He rubs the back of his neck. "The plan was to prepare you for the right guy, and I just realized, you were out at a bar with us the other night. With Spinner and Mayhem and a room full of available men. And you didn't … you know. Try to meet anyone.”
I stare at him. "You're asking me why I didn't pick up a man at the bar?”
