Page 55 of The Goalie in Room 1

12

THAD

Once I had Cash’s meds on the nightstand, with a few bottles of water and hydration packets sitting next to them, I dropped into the chair at the foot of his bed. Sometime between me settling him in bed and returning with all the things he’d need, Cash fell asleep. His brow held a slight furrow, but his skin looked as healthy as it could following ortho surgery.

I should go sleep in my own bed, but something held me in place—the pill count I did on Cash’s pain meds. I knew he took something with the nausea meds before dinner, but it wasn’t what I thought. What I’d hoped he’d take.

The man had no narcotics in his system, and it worried me. Opioids were scary shit, but ortho surgery was fucking brutal. It gave me a work out, and it put my patients through the fucking wringer.

He wasn’t hurting right now. But the nerve block Michael used would be wearing off soon, and without something onboard when it happened, Cash was in for a world of hurt. So instead of heading to my own bed, I leaned back, propped my feet up on the end of the mattress with my head in my hand, and watched the man in the bed snore softly.

Cash Benjamin was a beautiful man—strong with a vulnerability that brought out a protective side I’d only really explored as a doctor. His edgy, punk-rock style suited him. As did the tattoos.

Helping him get ready for bed had been a punishment I definitely deserved. It showed me clearly what the next year would be like. A lot of fucking cold showers and hand jobs. I was paying for the lack of sexual appetite I’d had since Chelly and I split.

My brain continued appraising the man before me. His gorgeous face was the last thing I saw before my eyes slid shut.

Plastic scraping, followed by a thud and the rattle of something hitting the floor, brought me awake. My eyes opened to darkness and an ache running from my neck into my shoulder. The chair in Cash’s room had been designed to look good, not for sleeping, especially for a six-foot-two man.

“Cash?” I asked, a groggy yawn drawing the word out.

“I’m fine.” His voice was too tight. He clearly was not fine.

I pushed myself to my feet, making my way carefully around the bed to the nightstand and flicking on the lamp. Cash slammed his eyes shut and flinched when light filled the room.

A quick glance told me all I needed to know. During the night, his face had gone pale. Exhaustion had created bruises under his eyes and sweat dampened his hair and chest.

The nerve block had worn off.

He leaned heavily on the hand braced against the mattress while the other wrapped around the edge of his brace.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get comfortable.”

By himself.

The medication bottles and water I’d left within reach had been knocked sideways on the nightstand. One of them lay on the floor next to a bottle of water. That explained what woke me up.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I asked as I picked up the water and pills.

“You were asleep. You’ve been up since dawn.”

“Okay, well, that’s why I said to wake me. You generally wake people who are asleep when they’re needed for something.”

“Doc—”

“Don’t. Yes, I got up before dawn yesterday, but I’ve been trained to work long hours. What’s even more important is you just had surgery.”

The muscles of his jaw and temple jumped as his mouth tightened. “I can medicate myself, Dr. Vale. I don’t need help doping myself up.”

I bit my tongue to keep from saying that the ashen, sweaty look of him suggested differently. Instead, I asked, “How long?”

“I don’t know.” His tone of voice and lack of eye contact contradicted him.

“Cash?” I asked while holding out the prescription bottles. I wanted to ask how long he’d been awake and in pain, but that wouldn’t do anything but prolong his pain.

He snatched the pill bottle, gripping it so tightly it shocked me that the lid didn’t pop off. “A while,” he groaned, pressing his head back into the pillow, his back arching, but he held his leg perfectly still.