The memory of our argument makes me grin.
“I’m not going to urgent care or the ER,” she shouted, her hands clenched around her coffee cup like she was trying to keep her claws from latching onto my skin for suggesting such a thing. “It’s Saturday night. It’ll take forever to get seen.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she was on a tangent.
“I’m exhausted and just want to eat and get settled. I can rest, ice, and elevate it and see if it improves. Plus, I’m not going to inconvenience you more?—"
“You’re not an inconvenience,” I snapped, irritated that she thinks of herself like that.
But she continued, unaffected by my outburst. “Those places are also stressful and expensive.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
She exploded. “I’m not spending six hours in an ER waiting room while homeless.”
Silence descended over us, the sound of the engine louder as I drove.
“You’re not homeless. You’re staying with me.”
“Temporarily. Which means I need to do everything possible to be prepared to be on my own again.”
I don’t know why the thought of her on her own bothered me so much. Maybe because I hated the thought ofsomeone like her having no one to rely on. That she could be hurt or—God forbid, something even worse—and no one would know.
Or maybe I’m still not confident that Landon Cross, her psycho ex-boyfriend who played for our rival team, Seattle Vengeance, will suffer any real consequences for what he’s done. That he’ll get off with a slap on the wrist and be free to terrorize her again.
In the end, I give in and agree we’ll monitor it through the weekend and reevaluate on Monday.
Birds chirping in a nearby tree bring me back to the present.
I pull out my phone. Within minutes, I’ve ordered a gray Cam boot. I even paid for overnight shipping so she can use it tomorrow.
She’ll be happy to be weight-bearing.
With a last inhale of the calming, early September air, I close the trunk and head back inside.
As I wheel the suitcases over the sidewalk, I see glimpses of the fall colors creeping into the green of the leaves.
My favorite season is upon us—what I refer to as fall hockey season.
Only this time, I’m not going to be alone when training camp begins. Not when the regular season begins, either.
And I’m not sure how to deal with that.
The second I step inside,warmth hits me again.
And so does Peyton.
She’s still curled beneath my blanket on the sectional, sunlight pouring across her blonde hair while she scrollsthrough her phone. The second she notices me, she starts shifting like she’s about to stand.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Her lips flatten. “I was just going to help.”
“With what?”
“The luggage.”
I stare at her swollen ankle that I propped up on a pillow. “Absolutely not.”
